No More Learning

Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues have shrewd fingers. But they lack
fists: their fingers do not know how to creep behind fists.

Virtue for them is what maketh modest and tame: therewith have they made
the wolf a dog, and man himself man's best domestic animal.

"We set our chair in the MIDST"--so saith their smirking unto me--"and
as far from dying gladiators as from satisfied swine. "

That, however, is--MEDIOCRITY, though it be called moderation. --

3.

I pass through this people and let fall many words: but they know
neither how to take nor how to retain them.

They wonder why I came not to revile venery and vice; and verily, I came
not to warn against pickpockets either!

They wonder why I am not ready to abet and whet their wisdom: as if they
had not yet enough of wiseacres, whose voices grate on mine ear like
slate-pencils!

And when I call out: "Curse all the cowardly devils in you, that
would fain whimper and fold the hands and adore"--then do they shout:
"Zarathustra is godless. "

And especially do their teachers of submission shout this;--but
precisely in their ears do I love to cry: "Yea! I AM Zarathustra, the
godless! "

Those teachers of submission! Wherever there is aught puny, or sickly,
or scabby, there do they creep like lice; and only my disgust preventeth
me from cracking them.

Well! This is my sermon for THEIR ears: I am Zarathustra the godless,
who saith: "Who is more godless than I, that I may enjoy his teaching? "

I am Zarathustra the godless: where do I find mine equal? And all
those are mine equals who give unto themselves their Will, and divest
themselves of all submission.

I am Zarathustra the godless! I cook every chance in MY pot. And only
when it hath been quite cooked do I welcome it as MY food.

And verily, many a chance came imperiously unto me: but still more
imperiously did my WILL speak unto it,--then did it lie imploringly upon
its knees--

--Imploring that it might find home and heart with me, and saying
flatteringly: "See, O Zarathustra, how friend only cometh unto
friend! "--

But why talk I, when no one hath MINE ears! And so will I shout it out
unto all the winds:

Ye ever become smaller, ye small people! Ye crumble away, ye comfortable
ones! Ye will yet perish--

--By your many small virtues, by your many small omissions, and by your
many small submissions!

Too tender, too yielding: so is your soil! But for a tree to become
GREAT, it seeketh to twine hard roots around hard rocks!

Also what ye omit weaveth at the web of all the human future; even your
naught is a cobweb, and a spider that liveth on the blood of the future.

And when ye take, then is it like stealing, ye small virtuous ones;
but even among knaves HONOUR saith that "one shall only steal when one
cannot rob. "

"It giveth itself"--that is also a doctrine of submission. But I say
unto you, ye comfortable ones, that IT TAKETH TO ITSELF, and will ever
take more and more from you!

Ah, that ye would renounce all HALF-willing, and would decide for
idleness as ye decide for action!

Ah, that ye understood my word: "Do ever what ye will--but first be such
as CAN WILL.

Love ever your neighbour as yourselves--but first be such as LOVE
THEMSELVES--

--Such as love with great love, such as love with great contempt! " Thus
speaketh Zarathustra the godless. --

But why talk I, when no one hath MINE ears! It is still an hour too
early for me here.

Mine own forerunner am I among this people, mine own cockcrow in dark
lanes.

But THEIR hour cometh! And there cometh also mine! Hourly do they become
smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller,--poor herbs! poor earth!

And SOON shall they stand before me like dry grass and prairie, and
verily, weary of themselves--and panting for FIRE, more than for water!

O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noontide! --Running
fires will I one day make of them, and heralds with flaming tongues:--

--Herald shall they one day with flaming tongues: It cometh, it is nigh,
THE GREAT NOONTIDE!

Thus spake Zarathustra.




L. ON THE OLIVE-MOUNT.

Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his
friendly hand-shaking.

I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I
run away from him; and when one runneth WELL, then one escapeth him!

With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm--to the
sunny corner of mine olive-mount.

There do I laugh at my stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he
cleareth my house of flies, and quieteth many little noises.

For he suffereth it not if a gnat wanteth to buzz, or even two of them;
also the lanes maketh he lonesome, so that the moonlight is afraid there
at night.

A hard guest is he,--but I honour him, and do not worship, like the
tenderlings, the pot-bellied fire-idol.

Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration! --so willeth
my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent, steaming,
steamy fire-idols.

Him whom I love, I love better in winter than in summer; better do I
now mock at mine enemies, and more heartily, when winter sitteth in my
house.

