No More Learning

"What dost thou seek here? " called out Zara-
thustra in astonishment.
"What do I here seek? " answered he: "the
same that thou seekest, thou mischief-maker! that is
to say, happiness upon earth.


## p. 327 (#484) ############################################

326 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
then, do like me! Thus wilt thou learn also from
me; only the doer learneth.
And talk first and foremost to mine animals!
The proudest animal and the wisest animal—
they might well be the right counsellors for us
both! "
Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more
thoughtfully and slowly even than before: for he
asked himself many things, and hardly knew what
to answer.
"How poor indeed is man," thought he in his
heart, "how ugly, how wheezy, how full of hidden
shame!
They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how
great must that self-love be! How much contempt
is opposed to it!
Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath
despised himself,—a great lover methinketh he is,
and a great despiser.
No one have I yet found who more thoroughly
despised himself: even that is elevation. Alas,
was this perhaps the higher man whose cry I
heard?
I love the great despisers. Man is something
that hath to be surpassed. "
LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR.
When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he
was chilled and felt lonesome: for much coldness
and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so that even
his limbs became colder thereby. When, how-
ever, he wandered on and on, uphill and down, at
1


## p. 327 (#485) ############################################

LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 327
times past green meadows, though also sometimes
over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps
an impatient brook had made its bed, then he
turned all at once warmer and heartier again.
"What hath happened unto me? " he asked
himself, "something warm and living quickeneth
me; it must be in the neighbourhood.
Already am I less alone; unconscious com-
panions and brethren rove around me; their warm
breath toucheth my soul. "
When, however, he spied about and sought for
the comforters of his lonesomeness, behold, there
were kine there standing together on an eminence,
whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart.
The kine, however, seemed to listen eagerly to a
speaker, and took no heed of him who approached.
When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto
them, then did he hear plainly that a human voice
spake in the midst of the kine; and apparently all
of them had turned their heads towards the speaker.
Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the
animals aside; for he feared that some one had
here met with harm, which the pity of the kine
would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was
deceived; for behold, there sat a man on the ground
who seemed to be persuading the animals to have no
fear of him, a peaceable man and Preacher-on-the-
Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached.
"What dost thou seek here? " called out Zara-
thustra in astonishment.
"What do I here seek? " answered he: "the
same that thou seekest, thou mischief-maker! that is
to say, happiness upon earth.


## p. 327 (#486) ############################################

326 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
then, do like me! Thus wilt thou learn also from
me; only the doer learneth.
And talk first and foremost to mine animals!
The proudest animal and the wisest animal—
they might well be the right counsellors for us
both! "
Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more
thoughtfully and slowly even than before: for he
asked himself many things, and hardly knew what
to answer.
"How poor indeed is man," thought he in his
heart, "how ugly, how wheezy, how full of hidden
shame!
They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how
great must that self-love be! How much contempt
is opposed to it!
Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath
despised himself,—a great lover methinketh he is,
and a great despiser.
No one have I yet found who more thoroughly
despised himself: even that is elevation. Alas,
was this perhaps the higher man whose cry I
heard?
I love the great despisers. Man is something
that hath to be surpassed. "
LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR.
When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he
was chilled and felt lonesome: for much coldness
and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so that even
his limbs became colder thereby. When, how-
ever, he wandered on and on, uphill and down, at
r
1


## p. 327 (#487) ############################################

LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 327
times past green meadows, though also sometimes
over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps
an impatient brook had made its bed, then he
turned all at once warmer and heartier again.
"What hath happened unto me? " he asked
himself, "something warm and living quickeneth
me; it must be in the neighbourhood.
Already am I less alone; unconscious com-
panions and brethren rove around me; their warm
breath toucheth my soul. "
When, however, he spied about and sought for
the comforters of his lonesomeness, behold, there
were kine there standing together on an eminence,
whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart.
The kine, however, seemed to listen eagerly to a
speaker, and took no heed of him who approached.
When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto
them, then did he hear plainly that a human voice
spake in the midst of the kine; and apparently all
of them had turned their heads towards the speaker.
Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the
animals aside; for he feared that some one had
here met with harm, which the pity of the kine
would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was
deceived; for behold, there sat a man on the ground
who seemed to be persuading the animals to have no
fear of him, a peaceable man and Preacher-on-the-
Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached.
"What dost thou seek here? " called out Zara-
thustra in astonishment.
"What do I here seek? " answered he: "the
same that thou seekest, thou mischief-maker! that is
to say, happiness upon earth.


