Thus Spake Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche, trans. Thomas Common is a publication of the. Pennsylvania State University. This Portable Document file is. Download Thus Spoke Zarathustra free in PDF & EPUB format. Download FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE's Thus Spoke Zarathustra for your kindle. Zarathustra, the Laughing Prophet: Talks on Friedrich Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra (v. 2) Thus Spoke Zarathustra F. Nietzsche - National Vanguard.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Japanese|
|Genre:||Health & Fitness|
|ePub File Size:||15.67 MB|
|PDF File Size:||8.62 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Regsitration Required]|
Title Page. THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA by Friedrich Nietzsche. Based on the Thomas Common Translation. Extensively modified by Bill Chapko. CONTENTS. Thus Spoke Zarathustra by F. Nietzsche ebook cover download free PDF Ebook here Thus spoke Zarathustra is the classic full-text work by. THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA by Friedrich Nietzsche. An Adaptation. Based on the Thomas Common Translation. PLEASE NOTE: This HTML page is an.
This commentary by chapter is unparalleled in revealing the complex creative process behind Zarathustra, and though preachy at times, it subjects both Nietzsche and his creation to an anthropological approach that only Jung could present. But I am mistrustful of your bitch. The events that are narrated are also clearly tied to the question of what it means for Zarathustra to have a teaching, to try to impart it to an audience suffering in this unusual way, suffering from complacency or dead desire. But one day this soil will be poor and tame, and no tall tree will be able to grow from it anymore. Perhaps I am a buffoon. I love him who desireth not too many virtues.
It again suggests that what in other contexts he could call the prob- lem of nihilism is not so much the result of some discovery, a new piece of knowledge that God is dead, or that values are ungrounded, contingent psychological projections , nor merely a fearful failure of will, a failing that requires the rhetoric of courage, a call to a new kind of strength. As noted, the problem Zarathustra confronts seems to be a failure of desire; nobody wants what he is offering, and they seem to want very little other than a rather bovine version of happiness.
The events that are narrated are also clearly tied to the question of what it means for Zarathustra to have a teaching, to try to impart it to an audience suffering in this unusual way, suffering from complacency or dead desire.
Human being is something that must be overcome. There are manifold ways and means of overcoming: But only a jester thinks: We come closer here to the parodic elements of the text; in this case a kind of self-parody. Indeed, he had helped create the illusion he wants to dispel. He now denies that he, Zarathustra, is a historical or revolutionary figure who will somehow save all of us from this fate, and he denies that the overman is a historical goal in the way a prophet would foretell the coming of the redeemer but a personal and quite elusive, very difficult new kind of ideal for each individual.
In this sense TSZ can be a book for all, for anyone who is responsive to the call to self-overcoming, but for none, in the sense that it cannot offer a comprehensive reason for anyone to overcome themselves and cannot offer specific prescriptions. He is clearly pulling back from such a role: But so that I do not whirl, my friends, bind me fast to the pillar here! I would rather be a stylite than a whirlwind of revenge! Spirit is life that itself cuts into life; by its own agony it increases its own knowledge — did you know that?
And the happiness of spirit is this: Paradoxical to say the least formulations arise. And he notes that he has learned three things about this process. There, in this heartland, he again confronts the problem he had discussed earlier in many different ways, the wrong sort of self-contempt, the absence of any arrows shot beyond man, no giving birth to stars, the bovine complacency of the last human beings. He asks again, that is, the question: That I must be struggle and becoming and purpose and the contra- diction of purposes — alas, whoever guesses my will guesses also on what crooked paths it must walk!
Whatever I may create and however I may love it — soon I must oppose it and my love, thus my will wants it. All aspirations to be more, better than one is, if they are possible at all in present conditions, are provisional, will always give rise to further trans- formed aspirations. And it is not at all clear that this issue is in any way resolved, or that a resolution is even relevant.
Two other things are quite striking about these formulations. The first, as the autobiographical inflection of such passages makes clear, is that we have to see Zarathustra as embodying this struggle, and thus must note that this possibility — the heart of everything, the possibility of self- overcoming — seems thereby also tied somehow to his problems of rhetoric, language, of audience, friends, his own loneliness, and occasional bitter- ness and pity.
