Thus Spoke Zarathustra

by Friedrich Nietzsche

  The self says to the “I”: “Feel pleasure!” At that it is pleased, and thinks how it might often be pleased again-and for that very purpose it is made to think.

  I want to speak to the despisers of the body. It is their respect that produces their contempt. What is it that created respect and contempt and worth and will?

  The creating self created respect and contempt, it created pleasure and pain. The creative body created spirit as a hand for its will.

  Even in your folly and contempt you each serve your self, you despisers of the body. I tell you, your self itself wants to die and turns away from life.

  No longer can your self do that which it desires most:-to create beyond itself. That is what it would do above all else; that is its fervent desire.

  But it is now too late to do so:-so your self wants to go under, you despisers of the body.

  To go under—so wishes your self; and therefore you have become despisers of the body. For you can no longer create beyond yourselves.

  And therefore now you are angry with life and with the earth. An unconscious envy is in the squint-eyed glance of your contempt.

  I shall not go your way, you despisers of the body! You are no bridge to the Übermensch!—

  Thus spoke Zarathustra.

  ON ENJOYING AND SUFFERING THE PASSIONS

  MY BROTHER, WHEN YOU have a virtue, and she is your own virtue, you have her in common with no one.

  To be sure, you want to call her by name and caress her; you want to pull her ear and have fun with her.

  And behold, now you have her name in common with the people, and have become one of the people and the herd with your virtue!

  You would do better to say: “Ineffable and nameless is that which is agony and sweetness to my soul and is even the hunger of my entrails.”

  Let your virtue be too exalted for the familiarity of names, and if you must speak of her, then do not be ashamed to stammer about her.

  Then speak and stammer: “This is my good, this do I love, thus does it please me entirely, thus only do I desire the good.

  “I do not want it as a divine law; I do not want it as a human law or a human need; it shall not to be signpost for me to over-earths and paradises.

  “It is an earthly virtue that I love: there is little prudence in it, and least of all the reason of every man.

  “But this bird built its nest with me: therefore, I love and caress it-now it dwells with me, sitting on its golden eggs.”

  Thus you shall stammer and praise your virtue.

  Once you suffered passions and called them evil. But now you have only your virtues left: they grew out of your passions.

  You commended your highest aim to the heart of these passions: then they became the virtues and passions you enjoy.

  And whether you came from the race of the choleric or the voluptuous or the fanatic or the vindictive:

  All your passions in the end became virtues, and all your devils angels.

  Once you had wild dogs in your cellar: but they changed at last into birds and charming singers.

  Out of your poisons you brewed your balsam; you milked your cow, misery—now you drink the sweet milk of her udder.

  And nothing evil grows in you any longer, unless it is the evil that grows out of the conflict of your virtues.

  My brother, if you are fortunate, then you will have only one virtue and no more: thus you will go more easily over the bridge.

  It is illustrious to have many virtues, but a hard lot; and many have gone into the desert and killed themselves, because they were weary of being the battle and battlefield of virtues.

  My brother, are war and battle evil? But this evil is necessary; necessary are the envy and mistrust and calumny among the virtues.

  Behold, how each of your virtues covets the highest place; each wants your whole spirit that it might become her herald, each wants your whole strength, in wrath, hatred, and love.

  Each virtue is jealous of the others, and jealousy is a dreadful thing. Virtues too can perish of jealousy.

  Surrounded by the flames of jealousy, the jealous one winds up, like the scorpion, turning the poisoned sting against himself.

  Ah, my brother, have you never seen a virtue backbite and stab itself?

  Man is something that has to be overcome: and therefore you will love your virtues,-for you will perish of them.

  Thus spoke Zarathustra.

  ON THE PALE CRIMINAL

  You DO NOT WANT to kill, you judges and sacrificers, until the animal has nodded? Behold, the pale criminal has nodded: out of his eyes speaks the great contempt.

  “My ‘I’ is something that shall be overcome: to me my ‘I’ is the great contempt of man”: so it speaks out of that eye.

  When he judged himself—that was his supreme moment; do not the sublime relapse again into his baseness!

  There is no salvation for him who thus suffers from himself, unless it is speedy death.

  Your slaying, you judges, shall be pity, and not revenge; and as you kill, see to it that you yourselves justify life!

  It is not enough that you should reconcile with him whom you kill. Let your sorrow be love of the Übermensch: thus you will justify your own survival!

  “Enemy” you shall say but not “villain,” “sick” you shall say but not “wretch,” “fool” you shall say but not “sinner.”

  And you, red judge, if you would say aloud all you have done in thought, then everyone would cry: “Away with this filth and this poisonous worm!”

  But the thought is one thing, the deed another, and the image of the deed still another. The wheel of causality does not roll between them.