## p. 327 (#488) ############################################

326 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
then, do like me! Thus wilt thou learn also from
me; only the doer learneth.
And talk first and foremost to mine animals!
The proudest animal and the wisest animal—
they might well be the right counsellors for us
both! "
Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more
thoughtfully and slowly even than before: for he
asked himself many things, and hardly knew what
to answer.
"How poor indeed is man," thought he in his
heart, "how ugly, how wheezy, how full of hidden
shame!
They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how
great must that self-love be! How much contempt
is opposed to it!
Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath
despised himself,—a great lover methinketh he is,
and a great despiser.
No one have I yet found who more thoroughly
despised himself: even that is elevation. Alas,
was this perhaps the higher man whose cry I
heard?
I love the great despisers. Man is something
that hath to be surpassed. "
LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR.
When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he
was chilled and felt lonesome: for much coldness
and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so that even
his limbs became colder thereby. When, how-
ever, he wandered on and on, uphill and down, at
1


## p. 327 (#489) ############################################

LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 327
times past green meadows, though also sometimes
over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps
an impatient brook had made its bed, then he
turned all at once warmer and heartier again.
"What hath happened unto me? " he asked
himself, "something warm and living quickeneth
me; it must be in the neighbourhood.
Already am I less alone; unconscious com-
panions and brethren rove around me; their warm
breath toucheth my soul. "
When, however, he spied about and sought for
the comforters of his lonesomeness, behold, there
were kine there standing together on an eminence,
whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart.
The kine, however, seemed to listen eagerly to a
speaker, and took no heed of him who approached.
When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto
them, then did he hear plainly that a human voice
spake in the midst of the kine; and apparently all
of them had turned their heads towards the speaker.
Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the
animals aside; for he feared that some one had
here met with harm, which the pity of the kine
would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was
deceived; for behold, there sat a man on the ground
who seemed to be persuading the animals to have no
fear of him, a peaceable man and Preacher-on-the-
Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached.
"What dost thou seek here? " called out Zara-
thustra in astonishment.
"What do I here seek? " answered he: "the
same that thou seekest, thou mischief-maker! that is
to say, happiness upon earth.


## p. 327 (#490) ############################################

328 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
To that end, however, I would fain learn of these
kine. For I tell thee that I have already talked
half a morning unto them, and just now were they
about to give me their answer. Why dost thou
disturb them?
Except we be converted and become as kine, we
shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.
For we ought to learn from them one thing:
ruminating.
And verily, although a man should gain the
whole world, and yet not learn one thing, rumi-
nating, what would it profit him! He would not
be rid of his affliction,
—His great affliction : that, however, is at present
called disgust. Who hath not at present his heart,
his mouth and his eyes full of disgust? Thou also!
Thou also! But behold these kine! "—
Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and
turned then his own look towards Zarathustra—for
hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine—: then,
however, he put on a different expression. "Who
is this with whom I talk? " he exclaimed frightened,
and sprang up from the ground.
"This is the man without disgust, this is Zara-
thustra himself, the surmounter of the great disgust,
this is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart
of Zarathustra himself. "
And whilst he thus spake he kissed with o'erflow-
ing eyes the hands of him with whom he spake,
and behaved altogether like one to whom a precious
gift and jewel hath fallen unawares from heaven.
The kine, however, gazed at it all and wondered.
"Speak not of me, thou strange one! thou
•


## p. 327 (#491) ############################################

LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 327
times past green meadows, though also sometimes
over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps
an impatient brook had made its bed, then he
turned all at once warmer and heartier again.
"What hath happened unto me? " he asked
himself, "something warm and living quickeneth
me; it must be in the neighbourhood.
Already am I less alone; unconscious com-
panions and brethren rove around me; their warm
breath toucheth my soul. "
When, however, he spied about and sought for
the comforters of his lonesomeness, behold, there
were kine there standing together on an eminence,
whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart.
The kine, however, seemed to listen eagerly to a
speaker, and took no heed of him who approached.
When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto
them, then did he hear plainly that a human voice
spake in the midst of the kine; and apparently all
of them had turned their heads towards the speaker.
Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the
animals aside; for he feared that some one had
here met with harm, which the pity of the kine
would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was
deceived; for behold, there sat a man on the ground
who seemed to be persuading the animals to have no
fear of him, a peaceable man and Preacher-on-the-
Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached.
"What dost thou seek here? " called out Zara-
thustra in astonishment.
"What do I here seek? " answered he: "the
same that thou seekest, thou mischief-maker ! that is
to say, happiness upon earth.