Heartily, verily, even when I CREEP into bed--: there, still laugheth
and wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my deceptive dream laugheth.

I, a--creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the powerful; and if
ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore am I glad even in my
winter-bed.

A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich one, for I am jealous of my
poverty. And in winter she is most faithful unto me.

With a wickedness do I begin every day: I mock at the winter with a cold
bath: on that account grumbleth my stern house-mate.

Also do I like to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let
the heavens emerge from ashy-grey twilight.

For especially wicked am I in the morning: at the early hour when the
pail rattleth at the well, and horses neigh warmly in grey lanes:--

Impatiently do I then wait, that the clear sky may finally dawn for me,
the snow-bearded winter-sky, the hoary one, the white-head,--

--The winter-sky, the silent winter-sky, which often stifleth even its
sun!

Did I perhaps learn from it the long clear silence? Or did it learn it
from me? Or hath each of us devised it himself?

Of all good things the origin is a thousandfold,--all good roguish
things spring into existence for joy: how could they always do so--for
once only!

A good roguish thing is also the long silence, and to look, like the
winter-sky, out of a clear, round-eyed countenance:--

--Like it to stifle one's sun, and one's inflexible solar will: verily,
this art and this winter-roguishness have I learnt WELL!

My best-loved wickedness and art is it, that my silence hath learned not
to betray itself by silence.

Clattering with diction and dice, I outwit the solemn assistants: all
those stern watchers, shall my will and purpose elude.

That no one might see down into my depth and into mine ultimate
will--for that purpose did I devise the long clear silence.

Many a shrewd one did I find: he veiled his countenance and made his
water muddy, that no one might see therethrough and thereunder.

But precisely unto him came the shrewder distrusters and nut-crackers:
precisely from him did they fish his best-concealed fish!

But the clear, the honest, the transparent--these are for me the wisest
silent ones: in them, so PROFOUND is the depth that even the clearest
water doth not--betray it. --

Thou snow-bearded, silent, winter-sky, thou round-eyed whitehead above
me! Oh, thou heavenly simile of my soul and its wantonness!

And MUST I not conceal myself like one who hath swallowed gold--lest my
soul should be ripped up?

MUST I not wear stilts, that they may OVERLOOK my long legs--all those
enviers and injurers around me?

Those dingy, fire-warmed, used-up, green-tinted, ill-natured souls--how
COULD their envy endure my happiness!

Thus do I show them only the ice and winter of my peaks--and NOT that my
mountain windeth all the solar girdles around it!

They hear only the whistling of my winter-storms: and know NOT that I
also travel over warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south-winds.

They commiserate also my accidents and chances:--but MY word saith:
"Suffer the chance to come unto me: innocent is it as a little child! "

How COULD they endure my happiness, if I did not put around it
accidents, and winter-privations, and bear-skin caps, and enmantling
snowflakes!

--If I did not myself commiserate their PITY, the pity of those enviers
and injurers!

--If I did not myself sigh before them, and chatter with cold, and
patiently LET myself be swathed in their pity!

This is the wise waggish-will and good-will of my soul, that it
CONCEALETH NOT its winters and glacial storms; it concealeth not its
chilblains either.

To one man, lonesomeness is the flight of the sick one; to another, it
is the flight FROM the sick ones.

Let them HEAR me chattering and sighing with winter-cold, all those poor
squinting knaves around me! With such sighing and chattering do I flee
from their heated rooms.

Let them sympathise with me and sigh with me on account of my
chilblains: "At the ice of knowledge will he yet FREEZE TO DEATH! "--so
they mourn.

Meanwhile do I run with warm feet hither and thither on mine
olive-mount: in the sunny corner of mine olive-mount do I sing, and mock
at all pity. --

Thus sang Zarathustra.




LI. ON PASSING-BY.

Thus slowly wandering through many peoples and divers cities, did
Zarathustra return by round-about roads to his mountains and his cave.
And behold, thereby came he unawares also to the gate of the GREAT CITY.
Here, however, a foaming fool, with extended hands, sprang forward to
him and stood in his way. It was the same fool whom the people called
"the ape of Zarathustra:" for he had learned from him something of the
expression and modulation of language, and perhaps liked also to borrow
from the store of his wisdom. And the fool talked thus to Zarathustra:

O Zarathustra, here is the great city: here hast thou nothing to seek
and everything to lose.

Why wouldst thou wade through this mire? Have pity upon thy foot! Spit
rather on the gate of the city, and--turn back!

