Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will
it speak: it is still too young—so have patience
with it!
it speak: it is still too young—so have patience
with it!
Nietzsche - v11 - Thus Spake Zarathustra
—Thus do I advise
the superfluous ones.
But even the superfluous ones make much ado
about their death, and even the hollowest nut
wanteth to be cracked.
Every one regardeth dying as a great matter:
but as yet death is not a festival. Not yet have
people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals.
The consummating death I show unto you,
which becometh a stimulus and promise to the
living.
His death, dieth the consummating one triumph-
antly, surrounded by hoping and promising ones.
Thus should one learn to die; and there should
be no festival at which such a dying one doth not
consecrate the oaths of the living!
Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is
to die in battle, and sacrifice a great soul.
But to the fighter equally hateful as to the
victor, is your grinning death which stealeth nigh
like a thief,—and yet cometh as master.
My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary
death, which cometh unto me because / want it.
And when shall I want it? —He that hath a
## p. 83 (#161) #############################################
XXI. —VOLUNTARY DEATH. 83
goal and an heir, wanteth death at the right time
for the goal and the heir.
And out of reverence for the goal and the heir,
he will hang up no more withered wreaths in the
sanctuary of life.
Verily, not the rope -makers will I resemble:
they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever
backward.
Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths
and triumphs; a toothless mouth hath no longer
the right to every truth.
And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take
leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult
art of—going at the right time.
One must discontinue being feasted upon when
one tasteth best: that is known by those who
want to be long loved.
Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is
to wait until the last day of autumn: and at the
same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.
In some ageth the heart first, and in others the
spirit. And some are hoary in youth, but the
late young keep long young.
To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm
gnaweth at their heart. Then let them see to it
that their dying is all the more a success.
Many never become sweet; they rot even in the
summer. It is cowardice that holdeth them fast
to their branches.
Far too many live, and far too long hang they
on their branches. Would that a storm came and
shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from
the tree!
## p. 84 (#162) #############################################
84 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Would that there came preachers of speedy
death! Those would be the appropriate storms
and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only
slow death preached, and patience with all that
is "earthly. "
Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly?
This earthly is it that hath too much patience with
you, ye blasphemers!
Verily, too early died that Hebrew whom the
preachers of slow death honour: and to many
hath it proved a calamity that he died too early.
As yet had he known only tears, and the
melancholy of the Hebrews, together with the
hatred of the good and just—the Hebrew Jesus:
then was he seized with the longing for death.
Had he but remained in the wilderness, and far
from the good and just! Then, perhaps, would
he have learned to live, and love the earth—and
laughter also!
Believe it, my brethren! He died too early; he
himself would have disavowed his doctrine had he
attained to my age! Noble enough was he to
disavow!
But he was still immature. Immaturely loveth
the youth, and immaturely also hateth he man
and earth. Confined and awkward are still his
soul and the wings of his spirit.
But in man there is more of the child than in
the youth, and less of melancholy: better under-
standeth he about life and death.
Free for death, and free in death; a holy Nay-
sayer, when there is no longer time for Yea: thus
understandeth he about death and life.
## p. 85 (#163) #############################################
XXI. —VOLUNTARY DEATH. 85
That your dying may not be a reproach to
man and the earth, my friends: that do I solicit
from the honey of your soul.
In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still
shine like an evening after-glow around the earth:
otherwise your dying hath been unsatisfactory.
Thus will I die myself, that ye friends may
love the earth more for my sake; and earth will I
again become, to have rest in her that bore me.
Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw his
ball. Now be ye friends the heirs of my goal;
to you throw I the golden ball.
Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the
golden ball! And so tarry I still a little while
on the earth—pardon me for it!
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE.
1.
When Zarathustra had taken leave of the town
to which his heart was attached, the name of which
is " The Pied Cow," there followed him many people
who called themselves his disciples, and kept him
company. Thus came they to a cross-road. Then
Zarathustra told them that he now wanted to go
alone; for he was fond of going alone. His
disciples, however, presented him at his departure
with a staff, on the golden handle of which a serpent
twined round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on
account of the staff, and supported himself thereon;
then spake he thus to his disciples;
## p. 86 (#164) #############################################
86 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest
value? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting,
and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always be-
stoweth itself.
Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to
the highest value. Goldlike, beameth the glance
of the bestower. Gold-lustre maketh peace between
moon and sun.
Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting,
beaming is it, and soft of lustre: a bestowing virtue
is the highest virtue.
Verily, I divine you well, my disciples: ye strive
like me for the bestowing virtue. What should ye
have in common with cats and wolves?
It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts
yourselves: and therefore have ye the thirst to
accumulate all riches in your soul.
Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and
jewels, because your virtue is insatiable in desiring
to bestow.
Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and
into you, so that they shall flow back again out of
your fountain as the gifts of your love.
Verily, an appropriator of all values must such
bestowing love become; but healthy and holy, call
I this selfishness. —
Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and
hungry kind, which would always steal—the selfish-
ness of the sick, the sickly selfishness.
With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that
is lustrous; with the craving of hunger it measureth
him who hath abundance; and ever doth it prowl
round the tables of bestowers,
## p. 87 (#165) #############################################
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 87
Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible
degeneration; of a sickly body, speaketh the
larcenous craving of this selfishness.
Tell me, my brother, what do we think bad, and
worst of all? Is it not degeneration? —And we
always suspect degeneration when the bestowing
soul is lacking.