  An image made this pale man pale. He was equal to his deed when he did it, but he could not endure its image after it was done.

  Now he always saw himself as the doer of one deed. Madness, I call this: the exception became the essence for him.

  A streak of chalk stops a hen; the stroke he himself struck stopped his weak reason-madness after the deed I call this.

  Listen, you judges! There is yet another madness, and it comes before the deed. Ah, you have not yet crept deep enough into this soul!

  Thus speaks the red judge: “Why did this criminal commit murder? He meant to rob.” I tell you, however, that his soul wanted blood, not robbery: he thirsted for the bliss of the knife!

  But his poor reason did not understand this madness, and it persuaded him. “What matters blood!” it said; “don’t you want, at least, to commit a robbery with it? Or take revenge?”

  And he listened to his poor reason: its words lay upon him like lead-so he robbed when he murdered. He did not want to be ashamed of his madness.

  And now once more the lead of his guilt lies upon him, and once more his poor reason is so stiff, so paralyzed, so heavy.

  If only he could shake his head, then his burden would roll off; but who shakes that head?

  What is this man? A pile of diseases that reach out into the world through the spirit; there they want to catch their prey.

  What is this man? A coil of wild serpents that are seldom at peace among themselves-so they go forth singly and seek prey in the world.

  Look at that poor body! What it suffered and craved, the poor soul interpreted to itself-it interpreted it as murderous lust and greed for the bliss of the knife.

  Those who fall sick today are overcome by that evil which is evil today: he seeks to hurt with that which hurts him. But there have been other ages and another evil and good.

  Once doubt was evil, and the will to self. Then the sick became heretics or witches; as heretics or witches they suffered and sought to inflict suffering.

  But this will not go in your ears; it hurts your good people, you tell me. But what do your good people matter to me!

  Much in your good people nauseates me, and truly, it is not their evil. Indeed, I wish they had a madness by which they might perish like this pale criminal!

  Truly, I wish their madness were called t
ruth or fidelity or justice: but they have their virtue in order to live long and in wretched contentment.

  I am a railing by the torrent; grasp me, those who can grasp me! Your crutch, however, I am not.—

  Thus spoke Zarathustra.

  ON READING AND WRITING

  OF ALL THAT IS written I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will find that blood is spirit.

  It is no easy task to understand strange blood; I hate those readers who idle.

  Whoever knows the reader, does nothing more for the reader. Another century of readers-and spirit itself will stink.

  That every one may learn to read in the long run corrupts not only writing but also thinking.

  Once the spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becomes herd.

  Whoever writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read but to be learned by heart.

  In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that one must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks, and those who are addressed, tall and lofty.

  The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a gay malice: these go well together.

  I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. The courage that scares away ghosts creates goblins for itself—courage wants to laugh.

  I no longer feel as you do; the cloud which I see beneath me, this blackness and gravity at which I laugh-that is your thunder-cloud.

  You look up when you long for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated.

  Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time?

  Whoever climbs on the highest mountains laughs at all tragic plays and tragic seriousness.

  Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent-thus wisdom wants us: she is a woman and always loves only a warrior.

  You tell me, “Life is hard to bear.” But why would you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening?

  Life is hard to bear: but do not pretend to be so delicate! We are all of us fine beasts of burden, male and female asses.

  What do we have in common with the rosebud, which trembles because a drop of dew lies on it?

  It is true: we love life, not because we are used to living, but because we are used to loving.

  There is always some madness in love. But there is always also some reason in madness.

  And to me also, as I am well disposed toward life, butterflies and soap bubbles and whatever among men is of their kind seem to know most about happiness.

  To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little souls flutter—that seduces Zarathustra to tears and songs.

  I would believe only in a god who could dance.

  And when I saw my devil I found him serious, thorough, profound, and solemn: he was the spirit of gravity—through him all things fall.

  Not by wrath does one kill but by laughter. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!

  I learned to walk: ever since, I let myself run. I learned to fly: ever since, I do not want a push before moving along.

  Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.

  Thus spoke Zarathustra.

  ON THE TREE ON THE MOUNTAIN

  ZARATHUSTRA’S EYE HAD OBSERVED that a youth avoided him. And as he walked alone one evening over the hills surrounding the town called “The Motley Cow”: behold, there he found the youth sitting leaning against a tree and gazing wearily into the valley. Zarathustra laid hold of the tree under which the youth was sitting and spoke thus:

  “If I wished to shake this tree with my hands I should not be able to do so.

  “But the wind, which does not see, tortures and bends it in whatever direction it pleases. We are bent and tortured worst by invisible hands.”

  At that the youth arose in consternation and said: “I hear Zarathustra, and just now was I thinking of him.” Zarathustra answered:

  “Why should that frighten you?-But it is the same with man as with the tree.