Here is the hell for anchorites' thoughts: here are great thoughts
seethed alive and boiled small.

Here do all great sentiments decay: here may only rattle-boned
sensations rattle!

Smellest thou not already the shambles and cookshops of the spirit?
Steameth not this city with the fumes of slaughtered spirit?

Seest thou not the souls hanging like limp dirty rags? --And they make
newspapers also out of these rags!

Hearest thou not how spirit hath here become a verbal game? Loathsome
verbal swill doth it vomit forth! --And they make newspapers also out of
this verbal swill.

They hound one another, and know not whither! They inflame one another,
and know not why! They tinkle with their pinchbeck, they jingle with
their gold.

They are cold, and seek warmth from distilled waters: they are inflamed,
and seek coolness from frozen spirits; they are all sick and sore
through public opinion.

All lusts and vices are here at home; but here there are also the
virtuous; there is much appointable appointed virtue:--

Much appointable virtue with scribe-fingers, and hardy sitting-flesh and
waiting-flesh, blessed with small breast-stars, and padded, haunchless
daughters.

There is here also much piety, and much faithful spittle-licking and
spittle-backing, before the God of Hosts.

"From on high," drippeth the star, and the gracious spittle; for the
high, longeth every starless bosom.

The moon hath its court, and the court hath its moon-calves: unto all,
however, that cometh from the court do the mendicant people pray, and
all appointable mendicant virtues.

"I serve, thou servest, we serve"--so prayeth all appointable virtue
to the prince: that the merited star may at last stick on the slender
breast!

But the moon still revolveth around all that is earthly: so revolveth
also the prince around what is earthliest of all--that, however, is the
gold of the shopman.

The God of the Hosts of war is not the God of the golden bar; the prince
proposeth, but the shopman--disposeth!

By all that is luminous and strong and good in thee, O Zarathustra! Spit
on this city of shopmen and return back!

Here floweth all blood putridly and tepidly and frothily through all
veins: spit on the great city, which is the great slum where all the
scum frotheth together!

Spit on the city of compressed souls and slender breasts, of pointed
eyes and sticky fingers--

--On the city of the obtrusive, the brazen-faced, the pen-demagogues and
tongue-demagogues, the overheated ambitious:--

Where everything maimed, ill-famed, lustful, untrustful, over-mellow,
sickly-yellow and seditious, festereth pernicious:--

--Spit on the great city and turn back! --

Here, however, did Zarathustra interrupt the foaming fool, and shut his
mouth. --

Stop this at once! called out Zarathustra, long have thy speech and thy
species disgusted me!

Why didst thou live so long by the swamp, that thou thyself hadst to
become a frog and a toad?

Floweth there not a tainted, frothy, swamp-blood in thine own veins,
when thou hast thus learned to croak and revile?

Why wentest thou not into the forest? Or why didst thou not till the
ground? Is the sea not full of green islands?

I despise thy contempt; and when thou warnedst me--why didst thou not
warn thyself?

Out of love alone shall my contempt and my warning bird take wing; but
not out of the swamp! --

They call thee mine ape, thou foaming fool: but I call thee my
grunting-pig,--by thy grunting, thou spoilest even my praise of folly.

What was it that first made thee grunt? Because no one sufficiently
FLATTERED thee:--therefore didst thou seat thyself beside this filth,
that thou mightest have cause for much grunting,--

--That thou mightest have cause for much VENGEANCE! For vengeance, thou
vain fool, is all thy foaming; I have divined thee well!

But thy fools'-word injureth ME, even when thou art right! And even if
Zarathustra's word WERE a hundred times justified, thou wouldst ever--DO
wrong with my word!

Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he look on the great city and sighed,
and was long silent. At last he spake thus:

I loathe also this great city, and not only this fool. Here and there--
there is nothing to better, nothing to worsen.

Woe to this great city! --And I would that I already saw the pillar of
fire in which it will be consumed!

For such pillars of fire must precede the great noontide. But this hath
its time and its own fate. --

This precept, however, give I unto thee, in parting, thou fool: Where
one can no longer love, there should one--PASS BY! --

Thus spake Zarathustra, and passed by the fool and the great city.




LII. THE APOSTATES.

1.

Ah, lieth everything already withered and grey which but lately stood
green and many-hued on this meadow! And how much honey of hope did I
carry hence into my beehives!