Upward goeth our course from genera on to
super-genera. But a horror to us is the degenerat-
ing sense, which saith: "All for myself. "
Upward soareth our sense: thus is it a simile of
our body, a simile of an elevation. Such similes of
elevations are the names of the virtues.
Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer
and fighter. And the spirit—what is it to the body?
Its fights' and victories' herald, its companion
and echo.
Similes, are all names of good and evil; they do
not speak out, they only hint. A fool who seeketh
knowledge from them!
Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your
spirit would speak in similes: there is the origin
of your virtue.
Elevated is then your body, and raised up; with
its delight, enraptureth it the spirit; so that it
becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and every-
thing's benefactor.
When your heart overfloweth broad and full like
the river, a blessing and a danger to the lowlanders:
there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are exalted above praise and blame, and
your will would command all things, as a loving
one's wiU: there is the origin of your virtue,
## p. 88 (#166) #############################################
88 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
When ye despise pleasant things, and the effemi-
nate couch, and cannot couch far enough from the
effeminate: there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are willers of one will, and when that
change of every need is needful to you: there is
the origin of your virtue.
Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily, a new
deep murmuring, and the voice of a new fountain!
Power is it, this new virtue; a ruling thought is
it, and around it a subtle soul: a golden sun, with
the serpent of knowledge around it.
Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked
lovingly on his disciples. Then he continued to
speak thus—and his voice had changed:
Remain true to the earth, my brethren, with the
power of your virtue! Let your bestowing love
and your knowledge be devoted to be the meaning
of the earth! Thus do I pray and conjure you.
Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat
against eternal walls with its wings! Ah, there
hath always been so much flown-away virtue!
Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue back to the
earth—yea, back to body and life: that it may give
to the earth its meaning, a human meaning!
A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as
virtue flown away and blundered. Alas! in our
body dwelleth still all this delusion and blundering:
body and will hath it there become.
A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as
virtue attempted and erred. Yea, an attempt hath
^
## p. 89 (#167) #############################################
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 89
man been. Alas, much ignorance and error hath
become embodied in us!
Not only the rationality of millenniums—also
their madness, breaketh out in us. Dangerous is
it to be an heir.
Still right we step by step with the giant Chance,
and over all mankind hath hitherto ruled nonsense,
the lack-of-sense.
Let your spirit and your virtue be devoted to the
sense of the earth, my brethren: let the value of
everything be determined anew by you! Therefore
shall ye be fighters! Therefore shall ye be creators!
Intelligently doth the body purify itself; attempt-
ing with intelligence it exalteth itself; to the
discerners all impulses sanctify themselves; to the
exalted the soul becometh joyful.
Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also
heal thy patient. Let it be his best cure to see with
his eyes him who maketh himself whole.
A thousand paths are there which have never yet
been trodden; a thousand salubrities and hidden
islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is
still man and man's world.
Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From
the future come winds with stealthy pinions, and to
fine ears good tidings are proclaimed.
Ye lonesome ones of to-day, ye seceding ones, ye
shall one day be a people: out of you who have
chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people arise:—
and out of it the Superman.
Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become!
And already is a new odour diffused around it, a
salvation-bringing odour—and a new hope!
s
## p. 90 (#168) #############################################
90 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
3.
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he
paused, like one who had not said his last word;
and long did he balance the staff doubtfully in his
hand. At last he spake thus—and his voice had
changed:
I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go
away, and alone! So will I have it.
Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard
yourselves against Zarathustra! And better still:
be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath deceived you.
The man of knowledge must be able not only to
love his enemies, but also to hate his friends.
One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain
merely a scholar. And why will ye not pluck
at my wreath?
Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration
should some day collapse? Take heed lest a statue
crush you!
Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what
account is Zarathustra! Ye are my believers: but
of what account are all believers!
Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye
find me. So do all believers; therefore all belief
is of so little account.
Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves;
and only when ye have all denied me, will I return
unto you.
Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then
seek my lost ones; with another love shall I then
love you.
And once again shall ye have become friends
-
## p. 91 (#169) #############################################
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 91
unto me, and children of one hope: then will I be
with you for the third time, to celebrate the great
noontide with you.
And it is the great noontide, when man is in the
middle of his course between animal and Superman,
and celebrateth his advance to the evening as his
highest hope: for it is the advance to a new
morning.
At such time will the down-goer bless himself,
that he should be an over-goer; and the sun of his
knowledge will be at noontide.
"Dead are all the Gods: now do we desire the
Superman to live. "—Let this be our final will at the
great noontide ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
## p. 92 (#170) #############################################
v
I
## p. 93 (#171) #############################################
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
SECOND PART
"—and only when ye have all
denied me, will I return unto
you.
Verily, with other eyes, my
brethren, shall I then seek my
lost ones; with another love
shall I then love you. "—Zara
thustra, I. , "The Bestowing
Virtue" (p. 90).
## p. 94 (#172) #############################################
## p. 95 (#173) #############################################
XXIII— THE CHILD WITH THE
MIRROR.
After this Zarathustra returned again into the
mountains to the solitude of his cave, and withdrew
himself from men, waiting like a sower who hath
scattered his seed. His soul, however, became
impatient and full of longing for those whom he
loved: because he had still much to give them.
For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand
out of love, and keep modest as a giver.
Thus passed with the lonesome one months and
years; his wisdom meanwhile increased, and caused
him pain by its abundance.
One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy
dawn, and having meditated long on his couch, at
last spake thus to his heart:
Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke?