Some condition of success in self-overcoming is linked to achieving the right relation to others and so, by implication, is inconsis- tent with a hermit-like, isolated life. The second emerges quickly from the first. We have to note that Zarathustra, as the embodiment of this struggle, whatever this relation to others turns out to be, is completely uninterested in gaining power over others, subjecting as much or as many as possible to his control or command.
Self-commanding and, dialectically, self-obeying are the great problems. In fact he keeps insisting that the last thing he wants is the ability to command them. Even when he appears to discuss serving or mastering others, he treats it as in the service of self-mastery and so again possible self-overcoming.
Many philosophical questions arise inevitably. How could this aspiration towards something believed to be higher or more worthy than what one is or has now be directed, if all the old language of external or objective forms of normative authority is now impossible?
Higher in what sense?
What could be said to be responsible for relied on for securing this obedience, for helping to ward off skepticism when it arises? Under what conditions can such commitments and projects be said to lose their grip on a subject, fail, or die? In general Zarathustra does not fully accept the burden of these ques- tions as ones he must assume.
And given the great indeterminateness of his approach, he is clearly much more interested in the qualitative characteristics of such commitments than with their content.
The quality he is most interested in turns out to be extremely complex: And, as we have been seeing, he also clearly thinks or he experiences in his own adventures that only some kinds of relations to others are consistent with the possibility of such genuine self-direction.
Merely commanding others, discipleship, indifference, or isolation are all ruled out. Since we also do not ever get from Nietzsche a discursive account of what distinguishes a genuine form of self-direction and self-overcoming from an illusory or self-deceived one whatever such a distinction amounts to, it is not of the kind that could be helped, would be better realized, by such a theory , elements of how he understands that distinction emerge only indirectly and, together with a clearer understanding of self-overcoming and the social relations it requires, would all have to be reconstructed from a wide variety of contexts and passages.
In typically figurative language he explains the source of his despair in a way that suggests a kind of self-critique.
Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror? Or an inheritor? An autumn? Or a plow? A physician? Or a convalescent? Is he a poet? Or a truthful man?
A liberator? Or a tamer? A good man? Or an evil man? I walk among human beings as among fragments of the future; the future that I see. We are obviously very far from being able to see him as a spokesman for Nietzsche.
It is in this struggle that he realizes that the way in which the meaning of the absence of historical revolution or redemption is lived out or embodied in a life is not something that can be easily read off from the mere doctrine itself. There is no clear, unavoidable inference either to despair, indifference, or affirmation.
His disciples are not dense or merely mistaken; they are simply trying to understand what Zarathustra means. The parodic return of his own words is thus the heart of his tragedy.
He re-encounters the soothsayer but one cannot see in their confrontation that anything decisive is settled. It is especially self-parodic when all these so-called higher types end up worshipping a jackass, presumably because the ass can at least make a sound that articulates what all have been seek- ing, a mode of affirmation and commitment. The ass can say Hee-yaw, that is, ja, or Yes! So we end with the same problem.
Hollingdale, ed. Daniel Breazeale Cambridge: But by this point we are experiencing as readers our own eternal return, the cycle of hope and despair, descent and return, sociality and isolation, love and contempt, parable and parody, lower and higher, earth and heaven, snake and eagle, that we have been reading about throughout.
The question is oriented from the now familiar assumptions: Given such assumptions, the question is whether the self-overcoming Zarathustra encourages, the desire for some greater or better form of self-direction, assuming the full burden of leading a life, is practically possible, from the lived viewpoint of the agent.
His plan? How does he want us to live? Jung at the university of Zurich. For decades the unpub- lished notes of this seminar circulated in photocopy among the Nietzsche underground at various universities until finally they were edited and published by James L.
This commentary by chapter is unparalleled in revealing the complex creative process behind Zarathustra, and though preachy at times, it subjects both Nietzsche and his creation to an anthropological approach that only Jung could present.
More recent commentaries devoted exclusively to Zarathustra and lim- ited to a single volume are extremely useful as well. Stanley Rosen, in The Mask of Enlightenment: An Anthology about the Writing and Reading of Philosophy, ed.