  “The more he seeks to rise into the height and light, the more vigorously do his roots struggle earthward, downward, into the dark, the deep-into evil.”

  “Yes, into evil!” cried the youth. “How is it possible that you discovered my soul?”

  Zarathustra smiled and said: “Some souls one will never discover, unless one invents them first.”

  “Yes, into evil!” the youth cried once more.

  “You have spoken the truth, Zarathustra. I no longer trust myself since I sought to rise into the height, and nobody trusts me any longer; how did this happen?

  “I change too quickly: my today refutes my yesterday. I often skip steps when I climb: no step forgives me that.

  “When I am at the top I always find myself alone. No one speaks to me, the frost of solitude makes me tremble. What do I seek on the height?

  “My contempt and my longing increase together; the higher I climb, the more I despise the climber. What does he seek on the height?

  “How ashamed I am of my climbing and stumbling! How I mock at my violent panting! How I hate the flier! How tired I am on the height!”

  Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside which they stood and spoke thus:

  “This tree stands lonely here in the mountains; it grew high above man and beast.

  “And if it wanted to speak it would have none who could understand it: so high has it grown.

  “Now it waits and waits-for what is it waiting? It dwells too close to the seat of the clouds: surely it waits for the first lightning?”

  When Zarathustra had said this the youth called out with violent gestures: “Yes, Zarathustra, you speak the truth. I longed to go under when I desired to be on the height, and you are the lightning for which I waited! Behold, what am I since you have appeared among us? It is the envy of you that has destroyed me!”—Thus spoke the youth and wept bitterly. But Zarathustra put his arm about him and led the youth away with him.

  And when they had walked a while together, Zarathustra began to speak thus:

  It tears my heart. Better than your words express it, your eyes tell me of all your dangers.

  As yet you are not free; you still search for freedom. Your search has made you overtired and over awake.

  You want the free heights, your soul thirsts for the stars. But your wicked drives also thirst for freedom.

  Your wild dogs want freedom; they bark for joy in their cellar when your spirit plans to open all prisons.

  To me you are still a prisoner who is plotting his freedom: ah, in such prisoners the soul becomes clever, but also deceitful and bad.

  And even the liberated spirit must still purify himself. Much prison and mustiness still remain in him: his eyes must still become pure.

  Yes, I know your danger. But by my love and hope I beseech you: do not throw away your love and hope!

  You still feel noble, and others too sense your nobility, though they bear you a grudge and send you evil glances. Know that the noble one stands in everybody’s way.

  The noble one stands in the way of the good too: and even when they call him one of the good, they thus want to do away with him.

  The noble man wants to create something new and a new virtue. The good want the old, and that the old should be preserved.

  But this is not the danger of the noble man, that he might become one of the good, but a know-it-all, a mocker, a destroyer.

  Ah, I have known noble ones who lost their highest hope. And then they disparaged all high hopes.

  Then they lived shamelessly in brief pleasures and barely cast their aims beyond the day.

  “Spirit too is lust”—so they said. Then the wings of their spirit broke: and now their spirit creeps about and soils what it gnaws.

  Once they thought of becoming heroes: now they are voluptuaries. The hero is for them an offense and a terror.

  But by my love and hope I beseech you: do not throw away the hero in your soul! Hold holy your hi
ghest hope!—

  Thus spoke Zarathustra.

  ON THE PREACHERS OF DEATH

  THERE ARE PREACHERS OF death: and the earth is full of those to whom one must preach renunciation of life.

  The earth is full of the superfluous; life is marred by the all-too-many. May they be lured out of this life by the “eternal life”!

  The preachers of death wear yellow or black. But I want to show them to you in other colors as well.

  There are the terrible ones who carry about in themselves the beast of prey and have no choice except lust or self-laceration. And even their lust is still self-laceration.

  They have not yet become men, those terrible ones: let them preach renunciation from life and pass away themselves!

  There are those with consumption of the soul: hardly are they born when they begin to die and to long for teachings of weariness and renunciation.

  They would like to be dead and we should welcome their wish! Let us beware of waking those dead ones and of disturbing those living coffins!

  They meet a sick man or an old man or a corpse-and immediately they say: “Life is refuted!”

  But only they themselves are refuted, and their eyes, which see only one aspect of existence.

  Shrouded in thick melancholy and eager for the little accidents that bring death: thus they wait and grind their teeth.

  Or else they reach for sweets while laughing at their own childishness : they clutch at the straws of their lives and make fun of their still clutching straws.

  Their wisdom speaks thus: “Only a fool remains alive, but such fools are we! And that is surely the most foolish thing about life!”

  “Life is only suffering”—so say others, and do not lie: see to it then that you cease! See to it then that the life which is only suffering ceases!

  And let this be the teaching of your virtue: “Thou shalt kill yourself! Thou shalt steal away from thyself!”—