Did not a child come to me, carrying a mirror?
"O Zarathustra"—said the child unto me—
"look at thyself in the mirror! "
But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked,
and my heart throbbed: for not myself did I see
therein, but a devil's grimace and derision.
Verily, all too well do I understand the dream's
portent and monition: my doctrine is in danger;
tares want to be called wheat!
Mine enemies have grown powerful and have
-
'
## p. 96 (#174) #############################################
96
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
disfigured the likeness of my doctrine, so that my
dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I gave
them.
Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me
to seek my lost ones! -
With these words Zarathustra started up, not
however like a person in anguish seeking relief, but
rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit
inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and
serpent gaze upon him: for a coming bliss over-
spread his countenance like the rosy dawn.
What hath happened unto me, mine animals ?
said Zarathustra. Am I not transformed ? Hath
not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind ?
Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will
it speak: it is still too young—so have patience
with it!
Wounded am I by my happiness : all sufferers
shall be physicians unto me!
To my friends can I again go down, and also to
mine enemies ! Zarathustra can again speak and
bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones!
My impatient love overfloweth in streams,-
down towards sunrise and sunset. Out of silent
mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul
into the valleys.
Too long have I longed and looked into the
distance. Too long hath solitude possessed me :
thus have I unlearned to keep silence.
Utterance have I become altogether, and the
brawling of a brook from high rocks : downward
into the valleys will I hurl my speech.
And let the stream of my love sweep into
## p. 97 (#175) #############################################
XXIII. -THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR. 97
unfrequented channels ! How should a stream
not finally find its way to the sea !
Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and
self-sufficing ; but the stream of my love beareth
this along with it, down-to the sea !
New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto
me; tired have I become-like all creators of the
old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on
worn-out soles.
Too slowly runneth all speaking for me :-into
thy chariot, O storm, do I leap! And even thee
will I whip with my spite!
Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide
seas, till I find the Happy Isles where my friends
sojourn ;-
And mine enemies amongst them! How I
now love every one unto whom I may but speak!
Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss.
And when I want to mount my wildest horse,
then doth my spear always help me up best : it is
my foot's ever ready servant:-
The spear which I hurl at mine enemies ! How
grateful am I to mine enemies that I may at last
hurl it !
Too great hath been the tension of my cloud:
'twixt laughters of lightnings will I cast hail-
showers into the depths.
Violently will my breast then heave; violently
will it blow its storm over the mountains : thus
cometh its assuagement.
Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and
my freedom! But mine enemies shall think that
the evil one roareth over their heads.
## p. 98 (#176) #############################################
98 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my
wild wisdom; and perhaps ye will flee therefrom,
along with mine enemies.
Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with
shepherds' flutes! Ah, that my lioness wisdom
would learn to roar softly! And much have we
already learned with one another!
My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lone-
some mountains; on the rough stones did she bear
the youngest of her young.
Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilder-
ness, and seeketh and seeketh the soft sward—mine
old, wild wisdom!
On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends! —
on your love, would she fain couch her dearest one! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES.
The figs fall from the trees, they are good and
sweet; and in falling the red skins of them break.
A north wind am I to ripe figs.
Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you,
my friends: imbibe now their juice and their sweet
substance! It is autumn all around, and clear sky,
and afternoon.
Lo, what fulness is around us! And out of the
midst of superabundance, it is delightful to look
out upon distant seas.
Once did people say God, when they looked out
upon distant seas; now, however, have I taught
you to say, Superman.
""
## p. 99 (#177) #############################################
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES. 99
God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your con-
jecturing to reach beyond your creating will.
Could ye create a God ? —Then, I pray you, be
silent about all Gods! But ye could well create
the Superman.
Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But
into fathers and forefathers of the Superman could
ye transform yourselves: and let that be your best
creating! —
God is a conjecture: but I should like your con-
jecturing restricted to the conceivable.
Could ye conceive a God ? —But let this mean
Will to Truth unto you, that everything be trans-
formed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly
visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discern-
ment shall ye follow out to the end!
And what ye have called the world shall but be
created by you: your reason, your likeness, your
will, your love, shall it itself become! And verily,
for your bliss, ye discerning ones!
And how would ye endure life without that hope,
ye discerning ones? Neither in the inconceivable
could ye have been born, nor in the irrational.
But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto
you, my friends: if there were Gods, how could I
endure it to be no God! Therefore there are no
Gods.
Yea, I have drawn the conclusion; now, however,
doth it draw me. —
God is a conjecture: but who could drink all the
bitterness of this conjecture without dying? Shall
his faith be taken from the creating one, and from
the eagle his flights into eagle-heights?
## p. 100 (#178) ############################################
IOO THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
God is a thought—it maketh all the straight
crooked, and all that standeth reel. What? Time
would be gone, and all the perishable would be but
a lie?
To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human
limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily,
the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such
a thing.
Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teach-
ing about the one, and the plenum, and the
unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable!
All the imperishable—that's but a simile, and the
poets lie too much. —
But of time and of becoming shall the best similes
speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of
all perishableness!
Creating — that is the great salvation from
suffering, and life's alleviation. But for the creator
to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much
transformation.
Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life,
ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers
of all perishableness.
For the creator himself to be the new-born child,
he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and
endure the pangs of the child-bearer.
Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way,
and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes.
Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-
breaking last hours.
But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or,
to tell you it more candidly: just such a fate—
willeth my Will.