Berel Lang Chicago: Michael Allen Gillespie and Tracy B. Strong Chicago and London: John Lippit St. There are also several books that deal substantially with Zarathus- tra while not attempting to provide running commentary on chapter and verse. The debate concerning poetry vs. Their edition and their Kritische Studien- ausgabe in fifteen volumes Berlin: The spacing and versification of the original are preserved in this edition.
Here he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude and for ten years he did not tire of it. But at last his heart transformed, — one morning he arose with the dawn, stepped before the sun and spoke thus to it: What would your happiness be if you had not those for whom you shine?
For ten years you have come up here to my cave: But we awaited you every morning, took your overflow from you and blessed you for it. I am weary of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey.
I need hands that reach out. I want to bestow and distribute until the wise among human beings have once again enjoyed their folly, and the poor once again their wealth. For this I must descend into the depths, as you do evenings when you go behind the sea and bring light even to the underworld, you super-rich star!
So bless me now, you quiet eye that can look upon even an all too great happiness without envy! Bless the cup that wants to flow over, such that water flows golden from it and everywhere carries the reflection of your bliss! This cup wants to become empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become human again. In setting or going down the sun marks a transition.
But when he came to the woods suddenly an old man stood before him, who had left his saintly hut in search of roots in the woods. And thus spoke the old man to Zarathustra: Zarathustra he was called; but he is transformed. Back then you carried your ashes to the mountain: Yes, I recognize Zarathustra.
His eyes are pure, and no disgust is visible around his mouth. Does he not stride like a dancer? Zarathustra is transformed, Zarathustra has become a child, an awakened one is Zarathustra. What do you want now among the sleepers? You lived in your solitude as if in the sea, and the sea carried you. Alas, you want to climb ashore? Alas, you want to drag your own body again? Was it not because I loved mankind all too much? Now I love God: Human beings are too imperfect a thing for me.
Love for human beings would kill me. I bring mankind a gift. And if you want to give to them, then give nothing more than alms, and make them beg for that too! For that I am not poor enough. They are mistrustful of hermits and do not believe that we come to give gifts. And if at night lying in their beds they hear a man walking outside, long before the sun rises, they probably ask themselves: Do not go to mankind and stay in the woods!
Go even to the animals instead! Why do you not want to be like me — a bear among bears, a bird among birds? The saint answered: With singing, weeping, laughing and growling I praise the god who is my god. But tell me, what do you bring us as a gift? But let me leave quickly before I take something from you!
But when Zarathustra was alone he spoke thus to his heart: This old saint in his woods has not yet heard the news that God is dead! And Zarathustra spoke thus to the people: What have you done to overcome him? All creatures so far created something beyond themselves; and you want to be the ebb of this great flood and would even rather go back to animals than overcome humans?
A laughing stock or a painful embarrass- ment. And that is precisely what the human shall be to the overman: You have made your way from worm to human, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now a human is still more ape than any ape. But whoever is wisest among you is also just a conflict and a cross between plant and ghost. But do I implore you to become ghosts or plants?
Behold, I teach you the overman! The overman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: I beseech you, my brothers, remain faithful to the earth and do not believe those who speak to you of extraterrestrial hopes! They are mixers of poisons whether they know it or not.
They are despisers of life, dying off and self-poisoned, of whom the earth is weary: Once the sacrilege against God was the greatest sacrilege, but God died, and then all these desecrators died. Now to desecrate the earth is the most terrible thing, and to esteem the bowels of the unfathomable higher than the meaning of the earth! Once the soul gazed contemptuously at the body, and then such con- tempt was the highest thing: Thus it intended to escape the body and the earth.
Oh this soul was gaunt, ghastly and starved, and cruelty was the lust of this soul! But you, too, my brothers, tell me: Is your soul not poverty and filth and a pitiful content- ment? Truly, mankind is a polluted stream. One has to be a sea to take in a polluted stream without becoming unclean.
Behold, I teach you the overman: What is the greatest thing that you can experience? It is the hour of your great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness turns to nausea and likewise your reason and your virtue. The hour in which you say: It is poverty and filth, and a pitiful contentment. But my happiness ought to justify existence itself! Does it crave knowledge like the lion its food? It is poverty and filth and a pitiful contentment! It has not yet made me rage.