## p. 328 (#492) ############################################

328 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
To that end, however, I would fain learn of these
kine. For I tell thee that I have already talked
half a morning unto them, and just now were they
about to give me their answer. Why dost thou
disturb them?
Except we be converted and become as kine, we
shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.
For we ought to learn from them one thing:
ruminating.
And verily, although a man should gain the
whole world, and yet not learn one thing, rumi-
nating, what would it profit him! He would not
be rid of his affliction,
—His great affliction : that, however, is at present
called disgust. Who hath not at present his heart,
his mouth and his eyes full of disgust? Thou also!
Thou also! But behold these kine! "—
Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and
turned then his own look towards Zarathustra—for
hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine—: then,
however, he put on a different expression. "Who
is this with whom I talk ? " he exclaimed frightened,
and sprang up from the ground.
"This is the man without disgust, this is Zara-
thustra himself, the surmounterof the great disgust,
this is the eye, this is the mouth, this is the heart
of Zarathustra himself. "
And whilst he thus spake he kissed with o'erflow-
ing eyes the hands of him with whom he spake,
and behaved altogether like one to whom a precious
gift and jewel hath fallen unawares from heaven.
The kine, however, gazed at it all and wondered.
"Speak not of me, thou strange one! thou


## p. 329 (#493) ############################################

LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 329
amiable one ! " said Zarathustra, and restrained his
affection, " speak to me firstly of thyself! Art thou
not the voluntary beggar who once cast away great
riches,—
—Who was ashamed of his riches and of the
rich, and fled to the poorest to bestow upon them
his abundance and his heart? But they received
him not. "
"But they received me not," said the voluntary
beggar, " thou knowest it, forsooth. So I went at
last to the animals and to those kine. "
"Then learnedst thou," interrupted Zarathustra,
"how much harder it is to give properly than to
take properly, and that bestowing well is an art—
the last, subtlest master-art of kindness. "
"Especially nowadays," answered the voluntary
beggar: "at present, that is to say, when everything
low hath become rebellious and exclusive and
haughty in its manner—in the manner of the
populace.
For the hour hath come, thou knowest it forsooth,
for the great, evil, long, slow mob-and-slave-insur-
rection: it extendeth and extendeth!
Now doth it provoke the lower classes, all
benevolence and petty giving; and the overrich
may be on their guard!
Whoever at present drip, like bulgy bottles out
of all-too-small necks:—of such bottles at present
one willingly breaketh the necks.
Wanton avidity, bilious envy, careworn revenge,
populace-pride: all these struck mine eye. It is
no longer true that the poor are blessed. The'
kingdom of heaven, however, is with the kine. "


## p. 330 (#494) ############################################

330
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
“And why is it not with the rich ? ” asked Zara-
thustra temptingly, while he kept back the kine
which sniffed familiarly at the peaceful one.
“Why dost thou tempt me? "answered the other.
“Thou knowest it thyself better even than I. What
was it drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra ?
Was it not my disgust at the richest ?
--At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and
rank thoughts, who pick up profit out of all kinds
of rubbish—at this rabble that stinketh to heaven,
-At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers
were pickpockets, or carrion-crows, or rag-pickers,
with wives compliant, lewd and forgetful :- for
they are all of them not far different from harlots-
Populace above, populace below! What are
'poor' and 'rich' at present! That distinction
did I unlearn,—then did I flee away further and
ever further, until I came to those kine. ”
Thus spake the peaceful one, and puffed himself
and perspired with his words: so that the kine
wondered anew.
Zarathustra, however, kept looking
into his face with a smile, all the time the man
talked so severely—and shook silently his head.
“Thou doest violence to thyself, thou Preacher-
on-the-Mount, when thou usest such severe words.
For such severity neither thy mouth nor thine eye
have been given thee.
Nor, methinketh, hath thy stomach either : unto
it all such rage and hatred and foaming-over is
repugnant. Thy stomach wanteth softer things :
thou art not a butcher.
Rather seemest thou to me a plant-eater and a
root-man. Perhaps thou grindest corn. Certainly,