## p. 101 (#179) ############################################
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES. IOI
Ml feeling suffereth in me, and is in prison: but
my willing ever cometh to me as mine emanci-
pator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of
will and emancipation—so teachethyou Zarathustra.
No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no
longer creating! Ah, that that great debility may
ever be far from me!
And also in discerning do I feel only my will's
procreating and evolving delight; and if there be
innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is
will to procreation in it.
Away from God and Gods did this will allure
me; what would there be to create if there were—
Gods!
But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my
fervent creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer
to the stone.
Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image
for me, the image of my visions. ! Ah, that it should
slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone!
Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its
prison. From the stone fly the fragments: what's
that to me?
I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—
the stillest and lightest of all things once came
unto me!
The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a
shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now
are—the Gods to me! —
Thus spake Zarathustra,
## p. 101 (#180) ############################################
IOO THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
God is a thought—it maketh all the straight
crooked, and all that standeth reel. What? Time
would be gone, and all the perishable would be but
a lie?
To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human
limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily,
the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such
a thing.
Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teach-
ing about the one, and the plenum, and the
unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable!
All the imperishable—that's but a simile, and the
poets lie too much. —
But of time and of becoming shall the best similes
speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of
all perishableness!
Creating — that is the great salvation from
suffering, and life's alleviation. But for the creator
to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much
transformation.
Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life,
ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers
of all perishableness.
For the creator himself to be the new-born child,
he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and
endure the pangs of the child-bearer.
Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way,
and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes.
Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-
breaking last hours.
But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or,
to tell you it more candidly: just such a fate—
willeth my Will.
^
~i
## p. 101 (#181) ############################################
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES. IOI
All feeling suffereth in me, and is in prison: but
my willing ever cometh to me as mine emanci-
pator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of
will and emancipation—so teachethyou Zarathustra.
No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no
longer creating! Ah, that that great debility may
ever be far from me!
And also in discerning do I feel only my will's
procreating and evolving delight; and if there be
innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is
will to procreation in it.
Away from God and Gods did this will allure
me; what would there be to create if there were—
Gods!
But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my
fervent creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer
to the stone.
Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image
for me, the image of my visions. ! Ah, that it should
slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone!
Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its
prison. From the stone fly the fragments: what's
that to me?
I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—
the stillest and lightest of all things once came
unto me!
The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a
shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now
are—the Gods to me! —
Thus spake Zarathustra,
## p. 102 (#182) ############################################
102
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
XXV. —THE PITIFUL.
My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your
friend : “Behold Zarathustra! Walketh he not
amongst us as if amongst animals ? ”
But it is better said in this wise: “The dis-
cerning one walketh amongst men as amongst
animals. ”
Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal
with red cheeks.
How hath that happened unto him? Is it not
because he hath had to be ashamed too oft ?
O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning
one: shame, shame, shame—that is the history
of man!
And on that account doth the noble one enjoin
upon himself not to abash: bashfulness doth he
enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers.
Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose
bliss is in their pity: too destitute are they of
bashfulness.
If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so ; and
if I be so, it is preferably at a distance.
Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee,
before being recognised : and thus do I bid you do,
my friends!
May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like
you across my path, and those with whom I may
have hope and repast and honey in common!
Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted :
but something better did I always seem to do when
I had learned to enjoy myself better,
## p. 103 (#183) ############################################
XXV. —THE PITIFUL. 103
Since humanity came into being, man hath
enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren,
is our original sin!
And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then
do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to
contrive pain.
Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped
the sufferer; therefore do I wipe also my soul.
For in seeing the sufferer suffering—thereof was
I ashamed on account of his shame; and in helping
him, sorely did I wound his pride.
Great obligations do not make grateful, but
revengeful; and when a small kindness is not for-
gotten, it becometh a gnawing worm.
"Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accept-
ing ! "—thus do I advise those who have naught to
bestow.
I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow
as friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the
poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit from my
tree: thus doth it cause less shame.
Beggars, however, one should entirely do away
with! Verily, it annoyeth one to give unto them,
and it annoyeth one not to give unto them.
And likewise sinners and bad consciences!
Believe me, my friends: the sting of conscience
teacheth one to sting.
The worst things, however, are the petty
thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than
to have thought pettily!
To be sure, ye say: "The delight in petty evils
spareth one many a great evil deed. " But here one
should not wish to be sparing.
r
## p. 104 (#184) ############################################
104 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irri-
tateth and breaketh forth—it speaketh honourably.
"Behold, I am disease," saith the evil deed: that
is its honourableness.
But like infection is the petty thought: it
creepeth, and hideth, and vvanteth to be nowhere—
until the whole body is decayed and withered by
the petty infection.
To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I
would whisper this word in the ear: "Better for
thee to rear up thy devil! Even for thee there is
still a path to greatness ! "—
Ah, my brethren! One knoweth a little too
much about every one! And many a one becometh
transparent to us, but still we can by no means
penetrate him.
It is difficult to live among men because silence
is so difficult.
And not to him who is offensive to us are we
most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us
at all.
If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a
resting-place for his suffering; like a hard bed, how-
ever, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou serve him best
.
And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: "I
forgive thee what thou hast done unto me; that
thou hast done it unto thyself, however—how could
I forgive that! "
Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even
forgiveness and pity.
One should hold fast one's heart; for when one
letteth it go, how quickly doth one's head run away!
Ah, where in the world have there been greater
## p. 105 (#185) ############################################
XXV. —THE PITIFUL.
the superfluous ones.