How weary I am of my good and my evil! That is all poverty and filth and a pitiful contentment! I do not see that I am ember and coal. But the just person is ember and coal! Is pity not the cross on which he is nailed who loves humans? But my pity is no crucifixion. Have you yet cried out thus? Oh that I might have heard you cry out thus! Not your sin — your modesty cries out to high heaven, your stinginess even in sinning cries out to high heaven! Where is the lightning that would lick you with its tongue?
Where is the madness with which you should be inoculated? But the tightrope walker, believing that these words concerned him, got down to his work. Then he spoke thus: A dangerous crossing, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking back, a dangerous shuddering and standing still.
What is great about human beings is that they are a bridge and not a purpose: I love those who do not know how to live unless by going under, for they are the ones who cross over. I love the great despisers, because they are the great venerators and arrows of longing for the other shore. I love the one who lives in order to know, and who wants to know so that one day the overman may live. And so he wants his going under. I love the one who works and invents in order to build a house for the overman and to prepare earth, animals and plants for him: I love the one who loves his virtue: I love the one who does not hold back a single drop of spirit for himself, but wants instead to be entirely the spirit of his virtue: I love the one who makes of his virtue his desire and his doom: I love the one who does not want to have too many virtues.
One virtue is more virtue than two, because it is more of a hook on which his doom may hang. I love the one whose soul squanders itself, who wants no thanks and gives none back: I love the one who casts golden words before his deeds and always does even more than he promises: I love the one who justifies people of the future and redeems those of the past: I love the one who chastises his god, because he loves his god: I love the one whose soul is deep even when wounded, and who can perish of a small experience: I love the one whose soul is overfull, so that he forgets himself, and all things are in him: Whenever possible, these passages will be translated using the phrasing of the Bible.
For drafts and alternative versions of the various chapters, biblical references, and other references see vol.
I love all those who are like heavy drops falling individually from the dark cloud that hangs over humanity: Behold, I am a herald of the lightning and a heavy drop from the cloud: Must one first smash their ears so that they learn to hear with their eyes? Must one rattle like kettle drums and penitence preachers?
Or do they believe only a stutterer? They have something of which they are proud. And what do they call that which makes them proud? Education they call it, it distinguishes them from goatherds.
So I shall address their pride instead.
Thus I shall speak to them of the most contemptible person: It is time that mankind plant the seed of their highest hope. Their soil is still rich enough for this. But one day this soil will be poor and tame, and no tall tree will be able to grow from it anymore. I say to you: The time of the most contemptible human is coming, the one who can no longer have contempt for himself. I show you the last human being.
What is creation? What is longing? What is a star? Then the earth has become small, and on it hops the last human being, who makes everything small.
His kind is ineradicable, like the flea beetle; the last human being lives longest. They abandoned the regions where it was hard to live: Becoming ill and being mistrustful are considered sinful by them: A fool who still stumbles over stones or humans!
A bit of poison once in a while; that makes for pleasant dreams. And much poison at the end, for a pleasant death. One still works, for work is a form of entertainment. But one sees to it that the entertainment is not a strain. One no longer becomes poor and rich: Who wants to rule anymore?
Who wants to obey anymore? Both are too bur- densome. No shepherd and one herd! Each wants the same, each is the same, and whoever feels differently goes voluntarily into the insane asylum. One is clever and knows everything that has happened, and so there is no end to their mockery. People still quarrel but they reconcile quickly — otherwise it is bad for the stomach. Then we will make you a gift of the overman!
But Zarathustra grew sad and said to his heart: I am not the mouth for these ears. Too long apparently I lived in the mountains, too much I listened to brooks and trees: But they believe I am cold, that I jeer, that I deal in terrible jests.
And now they look at me and laugh, and in laughing they hate me too. There is ice in their laughter. For in the meantime the tightrope walker had begun his work; he had emerged from a little door and was walking across the rope stretched between two towers, such that it hung suspended over the market place and the people. Just as he was at the midpoint of his way, the little door opened once again and a colorful fellow resembling a jester leaped forth and hurried after the first man with quick steps.