## p. 331 (#495) ############################################

LXVIII. —THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR. 33 T
however, thou art averse to fleshly joys, and thou
lovest honey. "
"Thou hast divined me well," answered the
voluntary beggar, with lightened heart. "I love
honey, I also grind corn; for I have sought out
what tasteth sweetly and maketh pure breath:
—Also what requireth a long time, a day's-work
and a mouth's-work for gentle idlers and sluggards.
Furthest, to be sure, have those kine carried it:
they have devised ruminating and lying in the sun.
They also abstain from all heavy thoughts which
inflate the heart. "
—" Well! " said Zarathustra, " thou shouldst also
see mine animals, mine eagle and my serpent,—
their like do not at present exist on earth.
Behold, thither leadeth the way to my cave: be
to-night its guest. And talk to mine animals of the
happiness of animals,—
—Until I myself come home. For now a cry of
distress calleth me hastily away from thee. Also,
shouldst thou find new honey with me, ice-cold,
golden-comb-honey, eat it!
Now, however, take leave at once of thy kine, thou
strange one! thou amiable one! though it be hard
for thee. For they are thy warmest friends and
preceptors! "—
—" One excepted, whom I hold still dearer,"
answered the voluntary beggar. "Thou thyself art
good, O Zarathustra, and better even than a cow! "
"Away, away with thee! thou evil flatterer! "
cried Zarathustra mischievously, "why dost thou
spoil me with such praise and flattery-honey? "
"Away, away from me! " cried he once more,


## p. 332 (#496) ############################################

332
THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
and heaved his stick at the fond beggar, who, how-
ever, ran nimbly away.
LXIX. —THE SHADOW.
Scarcely however was the voluntary beggar gone
in haste, and Zarathustra again alone, when he
heard behind him a new voice which called out:
“Stay! Zarathustra! Do wait! It is myself, for-
sooth, O Zarathustra, myself, thy shadow ! ” But
Zarathustra did not wait; for a sudden irritation
came over him on account of the crowd and the
crowding in his mountains. “Whither hath my
lonesomeness gone? " spake he.
" It is verily becoming too much for me; these
mountains swarm; my kingdom is no longer of
this world; I require new mountains.
My shadow calleth me? What matter about
my shadow! Let it run after me! 1-run away
from it. "
Thus spake Zarathustra to his heart and ran
away. But the one behind followed after him, so
that immediately there were three runners, one
after the other—namely, foremost the voluntary
beggar, then Zarathustra, and thirdly, and hind-
most, his shadow. But not long had they run thus
when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly,
and shook off with one jerk all his irritation and
detestation.
“What! ” said he, “have not the most ludicrous
things always happened to us old anchorites and
saints ?
Verily, my folly hath grown big in the moun-


## p. 333 (#497) ############################################

LXIX. —THE SHADOW. 333
tains! Now do I hear six old fools' legs rattling
behind one another!
But doth Zarathustra need to be frightened by
his shadow? Also, methinketh that after all it
hath longer legs than mine. "
Thus spake Zarathustra, and, laughing with eyes
and entrails, he stood still and turned round
quickly—and behold, he almost thereby threw his
shadow and follower to the ground, so closely had
the latter followed at his heels, and so weak was
he. For when Zarathustra scrutinised him with
his glance he was frightened as by a sudden
apparition, so slender, swarthy, hollow and worn-
out did this follower appear.
"Who art thou ? " asked Zarathustra vehemently,
"what doest thou here? And why callest thou
thyself my shadow? Thou art not pleasing unto
me.
"Forgive me," answered the shadow, " that it is
I ; and if I please thee not—well, O Zarathustra!
therein do I admire thee and thy good taste.
A wanderer am I, who have walked long at thy
heels; always on the way, but without a goal, also
without a home : so that verily, I lack little of being
the eternally Wandering Jew, except that I am not
eternal and not a Jew.
What? Must I ever be on the way? Whirled
by every wind, unsettled, driven about? O earth,
thou hast become too round for me!
On every surface have I already sat, like tired
dust have I fallen asleep on mirrors and window-
panes: everything taketh from me, nothing giveth;
I become thin—I am almost equal to a shadow.


## p. 334 (#498) ############################################

334 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and
hie longest; and though I hid myself from thee,
I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou
hast sat, there sat I also.
With thee have I wandered about in the re-
motest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that
voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden,
all the worst and the furthest: and if there be any-
thing of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear
of any prohibition.
With thee have I broken up whatever my heart
revered; all boundary-stones and statues have I
o'erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I
pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and
worths and in great names. When the devil
casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away?
It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin.
'Nothing is true, all is permitted': so said I to
myself. Into the coldest water did I plunge with
head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand there
naked on that account, like a red crab!
Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my
shame and all my belief in the good! Ah, where
is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the
innocence of the good and of their noble lies!
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of
truth: then did it kick me on the face. Some-
times I meant to lie, and behold! then only did
I hit—the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me: now it
doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth


## p. 335 (#499) ############################################

LXIX. —THE SHADOW. 335
any longer that I love,—how should I still love
myself?
'To live as I incline, or not to live at all': so do
I wish; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas!
how have / still—inclination?
Have /—still a goal? A haven towards which my
sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth
whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and
a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and
flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a
broken backbone.
This seeking for my home: O Zarathustra, dost
thou know that this seeking hath been my home-
sickening; it eateth me up.
'Where is—my home? ' For it do I ask and
seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O
eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal
—in-vain! "
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's coun-
tenance lengthened at his words. "Thou art my
shadow ! " said he at last sadly.
"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and
wanderer! Thou hast had a bad day: see that a
still worse evening doth not overtake thee!
To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last
even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how
captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they
enjoy their new security.
Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture
thee, a hard, rigorous delusion! For now every-


## p. 335 (#500) ############################################

334 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and
hie longest; and though I hid myself from thee,
I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou
hast sat, there sat I also.
With thee have I wandered about in the re-
motest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that
voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden,
all the worst and the furthest: and if there be any-
thing of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear
of any prohibition.
With thee have I broken up whatever my heart
revered; all boundary-stones and statues have I
o'erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I
pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and
worths and in great names. When the devil
casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away?
It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin.
'Nothing is true, all is permitted': so said I to
myself. Into the coldest water did I plunge with
head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand there
naked on that account, like a red crab!
Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my
shame and all my belief in the good! Ah, where
is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the
innocence of the good and of their noble lies!
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of
truth: then did it kick me on the face. Some-
times I meant to lie, and behold! then only did
I hit—the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me: now it
doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth



## p. 335 (#501) ############################################

LXIX. —THE SHADOW. 335
any longer that I love,—how should I still love
myself?
'To live as I incline, or not to live at all': so do
I wish; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas!
how have / still—inclination?
Have /—still a goal? A haven towards which my
sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth
whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and
a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and
flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a
broken backbone.
This seeking for my home: O Zarathustra, dost
thou know that this seeking hath been my home-
sickening; it eateth me up.
'Where is—my home? ' For it do I ask and
seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O
eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal
—in-vain! "
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's coun-
tenance lengthened at his words. "Thou art my
shadow ! " said he at last sadly.
"Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and
wanderer! Thou hast had a bad day: see that a
still worse evening doth not overtake thee!
To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last
even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how
captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they
enjoy their new security.
Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture
thee, a hard, rigorous delusion! For now every-


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334 THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA, IV.
After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and
hie longest; and though I hid myself from thee,
I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou
hast sat, there sat I also.
With thee have I wandered about in the re-
motest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that
voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.
With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden,
all the worst and the furthest: and if there be any-
thing of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear
of any prohibition.
With thee have I broken up whatever my heart
revered; all boundary-stones and statues have I
o'erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I
pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go.
With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and
worths and in great names. When the devil
casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away?
It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin.
'Nothing is true, all is permitted': so said I to
myself. Into the coldest water did I plunge with
head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand there
naked on that account, like a red crab!
Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my
shame and all my belief in the good! Ah, where
is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the
innocence of the good and of their noble lies!
Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of
truth: then did it kick me on the face. Some-
times I meant to lie, and behold! then only did
I hit—the truth.
Too much hath become clear unto me: now it
doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth



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LXIX. —THE SHADOW. 335
any longer that I love,—how should I still love
myself?
'To live as I incline, or not to live at all': so do
I wish; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas!
how have / still—inclination?
Have /—still a goal? A haven towards which my
sail is set?
A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth
whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and
a fair wind for him.
What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and
flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a
broken backbone.
This seeking for my home: O Zarathustra, dost
thou know that this seeking hath been my home-
sickening; it eateth me up.
'Where is—my home? ' For it do I ask and
seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O
eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal
—in-vain! "
Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra's coun-
tenance lengthened at his words.