But even the superfluous ones make much ado
about their death, and even the hollowest nut
wanteth to be cracked.
Every one regardeth dying as a great matter:
but as yet death is not a festival. Not yet have
people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals.
The consummating death I show unto you,
which becometh a stimulus and promise to the
living.
His death, dieth the consummating one triumph-
antly, surrounded by hoping and promising ones.
Thus should one learn to die; and there should
be no festival at which such a dying one doth not
consecrate the oaths of the living!
Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is
to die in battle, and sacrifice a great soul.
But to the fighter equally hateful as to the
victor, is your grinning death which stealeth nigh
like a thief,—and yet cometh as master.
My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary
death, which cometh unto me because / want it.
And when shall I want it? —He that hath a
## p. 83 (#161) #############################################
XXI. —VOLUNTARY DEATH. 83
goal and an heir, wanteth death at the right time
for the goal and the heir.
And out of reverence for the goal and the heir,
he will hang up no more withered wreaths in the
sanctuary of life.
Verily, not the rope -makers will I resemble:
they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever
backward.
Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths
and triumphs; a toothless mouth hath no longer
the right to every truth.
And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take
leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult
art of—going at the right time.
One must discontinue being feasted upon when
one tasteth best: that is known by those who
want to be long loved.
Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is
to wait until the last day of autumn: and at the
same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.
In some ageth the heart first, and in others the
spirit. And some are hoary in youth, but the
late young keep long young.
To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm
gnaweth at their heart. Then let them see to it
that their dying is all the more a success.
Many never become sweet; they rot even in the
summer. It is cowardice that holdeth them fast
to their branches.
Far too many live, and far too long hang they
on their branches. Would that a storm came and
shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from
the tree!
## p. 84 (#162) #############################################
84 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Would that there came preachers of speedy
death! Those would be the appropriate storms
and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only
slow death preached, and patience with all that
is "earthly. "
Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly?
This earthly is it that hath too much patience with
you, ye blasphemers!
Verily, too early died that Hebrew whom the
preachers of slow death honour: and to many
hath it proved a calamity that he died too early.
As yet had he known only tears, and the
melancholy of the Hebrews, together with the
hatred of the good and just—the Hebrew Jesus:
then was he seized with the longing for death.
Had he but remained in the wilderness, and far
from the good and just! Then, perhaps, would
he have learned to live, and love the earth—and
laughter also!
Believe it, my brethren! He died too early; he
himself would have disavowed his doctrine had he
attained to my age! Noble enough was he to
disavow!
But he was still immature. Immaturely loveth
the youth, and immaturely also hateth he man
and earth. Confined and awkward are still his
soul and the wings of his spirit.
But in man there is more of the child than in
the youth, and less of melancholy: better under-
standeth he about life and death.
Free for death, and free in death; a holy Nay-
sayer, when there is no longer time for Yea: thus
understandeth he about death and life.
## p. 85 (#163) #############################################
XXI. —VOLUNTARY DEATH. 85
That your dying may not be a reproach to
man and the earth, my friends: that do I solicit
from the honey of your soul.
In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still
shine like an evening after-glow around the earth:
otherwise your dying hath been unsatisfactory.
Thus will I die myself, that ye friends may
love the earth more for my sake; and earth will I
again become, to have rest in her that bore me.
Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw his
ball. Now be ye friends the heirs of my goal;
to you throw I the golden ball.
Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the
golden ball! And so tarry I still a little while
on the earth—pardon me for it!
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE.
1.
When Zarathustra had taken leave of the town
to which his heart was attached, the name of which
is " The Pied Cow," there followed him many people
who called themselves his disciples, and kept him
company. Thus came they to a cross-road. Then
Zarathustra told them that he now wanted to go
alone; for he was fond of going alone. His
disciples, however, presented him at his departure
with a staff, on the golden handle of which a serpent
twined round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on
account of the staff, and supported himself thereon;
then spake he thus to his disciples;
## p. 86 (#164) #############################################
86 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest
value? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting,
and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always be-
stoweth itself.
Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to
the highest value. Goldlike, beameth the glance
of the bestower. Gold-lustre maketh peace between
moon and sun.
Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting,
beaming is it, and soft of lustre: a bestowing virtue
is the highest virtue.
Verily, I divine you well, my disciples: ye strive
like me for the bestowing virtue. What should ye
have in common with cats and wolves?
It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts
yourselves: and therefore have ye the thirst to
accumulate all riches in your soul.
Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and
jewels, because your virtue is insatiable in desiring
to bestow.
Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and
into you, so that they shall flow back again out of
your fountain as the gifts of your love.
Verily, an appropriator of all values must such
bestowing love become; but healthy and holy, call
I this selfishness. —
Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and
hungry kind, which would always steal—the selfish-
ness of the sick, the sickly selfishness.
With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that
is lustrous; with the craving of hunger it measureth
him who hath abundance; and ever doth it prowl
round the tables of bestowers,
## p. 87 (#165) #############################################
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 87
Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible
degeneration; of a sickly body, speaketh the
larcenous craving of this selfishness.
Tell me, my brother, what do we think bad, and
worst of all? Is it not degeneration? —And we
always suspect degeneration when the bestowing
soul is lacking.
Upward goeth our course from genera on to
super-genera. But a horror to us is the degenerat-
ing sense, which saith: "All for myself. "
Upward soareth our sense: thus is it a simile of
our body, a simile of an elevation. Such similes of
elevations are the names of the virtues.
Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer
and fighter. And the spirit—what is it to the body?
Its fights' and victories' herald, its companion
and echo.
Similes, are all names of good and evil; they do
not speak out, they only hint. A fool who seeketh
knowledge from them!
Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your
spirit would speak in similes: there is the origin
of your virtue.
Elevated is then your body, and raised up; with
its delight, enraptureth it the spirit; so that it
becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and every-
thing's benefactor.
When your heart overfloweth broad and full like
the river, a blessing and a danger to the lowlanders:
there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are exalted above praise and blame, and
your will would command all things, as a loving
one's wiU: there is the origin of your virtue,
## p. 88 (#166) #############################################
88 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
When ye despise pleasant things, and the effemi-
nate couch, and cannot couch far enough from the
effeminate: there is the origin of your virtue.
When ye are willers of one will, and when that
change of every need is needful to you: there is
the origin of your virtue.
Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily, a new
deep murmuring, and the voice of a new fountain!
Power is it, this new virtue; a ruling thought is
it, and around it a subtle soul: a golden sun, with
the serpent of knowledge around it.
Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked
lovingly on his disciples. Then he continued to
speak thus—and his voice had changed:
Remain true to the earth, my brethren, with the
power of your virtue! Let your bestowing love
and your knowledge be devoted to be the meaning
of the earth! Thus do I pray and conjure you.
Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat
against eternal walls with its wings! Ah, there
hath always been so much flown-away virtue!
Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue back to the
earth—yea, back to body and life: that it may give
to the earth its meaning, a human meaning!
A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as
virtue flown away and blundered. Alas! in our
body dwelleth still all this delusion and blundering:
body and will hath it there become.
A hundred times hitherto hath spirit as well as
virtue attempted and erred. Yea, an attempt hath
^
## p. 89 (#167) #############################################
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 89
man been. Alas, much ignorance and error hath
become embodied in us!
Not only the rationality of millenniums—also
their madness, breaketh out in us. Dangerous is
it to be an heir.
Still right we step by step with the giant Chance,
and over all mankind hath hitherto ruled nonsense,
the lack-of-sense.
Let your spirit and your virtue be devoted to the
sense of the earth, my brethren: let the value of
everything be determined anew by you! Therefore
shall ye be fighters! Therefore shall ye be creators!
Intelligently doth the body purify itself; attempt-
ing with intelligence it exalteth itself; to the
discerners all impulses sanctify themselves; to the
exalted the soul becometh joyful.
Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also
heal thy patient. Let it be his best cure to see with
his eyes him who maketh himself whole.
A thousand paths are there which have never yet
been trodden; a thousand salubrities and hidden
islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is
still man and man's world.
Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From
the future come winds with stealthy pinions, and to
fine ears good tidings are proclaimed.
Ye lonesome ones of to-day, ye seceding ones, ye
shall one day be a people: out of you who have
chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people arise:—
and out of it the Superman.
Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become!
And already is a new odour diffused around it, a
salvation-bringing odour—and a new hope!
s
## p. 90 (#168) #############################################
90 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, I.
3.
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he
paused, like one who had not said his last word;
and long did he balance the staff doubtfully in his
hand. At last he spake thus—and his voice had
changed:
I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go
away, and alone! So will I have it.
Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard
yourselves against Zarathustra! And better still:
be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath deceived you.
The man of knowledge must be able not only to
love his enemies, but also to hate his friends.
One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain
merely a scholar. And why will ye not pluck
at my wreath?
Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration
should some day collapse? Take heed lest a statue
crush you!
Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what
account is Zarathustra! Ye are my believers: but
of what account are all believers!
Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye
find me. So do all believers; therefore all belief
is of so little account.
Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves;
and only when ye have all denied me, will I return
unto you.
Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then
seek my lost ones; with another love shall I then
love you.
And once again shall ye have become friends
-
## p. 91 (#169) #############################################
XXII. —THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 91
unto me, and children of one hope: then will I be
with you for the third time, to celebrate the great
noontide with you.
And it is the great noontide, when man is in the
middle of his course between animal and Superman,
and celebrateth his advance to the evening as his
highest hope: for it is the advance to a new
morning.
At such time will the down-goer bless himself,
that he should be an over-goer; and the sun of his
knowledge will be at noontide.
"Dead are all the Gods: now do we desire the
Superman to live. "—Let this be our final will at the
great noontide ! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
## p. 92 (#170) #############################################
v
I
## p. 93 (#171) #############################################
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA
SECOND PART
"—and only when ye have all
denied me, will I return unto
you.
Verily, with other eyes, my
brethren, shall I then seek my
lost ones; with another love
shall I then love you. "—Zara
thustra, I. , "The Bestowing
Virtue" (p. 90).
## p. 94 (#172) #############################################
## p. 95 (#173) #############################################
XXIII— THE CHILD WITH THE
MIRROR.
After this Zarathustra returned again into the
mountains to the solitude of his cave, and withdrew
himself from men, waiting like a sower who hath
scattered his seed. His soul, however, became
impatient and full of longing for those whom he
loved: because he had still much to give them.
For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand
out of love, and keep modest as a giver.
Thus passed with the lonesome one months and
years; his wisdom meanwhile increased, and caused
him pain by its abundance.
One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy
dawn, and having meditated long on his couch, at
last spake thus to his heart:
Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke?
Did not a child come to me, carrying a mirror?
"O Zarathustra"—said the child unto me—
"look at thyself in the mirror! "
But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked,
and my heart throbbed: for not myself did I see
therein, but a devil's grimace and derision.
Verily, all too well do I understand the dream's
portent and monition: my doctrine is in danger;
tares want to be called wheat!
Mine enemies have grown powerful and have
-
'
## p. 96 (#174) #############################################
96
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
disfigured the likeness of my doctrine, so that my
dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I gave
them.
Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me
to seek my lost ones! -
With these words Zarathustra started up, not
however like a person in anguish seeking relief, but
rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit
inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and
serpent gaze upon him: for a coming bliss over-
spread his countenance like the rosy dawn.
What hath happened unto me, mine animals ?
said Zarathustra. Am I not transformed ? Hath
not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind ?
Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will
it speak: it is still too young—so have patience
with it!
Wounded am I by my happiness : all sufferers
shall be physicians unto me!
To my friends can I again go down, and also to
mine enemies ! Zarathustra can again speak and
bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones!
My impatient love overfloweth in streams,-
down towards sunrise and sunset. Out of silent
mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul
into the valleys.
Too long have I longed and looked into the
distance. Too long hath solitude possessed me :
thus have I unlearned to keep silence.
Utterance have I become altogether, and the
brawling of a brook from high rocks : downward
into the valleys will I hurl my speech.
And let the stream of my love sweep into
## p. 97 (#175) #############################################
XXIII. -THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR. 97
unfrequented channels ! How should a stream
not finally find its way to the sea !
Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and
self-sufficing ; but the stream of my love beareth
this along with it, down-to the sea !
New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto
me; tired have I become-like all creators of the
old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on
worn-out soles.
Too slowly runneth all speaking for me :-into
thy chariot, O storm, do I leap! And even thee
will I whip with my spite!
Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide
seas, till I find the Happy Isles where my friends
sojourn ;-
And mine enemies amongst them! How I
now love every one unto whom I may but speak!
Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss.
And when I want to mount my wildest horse,
then doth my spear always help me up best : it is
my foot's ever ready servant:-
The spear which I hurl at mine enemies ! How
grateful am I to mine enemies that I may at last
hurl it !
Too great hath been the tension of my cloud:
'twixt laughters of lightnings will I cast hail-
showers into the depths.
Violently will my breast then heave; violently
will it blow its storm over the mountains : thus
cometh its assuagement.
Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and
my freedom! But mine enemies shall think that
the evil one roareth over their heads.
## p. 98 (#176) #############################################
98 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my
wild wisdom; and perhaps ye will flee therefrom,
along with mine enemies.
Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with
shepherds' flutes! Ah, that my lioness wisdom
would learn to roar softly! And much have we
already learned with one another!
My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lone-
some mountains; on the rough stones did she bear
the youngest of her young.
Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilder-
ness, and seeketh and seeketh the soft sward—mine
old, wild wisdom!
On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends! —
on your love, would she fain couch her dearest one! —
Thus spake Zarathustra.
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES.
The figs fall from the trees, they are good and
sweet; and in falling the red skins of them break.
A north wind am I to ripe figs.
Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you,
my friends: imbibe now their juice and their sweet
substance! It is autumn all around, and clear sky,
and afternoon.
Lo, what fulness is around us! And out of the
midst of superabundance, it is delightful to look
out upon distant seas.
Once did people say God, when they looked out
upon distant seas; now, however, have I taught
you to say, Superman.
""
## p. 99 (#177) #############################################
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES. 99
God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your con-
jecturing to reach beyond your creating will.
Could ye create a God ? —Then, I pray you, be
silent about all Gods! But ye could well create
the Superman.
Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But
into fathers and forefathers of the Superman could
ye transform yourselves: and let that be your best
creating! —
God is a conjecture: but I should like your con-
jecturing restricted to the conceivable.
Could ye conceive a God ? —But let this mean
Will to Truth unto you, that everything be trans-
formed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly
visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discern-
ment shall ye follow out to the end!
And what ye have called the world shall but be
created by you: your reason, your likeness, your
will, your love, shall it itself become! And verily,
for your bliss, ye discerning ones!
And how would ye endure life without that hope,
ye discerning ones? Neither in the inconceivable
could ye have been born, nor in the irrational.
But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto
you, my friends: if there were Gods, how could I
endure it to be no God! Therefore there are no
Gods.
Yea, I have drawn the conclusion; now, however,
doth it draw me. —
God is a conjecture: but who could drink all the
bitterness of this conjecture without dying? Shall
his faith be taken from the creating one, and from
the eagle his flights into eagle-heights?
## p. 100 (#178) ############################################
IOO THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
God is a thought—it maketh all the straight
crooked, and all that standeth reel. What? Time
would be gone, and all the perishable would be but
a lie?
To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human
limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily,
the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such
a thing.
Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teach-
ing about the one, and the plenum, and the
unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable!
All the imperishable—that's but a simile, and the
poets lie too much. —
But of time and of becoming shall the best similes
speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of
all perishableness!
Creating — that is the great salvation from
suffering, and life's alleviation. But for the creator
to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much
transformation.
Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life,
ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers
of all perishableness.
For the creator himself to be the new-born child,
he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and
endure the pangs of the child-bearer.
Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way,
and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes.
Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-
breaking last hours.
But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or,
to tell you it more candidly: just such a fate—
willeth my Will.
## p. 101 (#179) ############################################
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES. IOI
Ml feeling suffereth in me, and is in prison: but
my willing ever cometh to me as mine emanci-
pator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of
will and emancipation—so teachethyou Zarathustra.
No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no
longer creating! Ah, that that great debility may
ever be far from me!
And also in discerning do I feel only my will's
procreating and evolving delight; and if there be
innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is
will to procreation in it.
Away from God and Gods did this will allure
me; what would there be to create if there were—
Gods!
But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my
fervent creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer
to the stone.
Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image
for me, the image of my visions. ! Ah, that it should
slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone!
Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its
prison. From the stone fly the fragments: what's
that to me?
I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—
the stillest and lightest of all things once came
unto me!
The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a
shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now
are—the Gods to me! —
Thus spake Zarathustra,
## p. 101 (#180) ############################################
IOO THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
God is a thought—it maketh all the straight
crooked, and all that standeth reel. What? Time
would be gone, and all the perishable would be but
a lie?
To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human
limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily,
the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such
a thing.
Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teach-
ing about the one, and the plenum, and the
unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable!
All the imperishable—that's but a simile, and the
poets lie too much. —
But of time and of becoming shall the best similes
speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of
all perishableness!
Creating — that is the great salvation from
suffering, and life's alleviation. But for the creator
to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much
transformation.
Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life,
ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers
of all perishableness.
For the creator himself to be the new-born child,
he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and
endure the pangs of the child-bearer.
Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way,
and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes.
Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-
breaking last hours.
But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or,
to tell you it more candidly: just such a fate—
willeth my Will.
^
~i
## p. 101 (#181) ############################################
XXIV. —IN THE HAPPY ISLES. IOI
All feeling suffereth in me, and is in prison: but
my willing ever cometh to me as mine emanci-
pator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of
will and emancipation—so teachethyou Zarathustra.
No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no
longer creating! Ah, that that great debility may
ever be far from me!
And also in discerning do I feel only my will's
procreating and evolving delight; and if there be
innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is
will to procreation in it.
Away from God and Gods did this will allure
me; what would there be to create if there were—
Gods!
But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my
fervent creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer
to the stone.
Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image
for me, the image of my visions. ! Ah, that it should
slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone!
Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its
prison. From the stone fly the fragments: what's
that to me?
I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—
the stillest and lightest of all things once came
unto me!
The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a
shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now
are—the Gods to me! —
Thus spake Zarathustra,
## p. 102 (#182) ############################################
102
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
XXV. —THE PITIFUL.
My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your
friend : “Behold Zarathustra! Walketh he not
amongst us as if amongst animals ? ”
But it is better said in this wise: “The dis-
cerning one walketh amongst men as amongst
animals. ”
Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal
with red cheeks.
How hath that happened unto him? Is it not
because he hath had to be ashamed too oft ?
O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning
one: shame, shame, shame—that is the history
of man!
And on that account doth the noble one enjoin
upon himself not to abash: bashfulness doth he
enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers.
Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose
bliss is in their pity: too destitute are they of
bashfulness.
If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so ; and
if I be so, it is preferably at a distance.
Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee,
before being recognised : and thus do I bid you do,
my friends!
May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like
you across my path, and those with whom I may
have hope and repast and honey in common!
Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted :
but something better did I always seem to do when
I had learned to enjoy myself better,
## p. 103 (#183) ############################################
XXV. —THE PITIFUL. 103
Since humanity came into being, man hath
enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren,
is our original sin!
And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then
do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to
contrive pain.
Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped
the sufferer; therefore do I wipe also my soul.
For in seeing the sufferer suffering—thereof was
I ashamed on account of his shame; and in helping
him, sorely did I wound his pride.
Great obligations do not make grateful, but
revengeful; and when a small kindness is not for-
gotten, it becometh a gnawing worm.
"Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accept-
ing ! "—thus do I advise those who have naught to
bestow.
I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow
as friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the
poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit from my
tree: thus doth it cause less shame.
Beggars, however, one should entirely do away
with! Verily, it annoyeth one to give unto them,
and it annoyeth one not to give unto them.
And likewise sinners and bad consciences!
Believe me, my friends: the sting of conscience
teacheth one to sting.
The worst things, however, are the petty
thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than
to have thought pettily!
To be sure, ye say: "The delight in petty evils
spareth one many a great evil deed. " But here one
should not wish to be sparing.
r
## p. 104 (#184) ############################################
104 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, II.
Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irri-
tateth and breaketh forth—it speaketh honourably.
"Behold, I am disease," saith the evil deed: that
is its honourableness.
But like infection is the petty thought: it
creepeth, and hideth, and vvanteth to be nowhere—
until the whole body is decayed and withered by
the petty infection.
To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I
would whisper this word in the ear: "Better for
thee to rear up thy devil! Even for thee there is
still a path to greatness ! "—
Ah, my brethren! One knoweth a little too
much about every one! And many a one becometh
transparent to us, but still we can by no means
penetrate him.
It is difficult to live among men because silence
is so difficult.
And not to him who is offensive to us are we
most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us
at all.
If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a
resting-place for his suffering; like a hard bed, how-
ever, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou serve him best
.
And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: "I
forgive thee what thou hast done unto me; that
thou hast done it unto thyself, however—how could
I forgive that! "
Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even
forgiveness and pity.
One should hold fast one's heart; for when one
letteth it go, how quickly doth one's head run away!
Ah, where in the world have there been greater
## p. 105 (#185) ############################################
XXV. —THE PITIFUL.