What business have you here between the towers? You belong in the tower, you should be locked away in the tower, for you block the way for one who is better than you! But when he was only one step behind him, the terrifying thing occurred that struck every mouth silent and forced all eyes to stare: This man, seeing his rival triumph in this manner, lost his head and the rope.
He threw away his pole and plunged into the depths even faster than his pole, like a whirlwind of arms and legs. The market place and the people resembled the sea when a storm charges in: But Zarathustra stood still and the body landed right beside him, badly beaten and broken, but not yet dead. After a while the shattered man regained consciousness and saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. Now he is going to drag me off to hell: There is no devil and no hell.
Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body — fear no more! I am not much more than an animal that has been taught to dance by blows and little treats. Now you perish of your vocation, and for that I will bury you with my own hands. The people scattered, for even curiosity and terror grow weary. But Zarathustra sat beside the dead man on the ground and was lost in thought, such that he lost track of time. Night came at last and a cold wind blew over the lonely one.
Then Zarathustra stood up and said to his heart: No human being did he catch, but a corpse instead. Uncanny is human existence and still without meaning: For mankind I am still a midpoint between a fool and a corpse. The night is dark, the ways of Zarathustra are dark. Come, my cold and stiff companion! I shall carry you where I will bury you with my own hands. And he had not yet gone a hundred paces when someone sneaked up on him and whispered in his ear — and behold!
The one who spoke was the jester from the tower. The good and the just hate you and they call you their enemy and despiser; the believers of the true faith hate you and they call you the danger of the multitude. It was your good fortune that they laughed at you: It was your good fortune that you took up with the dead dog; when you lowered yourself like that, you rescued yourself for today. At the town gate he met the gravediggers. They shone their torches in his face, recognized Zarathustra and sorely ridiculed him.
For our hands are too pure for this roast. Would Zarathustra steal this morsel from the devil? So be it then! And good luck with your meal! If only the devil were not a better thief than Zarathustra! Zarathustra did not say a word and went on his way. By the time he had walked for two hours past woods and swamps, he had heard too much of the hungry howling of wolves and he grew hungry himself.
And so he stopped at a lonely house in which a light was burning. My hunger has odd moods. Often it comes to me only after a meal, and today it did not come the whole day: An old man appeared, bearing a light, and he asked: Whoever feeds the hungry quickens his own soul — thus speaks wisdom.
Beast and human being come to me, the hermit. But bid your companion eat and drink, he is wearier than you. Eat and take care! But as dawn greyed Zarathustra found himself in a deep wood and no more path was visible to him. And soon he fell asleep, weary in body but with a calm soul. At last, however, he opened his eyes: Then he stood up quickly, like a seafarer who all at once sees land, and he rejoiced, for he saw a new truth.
And thus he spoke to his heart: I need companions, and living ones — not dead companions and corpses that I carry with me wherever I want. Instead I need living companions who follow me because they want to follow themselves — wherever I want. It dawned on me: Zarathustra should not become the shepherd and dog of a herd! To lure many away from the herd — for that I came.
The people and herd shall be angry with me: Zarathustra wants to be called a robber by shepherds. Shepherds I say, but they call themselves the good and the just. Shep- herds I say: Look at the good and the just! Whom do they hate most? The one who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker — but he is the creative one.
Look at the faithful of all faiths! Companions the creative one seeks and not corpses, nor herds and believers. Fellow creators the creative one seeks, who will write new values on new tablets. Companions the creative one seeks, and fellow harvesters; for to him everything stands ready for harvest. But he lacks the hundred scythes, and so he plucks out spikes and is angry.
Companions the creative one seeks, and those who know how to whet their scythes. They shall be called annihilators and despisers of good and evil. But they are the harvesters and the celebrators. And you, my first companion, take care! I buried you well in your tree, I concealed you well from the wolves. But I am leaving you, the time is up. Between dawn and dawn a new truth came to me.
I shall not be a shepherd, nor a gravedigger. I do not want to even speak again with the people — for the last time have I spoken to a dead person. I shall join the creators, the harvesters, the celebrators: I shall show them the rainbow and all the steps to the overman. I shall sing my song to lonesome and twosome hermits, and for him who still has ears for the unheard of, I shall make his heart heavy with my happiness.