Those young hearts have already all become old--and not old even! only
weary, ordinary, comfortable:--they declare it: "We have again become
pious. "

Of late did I see them run forth at early morn with valorous steps: but
the feet of their knowledge became weary, and now do they malign even
their morning valour!

Verily, many of them once lifted their legs like the dancer; to them
winked the laughter of my wisdom:--then did they bethink themselves.
Just now have I seen them bent down--to creep to the cross.

Around light and liberty did they once flutter like gnats and young
poets. A little older, a little colder: and already are they mystifiers,
and mumblers and mollycoddles.

Did perhaps their hearts despond, because lonesomeness had swallowed me
like a whale? Did their ear perhaps hearken yearningly-long for me IN
VAIN, and for my trumpet-notes and herald-calls?

--Ah! Ever are there but few of those whose hearts have persistent
courage and exuberance; and in such remaineth also the spirit patient.
The rest, however, are COWARDLY.

The rest: these are always the great majority, the common-place, the
superfluous, the far-too many--those all are cowardly! --

Him who is of my type, will also the experiences of my type meet on the
way: so that his first companions must be corpses and buffoons.

His second companions, however--they will call themselves his
BELIEVERS,--will be a living host, with much love, much folly, much
unbearded veneration.

To those believers shall he who is of my type among men not bind his
heart; in those spring-times and many-hued meadows shall he not believe,
who knoweth the fickly faint-hearted human species!

COULD they do otherwise, then would they also WILL otherwise. The
half-and-half spoil every whole. That leaves become withered,--what is
there to lament about that!

Let them go and fall away, O Zarathustra, and do not lament! Better even
to blow amongst them with rustling winds,--

--Blow amongst those leaves, O Zarathustra, that everything WITHERED may
run away from thee the faster! --

2.

"We have again become pious"--so do those apostates confess; and some of
them are still too pusillanimous thus to confess.

Unto them I look into the eye,--before them I say it unto their face and
unto the blush on their cheeks: Ye are those who again PRAY!

It is however a shame to pray! Not for all, but for thee, and me, and
whoever hath his conscience in his head. For THEE it is a shame to pray!

Thou knowest it well: the faint-hearted devil in thee, which would
fain fold its arms, and place its hands in its bosom, and take it
easier:--this faint-hearted devil persuadeth thee that "there IS a God! "

THEREBY, however, dost thou belong to the light-dreading type, to whom
light never permitteth repose: now must thou daily thrust thy head
deeper into obscurity and vapour!

And verily, thou choosest the hour well: for just now do the nocturnal
birds again fly abroad. The hour hath come for all light-dreading
people, the vesper hour and leisure hour, when they do not--"take
leisure. "

I hear it and smell it: it hath come--their hour for hunt and
procession, not indeed for a wild hunt, but for a tame, lame, snuffling,
soft-treaders', soft-prayers' hunt,--

--For a hunt after susceptible simpletons: all mouse-traps for the heart
have again been set! And whenever I lift a curtain, a night-moth rusheth
out of it.

Did it perhaps squat there along with another night-moth? For everywhere
do I smell small concealed communities; and wherever there are closets
there are new devotees therein, and the atmosphere of devotees.
They sit for long evenings beside one another, and say: "Let us again
become like little children and say, 'good God! '"--ruined in mouths and
stomachs by the pious confectioners.

Or they look for long evenings at a crafty, lurking cross-spider, that
preacheth prudence to the spiders themselves, and teacheth that "under
crosses it is good for cobweb-spinning! "

Or they sit all day at swamps with angle-rods, and on that account think
themselves PROFOUND; but whoever fisheth where there are no fish, I do
not even call him superficial!

Or they learn in godly-gay style to play the harp with a hymn-poet,
who would fain harp himself into the heart of young girls:--for he hath
tired of old girls and their praises.

Or they learn to shudder with a learned semi-madcap, who waiteth in
darkened rooms for spirits to come to him--and the spirit runneth away
entirely!

Or they listen to an old roving howl-and growl-piper, who hath learnt
from the sad winds the sadness of sounds; now pipeth he as the wind, and
preacheth sadness in sad strains.

And some of them have even become night-watchmen: they know now how to
blow horns, and go about at night and awaken old things which have long
fallen asleep.

Five words about old things did I hear yester-night at the garden-wall:
they came from such old, sorrowful, arid night-watchmen.

"For a father he careth not sufficiently for his children: human fathers
do this better! "--

"He is too old! He now careth no more for his children,"--answered the
other night-watchman.

"HATH he then children? No one can prove it unless he himself prove it!
I have long wished that he would for once prove it thoroughly. "

"Prove? As if HE had ever proved anything! Proving is difficult to him;
he layeth great stress on one's BELIEVING him. "

"Ay! Ay! Belief saveth him; belief in him. That is the way with old
people! So it is with us also! "--

--Thus spake to each other the two old night-watchmen and light-scarers,
and tooted thereupon sorrowfully on their horns: so did it happen
yester-night at the garden-wall.

To me, however, did the heart writhe with laughter, and was like to
break; it knew not where to go, and sunk into the midriff.

Verily, it will be my death yet--to choke with laughter when I see asses
drunken, and hear night-watchmen thus doubt about God.

Hath the time not LONG since passed for all such doubts? Who may
nowadays awaken such old slumbering, light-shunning things!

With the old Deities hath it long since come to an end:--and verily, a
good joyful Deity-end had they!

They did not "begloom" themselves to death--that do people fabricate! On
the contrary, they--LAUGHED themselves to death once on a time!

That took place when the unGodliest utterance came from a God
himself--the utterance: "There is but one God! Thou shalt have no other
Gods before me! "--

--An old grim-beard of a God, a jealous one, forgot himself in such
wise:--

And all the Gods then laughed, and shook upon their thrones, and
exclaimed: "Is it not just divinity that there are Gods, but no God? "

He that hath an ear let him hear. --

Thus talked Zarathustra in the city he loved, which is surnamed "The
Pied Cow. " For from here he had but two days to travel to reach once
more his cave and his animals; his soul, however, rejoiced unceasingly
on account of the nighness of his return home.




LIII. THE RETURN HOME.

O lonesomeness! My HOME, lonesomeness! Too long have I lived wildly in
wild remoteness, to return to thee without tears!

Now threaten me with the finger as mothers threaten; now smile upon me
as mothers smile; now say just: "Who was it that like a whirlwind once
rushed away from me? --

--Who when departing called out: 'Too long have I sat with lonesomeness;
there have I unlearned silence! ' THAT hast thou learned now--surely?

O Zarathustra, everything do I know; and that thou wert MORE FORSAKEN
amongst the many, thou unique one, than thou ever wert with me!

One thing is forsakenness, another matter is lonesomeness: THAT hast
thou now learned! And that amongst men thou wilt ever be wild and
strange:

--Wild and strange even when they love thee: for above all they want to
be TREATED INDULGENTLY!

Here, however, art thou at home and house with thyself; here canst thou
utter everything, and unbosom all motives; nothing is here ashamed of
concealed, congealed feelings.

Here do all things come caressingly to thy talk and flatter thee: for
they want to ride upon thy back. On every simile dost thou here ride to
every truth.

Uprightly and openly mayest thou here talk to all things: and verily,
it soundeth as praise in their ears, for one to talk to all
things--directly!

Another matter, however, is forsakenness. For, dost thou remember, O
Zarathustra? When thy bird screamed overhead, when thou stoodest in the
forest, irresolute, ignorant where to go, beside a corpse:--

--When thou spakest: 'Let mine animals lead me! More dangerous have I
found it among men than among animals:'--THAT was forsakenness!

And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra? When thou sattest in thine isle,
a well of wine giving and granting amongst empty buckets, bestowing and
distributing amongst the thirsty:

--Until at last thou alone sattest thirsty amongst the drunken ones, and
wailedst nightly: 'Is taking not more blessed than giving? And stealing
yet more blessed than taking? '--THAT was forsakenness!

And dost thou remember, O Zarathustra? When thy stillest hour came and
drove thee forth from thyself, when with wicked whispering it said:
'Speak and succumb! '--

--When it disgusted thee with all thy waiting and silence, and
discouraged thy humble courage: THAT was forsakenness! "--

O lonesomeness! My home, lonesomeness! How blessedly and tenderly
speaketh thy voice unto me!

We do not question each other, we do not complain to each other; we go
together openly through open doors.

For all is open with thee and clear; and even the hours run here on
lighter feet. For in the dark, time weigheth heavier upon one than in
the light.

Here fly open unto me all being's words and word-cabinets: here all
being wanteth to become words, here all becoming wanteth to learn of me
how to talk.

Down there, however--all talking is in vain! There, forgetting and
passing-by are the best wisdom: THAT have I learned now!

He who would understand everything in man must handle everything. But
for that I have too clean hands.

I do not like even to inhale their breath; alas! that I have lived so
long among their noise and bad breaths!

O blessed stillness around me! O pure odours around me! How from a deep
breast this stillness fetcheth pure breath! How it hearkeneth, this
blessed stillness!

But down there--there speaketh everything, there is everything misheard.
If one announce one's wisdom with bells, the shopmen in the market-place
will out-jingle it with pennies!

Everything among them talketh; no one knoweth any longer how to
understand. Everything falleth into the water; nothing falleth any
longer into deep wells.

Everything among them talketh, nothing succeedeth any longer and
accomplisheth itself. Everything cackleth, but who will still sit
quietly on the nest and hatch eggs?

Everything among them talketh, everything is out-talked. And that which
yesterday was still too hard for time itself and its tooth, hangeth
to-day, outchamped and outchewed, from the mouths of the men of to-day.

Everything among them talketh, everything is betrayed. And what was once
called the secret and secrecy of profound souls, belongeth to-day to the
street-trumpeters and other butterflies.

O human hubbub, thou wonderful thing! Thou noise in dark streets! Now
art thou again behind me:--my greatest danger lieth behind me!

In indulging and pitying lay ever my greatest danger; and all human
hubbub wisheth to be indulged and tolerated.

With suppressed truths, with fool's hand and befooled heart, and rich in
petty lies of pity:--thus have I ever lived among men.

Disguised did I sit amongst them, ready to misjudge MYSELF that I might
endure THEM, and willingly saying to myself: "Thou fool, thou dost not
know men! "

One unlearneth men when one liveth amongst them: there is too much
foreground in all men--what can far-seeing, far-longing eyes do THERE!

And, fool that I was, when they misjudged me, I indulged them on that
account more than myself, being habitually hard on myself, and often
even taking revenge on myself for the indulgence.

Stung all over by poisonous flies, and hollowed like the stone by
many drops of wickedness: thus did I sit among them, and still said to
myself: "Innocent is everything petty of its pettiness! "

Especially did I find those who call themselves "the good," the most
poisonous flies; they sting in all innocence, they lie in all innocence;
how COULD they--be just towards me!

He who liveth amongst the good--pity teacheth him to lie. Pity maketh
stifling air for all free souls. For the stupidity of the good is
unfathomable.

To conceal myself and my riches--THAT did I learn down there: for every
one did I still find poor in spirit. It was the lie of my pity, that I
knew in every one,

--That I saw and scented in every one, what was ENOUGH of spirit for
him, and what was TOO MUCH!

Their stiff wise men: I call them wise, not stiff--thus did I learn to
slur over words.

The grave-diggers dig for themselves diseases. Under old rubbish rest
bad vapours. One should not stir up the marsh. One should live on
mountains.

With blessed nostrils do I again breathe mountain-freedom. Freed at last
is my nose from the smell of all human hubbub!

With sharp breezes tickled, as with sparkling wine, SNEEZETH my soul--
sneezeth, and shouteth self-congratulatingly: "Health to thee! "

Thus spake Zarathustra.




LIV. THE THREE EVIL THINGS.

1.

In my dream, in my last morning-dream, I stood to-day on a promontory--
beyond the world; I held a pair of scales, and WEIGHED the world.

Alas, that the rosy dawn came too early to me: she glowed me awake, the
jealous one! Jealous is she always of the glows of my morning-dream.

Measurable by him who hath time, weighable by a good weigher, attainable
by strong pinions, divinable by divine nut-crackers: thus did my dream
find the world:--

My dream, a bold sailor, half-ship, half-hurricane, silent as the
butterfly, impatient as the falcon: how had it the patience and leisure
to-day for world-weighing!

Did my wisdom perhaps speak secretly to it, my laughing, wide-awake
day-wisdom, which mocketh at all "infinite worlds"? For it saith: "Where
force is, there becometh NUMBER the master: it hath more force. "

How confidently did my dream contemplate this finite world, not
new-fangledly, not old-fangledly, not timidly, not entreatingly:--

--As if a big round apple presented itself to my hand, a ripe golden
apple, with a coolly-soft, velvety skin:--thus did the world present
itself unto me:--

--As if a tree nodded unto me, a broad-branched, strong-willed tree,
curved as a recline and a foot-stool for weary travellers: thus did the
world stand on my promontory:--

--As if delicate hands carried a casket towards me--a casket open for
the delectation of modest adoring eyes: thus did the world present
itself before me to-day:--

--Not riddle enough to scare human love from it, not solution enough
to put to sleep human wisdom:--a humanly good thing was the world to me
to-day, of which such bad things are said!

How I thank my morning-dream that I thus at to-day's dawn, weighed
the world! As a humanly good thing did it come unto me, this dream and
heart-comforter!

And that I may do the like by day, and imitate and copy its best, now
will I put the three worst things on the scales, and weigh them humanly
well. --

He who taught to bless taught also to curse: what are the three best
cursed things in the world? These will I put on the scales.

VOLUPTUOUSNESS, PASSION FOR POWER, and SELFISHNESS: these three things
have hitherto been best cursed, and have been in worst and falsest
repute--these three things will I weigh humanly well.

Well! Here is my promontory, and there is the sea--IT rolleth hither
unto me, shaggily and fawningly, the old, faithful, hundred-headed
dog-monster that I love! --

Well! Here will I hold the scales over the weltering sea: and also a
witness do I choose to look on--thee, the anchorite-tree, thee, the
strong-odoured, broad-arched tree that I love! --

On what bridge goeth the now to the hereafter? By what constraint doth
the high stoop to the low? And what enjoineth even the highest still--to
grow upwards? --

Now stand the scales poised and at rest: three heavy questions have I
thrown in; three heavy answers carrieth the other scale.

2.

Voluptuousness: unto all hair-shirted despisers of the body, a sting and
stake; and, cursed as "the world," by all backworldsmen: for it mocketh
and befooleth all erring, misinferring teachers.

Voluptuousness: to the rabble, the slow fire at which it is burnt;
to all wormy wood, to all stinking rags, the prepared heat and stew
furnace.

Voluptuousness: to free hearts, a thing innocent and free, the
garden-happiness of the earth, all the future's thanks-overflow to the
present.

Voluptuousness: only to the withered a sweet poison; to the lion-willed,
however, the great cordial, and the reverently saved wine of wines.

Voluptuousness: the great symbolic happiness of a higher happiness
and highest hope. For to many is marriage promised, and more than
marriage,--

--To many that are more unknown to each other than man and woman:--and
who hath fully understood HOW UNKNOWN to each other are man and woman!

Voluptuousness:--but I will have hedges around my thoughts, and
even around my words, lest swine and libertine should break into my
gardens! --

Passion for power: the glowing scourge of the hardest of the heart-hard;
the cruel torture reserved for the cruellest themselves; the gloomy
flame of living pyres.

Passion for power: the wicked gadfly which is mounted on the vainest
peoples; the scorner of all uncertain virtue; which rideth on every
horse and on every pride.

Passion for power: the earthquake which breaketh and upbreaketh all
that is rotten and hollow; the rolling, rumbling, punitive demolisher
of whited sepulchres; the flashing interrogative-sign beside premature
answers.

Passion for power: before whose glance man creepeth and croucheth and
drudgeth, and becometh lower than the serpent and the swine:--until at
last great contempt crieth out of him--,

Passion for power: the terrible teacher of great contempt, which
preacheth to their face to cities and empires: "Away with thee! "--until
a voice crieth out of themselves: "Away with ME! "

Passion for power: which, however, mounteth alluringly even to the pure
and lonesome, and up to self-satisfied elevations, glowing like a love
that painteth purple felicities alluringly on earthly heavens.

Passion for power: but who would call it PASSION, when the height
longeth to stoop for power! Verily, nothing sick or diseased is there in
such longing and descending!

That the lonesome height may not for ever remain lonesome and
self-sufficing; that the mountains may come to the valleys and the winds
of the heights to the plains:--

Oh, who could find the right prenomen and honouring name for such
longing! "Bestowing virtue"--thus did Zarathustra once name the
unnamable.

And then it happened also,--and verily, it happened for the first
time! --that his word blessed SELFISHNESS, the wholesome, healthy
selfishness, that springeth from the powerful soul:--

--From the powerful soul, to which the high body appertaineth, the
handsome, triumphing, refreshing body, around which everything becometh
a mirror:

--The pliant, persuasive body, the dancer, whose symbol and epitome
is the self-enjoying soul. Of such bodies and souls the self-enjoyment
calleth itself "virtue. "

With its words of good and bad doth such self-enjoyment shelter itself
as with sacred groves; with the names of its happiness doth it banish
from itself everything contemptible.

Away from itself doth it banish everything cowardly; it saith:
"Bad--THAT IS cowardly! " Contemptible seem to it the ever-solicitous,
the sighing, the complaining, and whoever pick up the most trifling
advantage.

It despiseth also all bitter-sweet wisdom: for verily, there is also
wisdom that bloometh in the dark, a night-shade wisdom, which ever
sigheth: "All is vain! "

Shy distrust is regarded by it as base, and every one who wanteth oaths
instead of looks and hands: also all over-distrustful wisdom,--for such
is the mode of cowardly souls.

Baser still it regardeth the obsequious, doggish one, who immediately
lieth on his back, the submissive one; and there is also wisdom that is
submissive, and doggish, and pious, and obsequious.

Hateful to it altogether, and a loathing, is he who will never defend
himself, he who swalloweth down poisonous spittle and bad looks, the
all-too-patient one, the all-endurer, the all-satisfied one: for that is
the mode of slaves.

Whether they be servile before Gods and divine spurnings, or before men
and stupid human opinions: at ALL kinds of slaves doth it spit, this
blessed selfishness!

Bad: thus doth it call all that is spirit-broken, and
sordidly-servile--constrained, blinking eyes, depressed hearts, and the
false submissive style, which kisseth with broad cowardly lips.

And spurious wisdom: so doth it call all the wit that slaves, and
hoary-headed and weary ones affect; and especially all the cunning,
spurious-witted, curious-witted foolishness of priests!

The spurious wise, however, all the priests, the world-weary, and those
whose souls are of feminine and servile nature--oh, how hath their game
all along abused selfishness!

And precisely THAT was to be virtue and was to be called virtue--to
abuse selfishness! And "selfless"--so did they wish themselves with good
reason, all those world-weary cowards and cross-spiders!

But to all those cometh now the day, the change, the sword of judgment,
THE GREAT NOONTIDE: then shall many things be revealed!

And he who proclaimeth the EGO wholesome and holy, and selfishness
blessed, verily, he, the prognosticator, speaketh also what he knoweth:
"BEHOLD, IT COMETH, IT IS NIGH, THE GREAT NOONTIDE! "

Thus spake Zarathustra.




LV. THE SPIRIT OF GRAVITY.

1.

My mouthpiece--is of the people: too coarsely and cordially do I
talk for Angora rabbits. And still stranger soundeth my word unto all
ink-fish and pen-foxes.

My hand--is a fool's hand: woe unto all tables and walls, and whatever
hath room for fool's sketching, fool's scrawling!

My foot--is a horse-foot; therewith do I trample and trot over stick and
stone, in the fields up and down, and am bedevilled with delight in all
fast racing.

My stomach--is surely an eagle's stomach? For it preferreth lamb's
flesh. Certainly it is a bird's stomach.

Nourished with innocent things, and with few, ready and impatient
to fly, to fly away--that is now my nature: why should there not be
something of bird-nature therein!

And especially that I am hostile to the spirit of gravity, that is
bird-nature:--verily, deadly hostile, supremely hostile, originally
hostile! Oh, whither hath my hostility not flown and misflown!

Thereof could I sing a song--and WILL sing it: though I be alone in an
empty house, and must sing it to mine own ears.

Other singers are there, to be sure, to whom only the full house
maketh the voice soft, the hand eloquent, the eye expressive, the heart
wakeful:--those do I not resemble. --

2.

He who one day teacheth men to fly will have shifted all landmarks; to
him will all landmarks themselves fly into the air; the earth will he
christen anew--as "the light body. "

The ostrich runneth faster than the fastest horse, but it also thrusteth
its head heavily into the heavy earth: thus is it with the man who
cannot yet fly.

Heavy unto him are earth and life, and so WILLETH the spirit of gravity!
But he who would become light, and be a bird, must love himself:--thus
do _I_ teach.

Not, to be sure, with the love of the sick and infected, for with them
stinketh even self-love!

One must learn to love oneself--thus do I teach--with a wholesome and
healthy love: that one may endure to be with oneself, and not go roving
about.

Such roving about christeneth itself "brotherly love"; with these words
hath there hitherto been the best lying and dissembling, and especially
by those who have been burdensome to every one.

And verily, it is no commandment for to-day and to-morrow to LEARN to
love oneself. Rather is it of all arts the finest, subtlest, last and
patientest.

For to its possessor is all possession well concealed, and of all
treasure-pits one's own is last excavated--so causeth the spirit of
gravity.