Thus Spake Zarathustra — Friedrich Nietzsche

Thus Spake Zarathustra

Friedrich Nietzsche · License: Public domain · Source

• Verily, in broad daylight did he fall asleep, the sluggard! Had he perhaps chased butterflies too much? ¶1366
• Upbraid me not, ye beautiful dancers, when I chasten the little God somewhat! He will cry, certainly, and weep--but he is laughable even when weeping! ¶1367
• And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a dance; and I myself will sing a song to his dance: ¶1368
• A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity my supremest, powerfulest devil, who is said to be "lord of the world."-- ¶1369
• And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when Cupid and the maidens danced together: ¶1370
• Of late did I gaze into thine eye, O Life! And into the unfathomable did I there seem to sink. ¶1371
• But thou pulledst me out with a golden angle; derisively didst thou laugh when I called thee unfathomable. ¶1372
• "Such is the language of all fish," saidst thou; "what THEY do not fathom is unfathomable. ¶1373
• But changeable am I only, and wild, and altogether a woman, and no virtuous one: ¶1374
• Though I be called by you men the 'profound one,' or the 'faithful one,' 'the eternal one,' 'the mysterious one.' ¶1375
• But ye men endow us always with your own virtues--alas, ye virtuous ones!" ¶1376
• Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but never do I believe her and her laughter, when she speaketh evil of herself. ¶1377
• And when I talked face to face with my wild Wisdom, she said to me angrily: "Thou willest, thou cravest, thou lovest; on that account alone dost thou PRAISE Life!" ¶1378
• Then had I almost answered indignantly and told the truth to the angry one; and one cannot answer more indignantly than when one "telleth the truth" to one's Wisdom. ¶1379
• For thus do things stand with us three. In my heart do I love only Life--and verily, most when I hate her! ¶1380
• But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too fond, is because she remindeth me very strongly of Life! ¶1381
• She hath her eye, her laugh, and even her golden angle-rod: am I responsible for it that both are so alike? ¶1382
• And when once Life asked me: "Who is she then, this Wisdom?"--then said I eagerly: "Ah, yes! Wisdom! ¶1383
• One thirsteth for her and is not satisfied, one looketh through veils, one graspeth through nets. ¶1384
• Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured by her. ¶1385
• Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and pass the comb against the grain of her hair. ¶1386
• Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she speaketh ill of herself, just then doth she seduce most." ¶1387
• When I had said this unto Life, then laughed she maliciously, and shut her eyes. "Of whom dost thou speak?" said she. "Perhaps of me? ¶1388
• And if thou wert right--is it proper to say THAT in such wise to my face! But now, pray, speak also of thy Wisdom!" ¶1389
• Ah, and now hast thou again opened thine eyes, O beloved Life! And into the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink.-- ¶1390
• Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had departed, he became sad. ¶1391
• "The sun hath been long set," said he at last, "the meadow is damp, and from the forest cometh coolness. ¶1392
• An unknown presence is about me, and gazeth thoughtfully. What! Thou livest still, Zarathustra? ¶1393
• Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Whither? Where? How? Is it not folly still to live?-- ¶1394
• Ah, my friends; the evening is it which thus interrogateth in me. Forgive me my sadness! ¶1395
• Evening hath come on: forgive me that evening hath come on!" ¶1396
• "Yonder is the grave-island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves of my youth. Thither will I carry an evergreen wreath of life." ¶1399
• Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o'er the sea.-- ¶1400
• Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all ye gleams of love, ye divine fleeting gleams! How could ye perish so soon for me! I think of you to-day as my dead ones. ¶1401
• From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto me a sweet savour, heart-opening and melting. Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart of the lone seafarer. ¶1402
• Still am I the richest and most to be envied--I, the lonesomest one! For I HAVE POSSESSED you, and ye possess me still. Tell me: to whom hath there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen unto me? ¶1403
• Still am I your love's heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O ye dearest ones! ¶1404
• Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each other, ye kindly strange marvels; and not like timid birds did ye come to me and my longing--nay, but as trusting ones to a trusting one! ¶1405
• Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities, must I now name you by your faithlessness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams: no other name have I yet learnt. ¶1406
• Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives. Yet did ye not flee from me, nor did I flee from you: innocent are we to each other in our faithlessness. ¶1407

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