I want to go to my goal, and I go my own way; over the hesitating and dawdling I shall leap. Thus let my going be their going under! And behold! They want to determine whether Zarathustra is still alive. Indeed, am I still alive? I found it more dangerous among human beings than among animals; Zarathustra walks dangerous paths. May my animals guide me! May I be wise from the ground up like my snake! But I ask the impossible, and so I ask instead of my pride that it always walk with my wisdom!
To the spirit there is much that is heavy; to the strong, carrying spirit imbued with reverence. Its strength demands what is heavy and heaviest. What is heavy? It kneels down like a camel and wants to be well loaded.
What is heaviest, you heroes? Is it not this: Or is it this: Climbing high mountains in order to tempt the tempter? All of these heaviest things the carrying spirit takes upon itself, like a loaded camel that hurries into the desert, thus it hurries into its desert. But in the loneliest desert the second metamorphosis occurs. Here the spirit becomes lion, it wants to hunt down its freedom and be master in its own desert.
Here it seeks its last master, and wants to fight him and its last god. For victory it wants to battle the great dragon. The values of millennia gleam on these scales, and thus speaks the most powerful of all dragons: All value has already been created, and the value of all created things — that am I. My brothers, why is the lion required by the spirit?
Why does the beast of burden, renouncing and reverent, not suffice? To create new values — not even the lion is capable of that: To create freedom for oneself and also a sacred No to duty: To take the right to new values — that is the most terrible taking for a carrying and reverent spirit.
Indeed, it is preying, and the work of a predatory animal. The lion is required for this preying. But tell me, my brothers, of what is the child capable that even the lion is not? Why must the preying lion still become a child?
The child is innocence and forgetting, a new beginning, a game, a wheel rolling out of itself, a first movement, a sacred yes-saying. Yes, for the game of creation my brothers a sacred yes-saying is required. The spirit wants its will, the one lost to the world now wins its own world. Three metamorphoses of the spirit I named for you: And then he sojourned in the town which is called The Motley Cow. On the Teachers of Virtue A wise man was praised to Zarathustra who could speak well of sleep and of virtue.
Zarathustra went to him and sat at his feet with all the youths. And thus spoke the wise man: That is the first thing! And avoid all who sleep badly and remain awake nights! Even the thief is bashful toward sleep; he constantly steals through the night, silently. But the watchman of the night is shameless, and shame- lessly he carries his horn. Sleeping is no mean art, it is necessary to remain awake the entire day for it. Ten times a day you must overcome yourself, that makes for a good weariness and is poppy for the soul.
Ten times you must reconcile yourself again with yourself, for over- coming causes bitterness and the unreconciled sleep badly. Ten truths you must find by day, or else you will still be seeking truth by night and your soul will have remained hungry. Ten times you must laugh by day and be cheerful, or else your stomach will bother you at night, this father of gloom.
Few know it but one must have all the virtues in order to sleep well. Shall I bear false witness? Shall I commit adultery? All that would be incompatible with good sleep. And even when one has all the virtues, one must understand one more thing: So that they do not quarrel with each other, the good little women! And quarrel over you, wretch! At peace with God and neighbor, thus good sleep demands. Otherwise he will be at your house at night.
Honor the authorities and practice obedience, even toward the crooked authorities! Thus good sleep demands. What can I do about it that the powers like to walk on crooked legs? He shall always be the best shepherd in my view who leads his sheep to the greenest pasture; this is compatible with good sleep. I do not want many honors, nor great treasures — that inflames the spleen.
But sleep is bad without a good name and a little treasure. A little company is more welcome to me than evil company, but they must go and come at the right time, for this is compatible with good sleep. Blessed are they, especially when they are always told they are right. Thus passes the day for the virtuous one. Now when night comes I am careful not to summon sleep — the master of virtues does not like to be summoned!
Instead I think what I have done and thought throughout the day. Rumi- nating, I ask myself, patient as a cow; what then were my ten overcomings? And what were the ten reconciliations and the ten truths and the ten laughters to which my heart treated itself?
In this manner reflecting and rocked by forty thoughts, sleep suddenly falls upon me, the unsummoned, the master of virtues. Sleep knocks at my eyelids, and they become heavy. Sleeps brushes my mouth, and it stays open. Truly, on soft soles it comes to me, the dearest of thieves, and steals my thoughts: But then I am not standing for long, and soon I am lying. Happy the one who lives even near this wise man!
Such a sleep is infectious, and it infects even through a thick wall. In this teacher nothing less than magic resides, and not in vain did youths sit at the feet of this preacher of virtue. The meaning of his wisdom is: And truly, if life had no meaning and if I had to choose nonsense, then to me too this would be the worthiest nonsense I could choose.
Now I understand clearly what was once sought before all else when teachers of virtue were sought. Good sleep was sought and poppy- blossomed virtues to boot! For all these highly praised wise men and teachers wisdom was the sleep without dreams: And still today there are a few like this preacher of virtue, and some not so honest. Blessed are these sleepy ones, for they shall soon nod off.
At that time the world seemed to me the work of a suffering and tortured god. Then the world seemed a dream to me and the fiction of a god; colorful smoke before the eyes of a divine dissatisfied being. Good and evil and joy and suffering and I and you — colorful smoke it seemed to me before creative eyes.
The creator wanted to look away from himself and so he created the world. Drunken joy and losing-oneself the world once seemed to me. This world, the eternally imperfect, the mirror image and imperfect image of an eternal contradiction — a drunken joy to its imperfect creator: So I too once cast my delusion beyond humans, like all hinterworldly. Beyond humans in truth? Oh my brothers, this god that I created was of human make and mad- ness, like all gods! Human he was, and only a poor flake of human and ego.
From my own ash and ember it came to me, this ghost, and truly! It did not come to me from beyond! What happened, my brothers? I overcame myself, my suffering self, I carried my own ashes to the mountain, I invented a brighter flame for myself and behold!
The ghost shrank from me! Now it would be suffering and torture for the convalesced one to believe in such ghosts. Now it would be suffering and humiliation. Thus I speak to the hinterworldly.
It was suffering and incapacity that created all hinterworlds, and that brief madness of happiness that only the most suffering person experi- ences. Hintermann is a man behind the scenes, a secret advisor; Hintergedanken are secret thoughts or ulterior motives. Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the body — it probed with the fingers of a befooled spirit on the walls of the ultimate. It was the body that despaired of the earth — then it heard the belly of being speaking to it.
And the belly of being does not speak at all to humans, unless as a human.
Indeed, all being is hard to prove and hard to coax to speech. Tell me, my brothers, is not the strangest of all things still proven best? And this most honest being, this ego — it speaks of love and it still wants the body, even when it poetizes and fantasizes and flutters with broken wings. It learns to speak ever more honestly, this ego. And the more it learns, the more it finds words and honors for the body and the earth. My ego taught me a new pride, I teach it to mankind: I teach mankind a new will: It was the sick and the dying-out who despised the body and the earth and invented the heavenly and its redeeming drops of blood.
But even these sweet and shadowy poisons they took from the body and the earth! They wanted to escape their misery and the stars were too distant for them. But what did they have to thank for the fits and bliss of their detachment? Their body and this earth. Zarathustra is gentle to the sick. Indeed, he is not angered by their ways of comfort and ingratitude.
May they become convalescents and overcomers and create for themselves a higher body! Nor is he angered by the convalescent when he tenderly gazes upon his delusion and sneaks around the grave of his God at midnight. But to me even his tears remain sickness and sick body. There were always many sickly people among those who poetize and are addicted to God; with rage they hate the knowing ones and that youngest of virtues which is called honesty.
Backward they look always toward darker times, for then, truly, delusion and faith were another matter. Raving of reason was next to godliness, and doubting was sin. All too well I know these next-to-godliness types: All too well I know also what they themselves believe in most. Indeed, not in hinterworlds and redeeming blood drops, but instead they too believe most in the body, and their own body is to them their thing in itself.
But to them it is a sickly thing, and gladly would they jump out of their skin. Hence they listen to the preachers of death and they preach of hinterworlds themselves. Hear my brothers, hear the voice of the healthy body: More honestly and more purely speaks the healthy body, the perfect and perpendicular body, and it speaks of the meaning of the earth.
Thus spoke Zarathustra. On the Despisers of the Body To the despisers of the body I want to say my words. I do not think they should relearn and teach differently, instead they should bid their own bodies farewell — and thus fall silent. And why should one not speak like children? The body is a great reason, a multiplicity with one sense, a war and a peace, one herd and one shepherd.
But what is greater is that in which you do not want to believe — your body and its great reason. It does not say I, but does I. What the sense feels, what the spirit knows, in itself that will never have an end. But sense and spirit would like to persuade you that they are the end of all things: Work- and plaything are sense and spirit, behind them still lies the self.
The self also seeks with the eyes of the senses, it listens also with the ears of the spirit. Always the self listens and seeks: It rules and is also the ruler of the ego. Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, stands a powerful com- mander, an unknown wise man — he is called self.
He lives in your body, he is your body. There is more reason in your body than in your best wisdom. And who knows then to what end your body requires precisely your best wisdom? Your self laughs at your ego and its proud leaps. I am the leading strings of the ego and the prompter of its concepts. The self says to the ego: To the despisers of the body I want to say a word. That they disrespect is based on their respect.
What is it that created respect and disrespect and value and will? The creative body created spirit for itself as the hand of its will. Even in your folly and your contempt, you despisers of the body, you serve your self. No longer is it capable of that which it wants most: This it wants most of all, this is its entire fervor. But now it is too late for that, and so your self wants to go under, you despisers of the body.
Your self wants to go under, and for this reason you became despis- ers of the body! For you no longer are capable of creating beyond yourselves. And that is why you are angry now at life and earth. There is an unknown envy in the looking askance of your contempt. I will not go your way, you despisers of the body! You are not my bridges to the overman! On the Passions of Pleasure and Pain My brother, if you have one virtue, and it is your virtue, then you have it in common with no one.
To be sure, you want to call her by name and caress her; you want to tug at her ear and have fun with her. Now you have her name in common with the people and have become the people and the herd with your virtue! You would do better to say: Then speak and stammer: I do not want it as a divine law, I do not want is as a human statute and requirement.
Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of the apes. Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants? Lo, I teach you the Superman! The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not. Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of whom the earth is weary: Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and therewith also those blasphemers.
To blaspheme the earth is now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth! Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was the supreme thing: Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth.
Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was the delight of that soul! But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency?
Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted stream without becoming impure. Lo, I teach you the Superman: What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto you, and so also your reason and virtue. The hour when ye say: It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency.
But my happiness should justify existence itself! Doth it long for knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency! As yet it hath not made me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad!
It is all poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency! I do not see that I am fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour and fuel! Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion. Have ye ever cried thus? It is not your sin—it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven!
Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy with which ye should be inoculated? But the rope-dancer, who thought the words applied to him, began his performance. Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spake thus: Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss.
A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous trembling and halting. What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for they are the over-goers. I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows of longing for the other shore. I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond the stars for going down and being sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth of the Superman may hereafter arrive.
I love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh to know in order that the Superman may hereafter live.
Thus seeketh he his own down-going. I love him who laboureth and inventeth, that he may build the house for the Superman, and prepare for him earth, animal, and plant: I love him who loveth his virtue: I love him who reserveth no share of spirit for himself, but wanteth to be wholly the spirit of his virtue: I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny: I love him who desireth not too many virtues.
One virtue is more of a virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one's destiny to cling to. I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and doth not give back: I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, and who then asketh: I love him who scattereth golden words in advance of his deeds, and always doeth more than he promiseth: I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth the past ones: I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God: I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb through a small matter: I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgetteth himself, and all things are in him: I love him who is of a free spirit and a free heart: I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark cloud that lowereth over man: Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, and was silent.
Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or do they only believe the stammerer?
They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them from the goatherds. They dislike, therefore, to hear of 'contempt' of themselves.
So I will appeal to their pride. I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: It is time for man to fix his goal.
It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope. Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow thereon. I tell you: There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself. What is creation? What is longing? What is a star? The earth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last man who maketh everything small.
His species is ineradicable like that of the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest. They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth. One still loveth one's neighbour and rubbeth against him; for one needeth warmth.
Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones or men! A little poison now and then: