Thus Spoke Zarathustra

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The Style of Thus Spoke Zarathustra

When you first pick up Thus Spoke Zarathustra, you’ll immediately notice its style. Even before you grasp the ideas, the way it’s written stands out. The main issue with the book’s style is that there’s too much of it – it’s excessive.

This excess is a fault, even if it’s an understandable one. Interestingly, Nietzsche’s later books are the complete opposite. They are very concise, short, and direct. No other German philosopher wrote so clearly, and few writers of any kind can match that directness.

It seems Nietzsche felt a strong urge to write in a grand, speech-like style in Zarathustra. He gave in to this urge, and by doing so, he got it out of his system. The flood of words, metaphors, clever phrases, and wordplay in the book points to a burst of strong emotion.

Our goal here is to figure out:

• Why did Nietzsche need this emotional outburst in his writing?
• Why did it happen specifically in January 1883?
• Understanding this will help us better understand what this unusual and important book is truly about.

Zarathustra as the Answer to a Deep Personal Crisis

To give you a sneak peek at our conclusion, Thus Spoke Zarathustra is Nietzsche’s solution to a long and intense personal crisis. This crisis was about his ideas, but don’t let the word “intellectual” fool you.

Nietzsche’s relationship with his philosophical problems was unique. For him, these problems were not abstract puzzles. They were as real and emotionally charged as family is to other people. This deep personal connection to his ideas is what made him different and is key to understanding his work.

Nietzsche himself explained how deeply he felt his intellectual challenges. He wrote in notes published after his death:

• “If you find yourself disagreeing with me, you haven’t truly understood my viewpoint or my arguments! You need to feel the same passion I do!”
• “I want you to question me deeply. I only write about what I’ve personally gone through, not just abstract thoughts.”
• “You must be willing to experience big problems with your whole being – body and soul.”
• “I’ve always poured my entire heart and soul into my writings. I don’t understand what ‘purely intellectual’ problems are.”
• “You might know these ideas as thoughts, but your thoughts aren’t your experiences. They’re like echoes of experiences – like your room shaking when a carriage passes. But I am in the carriage, and often, I am the carriage itself.”

For a thinker like Nietzsche, there was no split between thinking and feeling, or between intellect and passion. He felt his thoughts. An idea could make him fall in love, or it could make him physically sick.

Nietzsche’s Background and His Path to Skepticism

Nietzsche came from a family of Lutherans. Many of his relatives were involved in the Lutheran church. His father and both grandfathers were ministers. His father’s father was even a Superintendent, which is like a bishop in the Lutheran church.

As a young boy, fitting for a pastor’s son, Nietzsche was very religious. However, he lost his faith in his late teens. He then stopped studying theology (religious studies). Instead of religion, he turned to philosophy, thinking for himself. He poured all the intensity he once had for religion into his philosophical work.

His journey away from his family’s religious life was a journey into skepticism – a way of thinking that questions accepted beliefs. For a while, he explored Schopenhauer’s philosophical ideas (metaphysics) and Wagner’s music. These were like temporary substitutes for religion.

In the summer of 1876, when he was 32, Nietzsche returned to his path of skepticism. He began writing a series of books made up of short, insightful statements (aphorisms). These books together form one of the most complete explorations of skepticism in the 19th century.

• Human, All Too Human came out in 1878.
• Assorted Opinions and Maxims was published in 1879.
• The Wanderer and his Shadow followed in 1880.
• In June 1881, he released Dawn.

The Rise of Nihilistic Thought

These books covered many different topics. However, a clear main direction in his thinking over these five years emerged. He aimed to:

• Break down cherished human ideas: He took concepts and qualities that people are proud of and enjoy. He reduced them to simpler qualities that no one feels proud of or enjoys. He argued that these simpler qualities were the true origin of the more complex ones.
• Undermine morality: He tried to show that morality is not based on moral foundations.
• Challenge rationality: He worked to reveal that reason often has irrational roots.
• Abolish the ‘higher’ world: He wanted to get rid of the idea of a spiritual or metaphysical world. He explained supposed supernatural events by looking at human, observable, and even animalistic causes.

In short, the main direction of his thought was nihilist. Nihilism is the belief that traditional values and beliefs are unfounded and that existence is senseless.

Even though his writing was often cheerful, beautiful, and coolly presented, it was clear that he was tearing things down. Nietzsche himself knew this. This process of destruction became his biggest and most urgent problem. It was the issue he was most passionately involved with. He had come very close to completely devaluing everything about humanity. Since he couldn’t see a way to stop this trend, he did the only thing he felt he could: he pushed it as far as it could go.

Pushing Nihilism Further in The Gay Science

Nietzsche’s next book was The Gay Science. Some parts of it were originally meant for his earlier book, Dawn. He left them out of Dawn partly because he felt Dawn was already long enough. But another likely reason was that his thoughts and writing had become even more forceful and intense. In The Gay Science, he expresses his nihilistic views very directly.

He explained this through what he called “the four errors”:

• First error: Humans have always seen themselves imperfectly.
• Second error: Humans have given themselves qualities they don’t actually possess, purely imaginary ones.
• Third error: Humans have mistakenly placed themselves in a false ranking above animals and nature.
• Fourth error: Humans have constantly created new sets of values. They treated each new set as if it were timeless and absolute. This led to different human desires and conditions being prioritized and praised at different times.

Nietzsche concluded that if you take away the impact of these four fundamental errors, you also take away what we call “humanity,” “humaneness,” and “human dignity.”

Questioning Truth Itself

Nietzsche then confronted a deeper question even more urgently: Can we actually discover “truth” at all? Or are humans simply bound to make errors?

He wrote: “The fact that we are alive doesn’t prove anything about truth. We’ve created a world for ourselves that we can live in. We did this by assuming things like physical bodies, lines, surfaces, causes and effects, movement and stillness, form and content. Without these basic beliefs, no one could stand to live today! But this doesn’t mean these beliefs are proven facts. Life itself isn’t an argument for truth; error could easily be one of the conditions necessary for life.”

He seemed to reach his ultimate point in this line of thinking: “Ultimate skepticism. So, what are human truths in the end? They are the errors that humans cannot get rid of.”

The World as Meaningless Chaos: God is Dead

Nietzsche’s idea of the world as meaningless and chaotic became fully formed. He announced that “God is dead” in a well-known passage:

“The Madman. Haven’t you heard about the madman? He lit a lantern in the bright morning, ran to the marketplace, and shouted constantly, ‘I’m looking for God! I’m looking for God!’

Many people there who didn’t believe in God started laughing. ‘Did you lose him then?’ one asked. ‘Did he get lost like a child?’ another said. ‘Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Did he go on a trip? Or move away?’ they yelled and laughed.

The madman jumped into the crowd and stared at them intensely. ‘Where has God gone?’ he cried. ‘I’ll tell you. We have killed him—you and I. We are all his murderers.’

‘But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What did we do when we unchained this Earth from its sun? Where is it moving now? Where are we moving now? Away from all suns? Aren’t we constantly falling? Backward, sideways, forward, in every direction? Is there any up or down left? Aren’t we wandering as if through an endless nothingness? Don’t we feel the chill of empty space? Hasn’t it gotten colder? Isn’t night falling more and more, all the time? Don’t we need to light lanterns in the morning? Don’t we hear the gravediggers burying God yet? Don’t we smell God decomposing yet? Gods decompose too. God is dead. God stays dead. And we have killed him.’

‘How can we comfort ourselves, we murderers of all murderers? The holiest and most powerful thing the world has ever known has bled to death under our knives. Who will wipe this blood off us? What water can we use to clean ourselves? What festivals of forgiveness, what holy games will we need to create? Isn’t this act too huge for us? Don’t we ourselves have to become gods just to seem worthy of it? There has never been a greater act. Anyone born after us will be part of a higher history than all history before, because of this act.’”

Nietzsche argued that it wasn’t just God who was gone; there was no other organizing force in the universe either:

“Be careful! Let’s not think the world is a living thing. Where would it expand? What would it eat? How could it grow and reproduce? We mostly understand what living things are. Should we take the very secondary, recent, rare, and random events we see only on Earth’s surface and treat them as the fundamental, universal, and eternal nature of reality, like those who call the universe an organism? I find that disgusting.”

“Also, let’s be careful not to believe the universe is a machine. It definitely wasn’t built to do a specific job. Calling it a ‘machine’ gives it too much credit.”

“Let’s avoid assuming that orderly patterns, like the regular movements of our nearby planets, are common everywhere. Just looking at the Milky Way makes you wonder if there aren’t much rougher and conflicting movements out there, like stars flying in straight lines forever. The cosmic order we live in is an exception. This order, and the stability that depends on it, is itself made possible by an even rarer exception: the development of life.”

“Instead, the overall nature of the world, for all time, is chaos. This doesn’t mean there’s no cause and effect (necessity). It means there’s no order, structure, form, beauty, wisdom, or any of the other artistic ideas humans have. From our rational viewpoint, failures are by far the norm. Exceptions aren’t some secret goal. The whole system just repeats its pattern—which you could never call a melody—forever. And even calling something a ‘failure’ is just a human judgment that implies criticism.”

“But how can we dare to criticize or praise the universe! Let’s be careful not to say it’s heartless or irrational, or the opposite of these. It isn’t perfect, beautiful, or noble, and it doesn’t want to be any of those things. It’s not trying to be like humans at all! It’s completely unaffected by our artistic and moral judgments! It also has no drive to survive or any drives at all. It doesn’t know any laws either.”

“Let’s be careful about saying there are laws in nature. There are only necessities: there’s no one to give commands, no one to obey, and no one to break rules.”

”…Let’s be careful about saying that death is the opposite of life. A living thing is just one type of dead thing, and a very rare type at that.”

The Climax of Nihilism and the Ensuing Crisis

These quotes, and many others like them, are found in the first three books of the original four-book edition of The Gay Science. They represent the furthest point Nietzsche reached on the path he started when he abandoned his family’s faith and set out on his own.

It’s hard to see how he, or anyone, could have pushed these ideas any further. If he hadn’t found a new path in the second half of 1881, he would have hit a dead end. His realization of this dead end was the core of the personal and intellectual crisis that Thus Spoke Zarathustra aimed to solve.

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Nietzsche’s Two Voices: Destruction and Rebuilding

Now, let’s look at another side of Nietzsche’s writing. In modern Europe, he was a trailblazer in tearing down old ways of thinking and moral biases. Also, not many people read his work while he was alive. Because of this, he often had to explain and critique his own ideas.

This situation led to a distinct feature in his writing: you often hear two “voices.”

• One voice makes strong statements.
• The other voice raises objections or adds conditions to those statements. Sometimes, one voice might draw a dark conclusion from an idea, while the other finds a hopeful one in the same idea.

An important role of this second voice was to suggest, at key moments in his books, that all the tearing down might just be the necessary first step before building something new. One of the most powerful examples of this is at the end of his book Dawn:

“We are like explorers of the mind, spiritual aviators! Think of brave birds flying far out, to the greatest distances. It’s certain that somewhere, they won’t be able to go any further. They’ll have to land on a ship’s mast or a bare cliff. They’ll even be grateful for such a poor resting place! But who would dare to conclude from this that there wasn’t a vast open space still ahead of them, or that they had flown as far as anyone could possibly fly?

All our great teachers and those who came before us eventually reached a stopping point… and it will be the same for you and me! But what does that matter to us? Other birds will fly even farther! Our own understanding and belief compete with them, soaring upwards. This insight rises above our own limitations and weaknesses, up to the heights. From there, it looks into the distance and sees flocks of birds. These birds are much stronger than we are, yet they are still trying to reach the same places we aimed for, where everything is just endless sea!

So, where would we go then? Would we try to cross this sea? Where is this powerful desire pulling us, a desire that means more to us than any pleasure? Why are we drawn in this particular direction, towards the place where all the great guiding lights of humanity have previously set, like setting suns? Will people one day say about us that we too, by heading west, hoped to find a new world (like explorers seeking India) – but that our destiny was to be shipwrecked against the infinite? Or, my brothers? Or? –”

A Shift Towards New Possibilities

This passage from Dawn sounds courageous. The feeling it conveys – that new worlds are waiting to be discovered – became increasingly central to Nietzsche’s thinking from the summer of 1881.

On August 14, 1881, Nietzsche wrote to his friend Peter Gast: “Ideas have appeared on my horizon that are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before… I will definitely need to live a few more years!… The strength of my feelings makes me tremble and laugh. A couple of times, I couldn’t leave my room for the silly reason that my eyes were swollen… This happened because I had cried too much during my walks the day before – not sad tears, but tears of joy. And as I cried, I sang and spoke nonsense, filled with a new vision…”

This joyful and hopeful tone wasn’t entirely new for Nietzsche. However, the intensity of these feelings was new. The “ideas” he mentioned were also new. They were new because they were his first direct efforts to move past the nihilistic conclusions he had reached over the previous five years. Importantly, he wanted to do this without having to take back any of those earlier, destructive conclusions.

A New Direction in The Gay Science

The fourth book of The Gay Science acts as a signpost, showing the new direction Nietzsche was taking. He was often influenced by important dates, so he began this book with a passage he wrote on New Year’s Day, 1882:

“For the New Year. I am still alive, I am still thinking. I must keep living because I must keep thinking. Sum, ergo cogito: cogito, ergo sum (I am, therefore I think: I think, therefore I am).

Today, everyone is allowed to share their wishes and deepest thoughts. So, I also want to say what I wished for myself today, and what first thought came to my mind this year. This thought will be the foundation, guarantee, and joy of my entire future life!

I want to learn more and more to see the necessary things in life as beautiful. By doing this, I will become someone who makes things beautiful. Amor fati (love of fate): let that be my love from now on! I don’t want to fight against what is ugly. I don’t want to blame others, not even those who blame. Letting go and looking away will be my only way of saying ‘no.’ And above all: from now on, I always want to be someone who affirms life, a ‘Yes-sayer’!”

This strong challenge to his own nihilistic tendencies was soon followed by a call for action, struggle, and positive dedication. He expressed this in one of his most famous phrases—perhaps the most famous phrase he ever wrote:

“I welcome all signs that a stronger, more warrior-like era is approaching. This era will, most importantly, restore honor to courage! It must pave the way for an even greater age and gather the strength that future age will need. This future age will bring heroism into the pursuit of knowledge and fight wars for the sake of ideas and what follows from them.

To achieve this, we need many brave pioneers now:

• People who know how to be silent, alone, and determined.
• People who naturally look for what needs to be overcome in everything.
• People who possess cheerfulness, patience, simplicity, and a disregard for grand illusions, just as much as they possess generosity in victory and tolerance for the small vanities of those they defeat.
• People with their own celebrations, their own work routines, their own times for grief.
• People who are used to and confident in leading, but also ready to obey when needed – equally proud in both situations, equally dedicated to their own cause.
• People who are more at risk, more productive, and happier!

For believe me! The secret to achieving the greatest productivity and the greatest enjoyment in life is this: Live dangerously! Build your cities on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius! Send your ships into unknown seas! Live in conflict with your peers and with yourselves! Be like raiders and conquerors, you seekers of knowledge, as long as you cannot be rulers and owners!”

A new vision of humanity, of what people could become, starts to take shape: Excelsior! (Ever upward!)

“He continued, exploring this new path: ‘You will stop praying. You will stop worshipping. You will no longer rest in complete trust. You won’t allow yourself to stop before some final wisdom, final goodness, or final power and just let your thoughts go free. You no longer have a constant protector and friend for your lonely times…

For you, there’s no one left to reward or repay you, no ultimate judge to fix things. There’s no more underlying reason in events, no more love in what happens to you. There’s no longer a safe place for your heart where it can just find peace without searching. You fight against any kind of final peace. You desire the endless cycle of conflict and peace.

You, who give up so much, will you give up all these things too? Who will give you the strength for that? No one has ever had this kind of strength!’

Nietzsche then used an image: Imagine a lake that one day decided not to flow away. It built a barrier where it used to flow out. Since then, this lake has risen higher and higher. Perhaps giving up these old comforts is what will give us the strength to endure the act of giving them up. Perhaps humans will rise higher and higher from the moment they stop flowing out towards a god.”

The Challenge of Eternal Recurrence

Near the end of The Gay Science, Nietzsche presents a strange idea for affirming oneself and life. He called it “The heaviest burden”:

“What if, one day or night, a demon snuck up on you in your deepest loneliness? What if this demon said: ‘This life you are living now, and have lived before, you will have to live it over and over again, countless times. There will be nothing new. Every pain, every joy, every thought, every sigh, and everything tiny or huge in your life will come back to you. It will all happen in the exact same order – even this spider, this moonlight between the trees, this very moment, and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence will be flipped again and again, and you along with it, like a speck of dust!’

Would you throw yourself to the ground, grind your teeth, and curse the demon for saying such a thing? Or, have you ever had such an amazing moment that you would have replied, ‘You are a god, and I’ve never heard anything more wonderful!’?

If this thought truly took hold of you, it would change you completely, or perhaps even break you. The question in everything you do would become: ‘Do I want this again and again, countless times?’ This would be the heaviest weight on all your actions. Or, how much would you have to love yourself and life to desire nothing more than this final, eternal confirmation and embrace?”

A Personal Crisis: The Affair with Lou Salomé

In April 1882, Nietzsche experienced the only deeply serious romantic relationship of his life. It was a short and painful affair with a woman named Lou Salomé. We won’t go into all the details here. It’s mentioned because:

• It relates to the theme of the “man alone” in his later work, Zarathustra.
• It was part of the deep crisis Nietzsche was going through from mid-1881 to early 1883.

There are two main points about this period:

1. Hope for an End to Loneliness: Nietzsche had been living alone since he had to retire from Basel University in early 1879. This loneliness was becoming a heavier burden for him. He thought this period of solitude was about to end. In a letter to Lou Salomé on July 2, 1882, he wrote that the previous day felt like his birthday. He said, “You agreed to come and stay with me for three weeks – the best gift anyone could have given me… My printer sent the first sample pages of The Gay Science. And on top of all that, I finished writing the last part of The Gay Science. This completed six years of my work (1876 to 1882), my whole journey of ‘free-thinking’!”

This means that when Nietzsche wrote that letter, he had just finished preparing the final version of this passage. This passage was the original ending of The Gay Science:

The Tragedy Begins: Zarathustra’s Decision

“Incipit tragoedia (The tragedy begins). When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and Lake Urmi and went into the mountains. There, he enjoyed his own thoughts and solitude for ten years, and he never tired of it. But eventually, his heart changed. One morning, he got up at dawn, stood before the sun, and spoke to it like this:

‘Great star! How could you be happy if you didn’t have those for whom you shine? For ten years, you have come up here to my cave. Without me, my eagle, and my serpent, you would have grown tired of your light and this journey. But we waited for you every morning. We took your overflowing light and thanked you for it.

Look! I am tired of my wisdom, like a bee that has collected too much honey. I need hands reaching out to take it. I want to give it away and share it until the wise among people are happy again in their foolishness, and the poor are happy in their wealth.

To do this, I must go down into the world below, just as you do in the evening. You go behind the sea and bring light even to the underworld, you overflowing star! Like you, I must go down—as humans, to whom I want to descend, call it.

So, bless me then, calm eye, you who can look upon even too much happiness without jealousy! Bless this cup that wants to overflow, so that golden waters may flow from it and carry the reflection of your joy all over the world! Look! This cup wants to be empty again, and Zarathustra wants to be a human again.’

– This is how Zarathustra’s ‘going down’ began.”

The meaning of this Zarathustra passage is echoed in the letter to Lou Salomé mentioned earlier. At the end of that letter, Nietzsche wrote: “I don’t want to be lonely anymore; I want to learn to be human again. Sadly, in this area, I still have almost everything to learn!”

It’s clear that at this time, Nietzsche saw himself in Zarathustra, another “teacher” who came down from a life of solitude, though Nietzsche was nearing his fortieth year.

2. Despair After Rejection: The second point is about what happened after Lou Salomé left him in October of that year. Nietzsche had to face the fact that his hope of marrying her was gone. This threw him into a deep state of despair.

   The emotional impact of such a disappointment can be significant for anyone. However, for Nietzsche, it was extremely intense, especially because he usually had a cheerful personality. It’s important to remember he had suffered from recurring illnesses since 1871 (likely due to an infection he got as a student). Yet, these illnesses rarely made him depressed or significantly delayed his work, showing his strong mental resilience.

   His failed relationship with Lou, however, completely unsettled him for a while. A letter to his friend Franz Overbeck on Christmas Day, 1882, shows how much:

   “I’ve been tormented by the shameful and painful memories of this past summer, like a kind of madness… They bring up conflicting emotions that I can’t handle… If only I could sleep! But even the strongest sleeping pills don’t help, nor do the six to eight-hour walks I take. If I can’t find the magic way to turn all this—this mess—into something valuable, I am lost… I distrust everyone now. I feel like everything I hear is a sign of contempt for me… Sometimes I think about renting a small room in Basel, visiting you sometimes, and going to lectures. Other times I think of doing the opposite: pushing my loneliness and acceptance of fate to the absolute limit and—”

   The main reason for this extreme reaction, as shown in his letters and especially in Zarathustra, was the crushing realization that he was back in solitude, and he was going to remain there.

The Eruption of Zarathustra

Looking back now, we can see that by late 1882 and early 1883, all the conditions were present for some kind of explosion in Nietzsche. Or, perhaps more accurately, an eruption. He was almost completely worn out—intellectually, emotionally, and physically.

However, the new “ideas” from the summer of 1881, which he had started to explore in the fourth book of The Gay Science, were like early tremors signaling a big event. In January, after what Nietzsche described as “ten absolutely fresh and cheerful January days,” the built-up tension finally broke. His restraints fell away, and the first part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra poured out of him with incredible force.

Nietzsche on Inspiration

Regarding Zarathustra, Nietzsche later wrote in his book Ecce Homo: “Does anyone at the end of the nineteenth century truly understand what poets in powerful eras called inspiration?” He continued:

“If not, I will describe it. If you had even a tiny bit of superstition left in you, you would almost believe you are just a vessel, a spokesperson, a channel for overwhelming forces. The idea of ‘revelation’ – where something suddenly becomes clear and audible with incredible certainty and precision, something that shakes you to your core – simply describes what happens.

You hear; you don’t search. You receive; you don’t ask who is giving. A thought strikes like lightning, necessarily and perfectly formed – I never had any choice in it. It’s a state of ecstasy. Its immense tension sometimes releases in a flood of tears. Your steps might quicken or slow down on their own… It’s a depth of happiness where even the most painful and dark things don’t seem like opposites. Instead, they feel like necessary parts, like essential colors within an overwhelming abundance of light…

Everything happens completely involuntarily, yet it feels like a storm of freedom, absoluteness, power, and divinity. The most remarkable thing is how images and metaphors come to you without effort. You no longer distinguish between an image and a metaphor; everything appears as the most direct, true, and simple way to express an idea. It truly seems, to use one of Zarathustra’s phrases, as if things themselves come to you and offer themselves as metaphors…

This is my experience of inspiration. I am sure you would have to go back thousands of years to find someone who could tell me, ‘I have experienced this too.’”

Core Messages from Thus Spoke Zarathustra

In the book, Zarathustra comes out of his ten-year solitude again. But this time, the people he wants to speak to reject him, so he turns away from them. Later, he even leaves the few followers who stayed with him and returns to solitude.

His main messages to humanity include:

• The Superman (Overman):

  • “I teach you the Superman. Man is something that must be overcome.”
  • “The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will declare: The Superman shall be the meaning of the earth.”
  • “All gods are dead: now we want the Superman to live – let this be our final wish one day at the great noon!”

• Will to Power and Values:

  • “A set of values hangs over every group of people. Look, it is the record of what they have overcome; look, it is the voice of their will to power.”

• Self-Overcoming (from Part Two):

  • Nietzsche wrote about Self-Overcoming: “Wherever I found a living thing, I found will to power… And life itself told me this secret: ‘Look,’ it said, ‘I am that which must always overcome itself… Where things are dying and leaves are falling, look, life sacrifices itself there – for the sake of power!… And you too, seeker of knowledge, are only a path and a footstep for my will: truly, my will to power walks even in your will to truth!… The living creature values many things more than life itself; yet, this very act of valuing speaks – the will to power!’”

• The Great Victory (from Part Three):

  • “Oh my Will!… Protect me from all small victories!… So that I may one day be ready and mature in the great noon… a bow longing for its arrow, an arrow longing for its star – a star, ready and mature in its noon, glowing, pierced through… Save me for one great victory!”

• Eternal Recurrence:

  • “Sing and bubble over, O Zarathustra, heal your soul with new songs, so that you may bear your great destiny… look, you are the teacher of the eternal recurrence… And if you were to die now, O Zarathustra: look, we also know what you would then say to yourself… ‘Now I die and fade away… and in an instant I will be nothing… But the web of causes in which I am caught will repeat – it will create me again!… I will return… not to a new life or a better life or a similar life: I will return eternally to this exact same life… to teach again the eternal recurrence of all things, to speak again of the great noon of earth and humanity, to tell humanity of the Superman once more…’”

• Joy Wants Eternity (The Midnight Song):

  • “O Man! Listen! What does the deep midnight say? ‘I slept my sleep, And now I wake from dreaming’s end: The world is deep, Deeper than day can understand. Deep is its sorrow, Joy – deeper than heart’s pain: Sorrow says: Vanish! Go! But all joy wants eternity, – wants deep, deep, deep eternity!’”

• Affirming All of Life (Expansion of the poem):

  • “Did you ever say Yes to one joy? O my friends, then you also said Yes to all sorrow. All things are linked and woven together, all things are in love. If you ever wanted one moment to happen twice, if you ever said, ‘You please me, happiness, instant, moment!’ then you wanted everything to return! You wanted everything new, everything eternal, everything linked, woven together, everything in love. Oh, that is how you loved the world, you eternal ones, loved it eternally, and for all time. And you say even to sorrow: ‘Go, but come back!’ For all joy wants – eternity!”

Nietzsche’s Path Beyond Nihilism

Key ideas like the Superman, the will to create the Superman, the will to power, and self-overcoming became central. Phrases like “Live dangerously!”, “Amor fati (love of fate)”, “eternal recurrence”, “total affirmation of life”, and “the great noontide” were the slogans and signs. Through these powerful concepts, Nietzsche overcame his nihilism and found a way through his personal crisis.

4

Understanding Nietzsche’s Core Concepts: What is Truth?

Let’s now try to understand the deeper meaning of the central ideas in Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

The Bible tells of Pontius Pilate, who jokingly asked, “What is truth?” but didn’t wait for an answer. If he had waited, what would Jesus have said? Most likely, Jesus would have replied, “I am the truth.”

This is also Zarathustra’s answer to the question, “What is truth?” At this fundamental level, what is “the truth”?

• Isn’t it the realization that the only truth you can find is the truth that you yourself are?
• Isn’t it that there is no inherent truth (sense or meaning) in the world, except for the truth (sense or meaning) that you yourself give to it?
• Isn’t “truth” an idea that comes from the human mind and will? Apart from the human mind and will, does “truth” even exist?
• Finally, isn’t the firm decision that your own truth will be the truth the only source of “truth” on Earth?

Giving meaning to life has always been the main goal of those who have preached “truth.” Because if life isn’t given a meaning, it has none.

At this level:

• Truth is not something you can prove or disprove.
• Truth is something you decide upon; something you will into being.
• It’s not something waiting to be found, something you simply accept, or a point where you stop searching.
• Instead, truth is something you create. It’s the expression of a particular way of life and being that has dared to assert itself through you.

This is why Zarathustra says: “The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Superman shall be the meaning of the earth.” Zarathustra is a prophet not of a truth that already exists, but of a truth that will be created.

So, what defines the nature of “truth”? It’s the nature of the “I” that declares, “I am the truth.”

Why do we seek truth, rather than untruth or simply not caring about truth? Because every individual life needs a kind of fortress. This fortress protects it and allows it to reach out for growth and more power. Truth is this fortress. Or, as Nietzsche has life say to thinking humans: “My will to power walks with the feet of your will to truth.”

So, what is the final answer to Pilate’s question, “What is truth?” According to this interpretation of Zarathustra, the answer is: Truth is will to power.

Overcoming Nihilism through Will to Power

The most important task for Nietzsche was to overcome the nihilistic view that life and humanity had lost their value. This loss of value happened after the collapse of belief in a spiritual or metaphysical world (the “death of God”).

This devaluation was largely caused by a psychological idea: the theory of sublimation. This theory suggested that basic, primitive drives could be transformed or redirected. So, uniquely human qualities, our “humane” traits, could be seen as refined versions of drives we share with animals. The reason for developing such a theory was to explain what makes humans special without relying on supernatural or metaphysical explanations.

Through much thought and observation (Nietzsche’s “experiments”), two primitive drives stood out as the most powerful:

1. The desire for power.
2. The emotion of fear.

When Nietzsche came to see fear as simply the feeling of a lack of power, he was left with one single driving force behind all human actions: the will to power.

Sublimated Will to Power and the Superman

This idea of sublimated will to power (will to power channeled into creative or self-mastering activities) became the key to escaping the maze of nihilism. Think of it like Ariadne’s thread in the Greek myth, showing the way out.

Nietzsche wrote, “A table of values”—meaning a system of morality—“hangs over every people.” This morality is a set of self-imposed rules that transformed a disorganized crowd into an organized nation. Primitive aggression was turned inward, sublimated into self-control.

When this same process happens within an individual—when a person sets their own rules and follows them, transforming themselves from a chaotic state to an ordered one—the result is the Superman. The Superman is the person who is master of themselves.

But mastering oneself is the hardest task of all. It requires the greatest amount of power. The person who can achieve this experiences the greatest increase in power. Nietzsche suggests (and later states clearly) that happiness (or “joy” in Zarathustra) is the feeling of power increasing, the feeling of overcoming resistance. Therefore, the Superman, having achieved the ultimate self-mastery, would be the happiest human. As such, the Superman becomes the meaning and justification of existence.

Joy, Life Affirmation, and Eternal Recurrence

The meaning of life, then, becomes about constantly increasing your power. This power allows you to transform life’s chaos into a continuous process of self-overcoming. By doing this, you experience more and more joy, because joy is a direct result of this self-overcoming.

For Nietzsche, just like for most people, joy is the one thing that doesn’t need a reason. Joy justifies itself. Someone who achieved this kind of joy would fully embrace and love life, no matter how much pain it included. This is because they would understand that “all things are chained and entwined together.” They would see everything as part of a larger whole that must be accepted completely.

To express this deep feeling of saying “yes” to life, Nietzsche developed the idea of the eternal recurrence of the same events. He wrote about this idea with great passion in Zarathustra.

Of course, only the Superman could feel so positively about his life that he would want to live it over and over again forever. But that’s exactly why Nietzsche believed we should strive to create the Superman. The Superman’s joy in being exactly who he is, forever, represents the highest form of the will to power. It’s the ultimate victory over a nihilism that would otherwise be inescapable.

5

The Roots of Zarathustra’s Ideas: An Unconscious Return?

These core ideas are central to Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Along with them, the book’s unique emotional tone comes from its extended praise of solitude and individuality.

The author of this analysis describes the development of these concepts as an “eruption.” This means he believes they burst forth from Nietzsche’s subconscious. They were ideas from Nietzsche’s very early life, perhaps his childhood. This eruption happened because Nietzsche had reached a dead end on the philosophical path he had been following, a path that led away from those early influences.

Since he couldn’t move forward on his current path, he had to go back in some way. But he also couldn’t take back the skeptical ideas he had been promoting for the past five years. So, when these earliest ideas resurfaced, they were changed and twisted, almost to the point where their original forms were unrecognizable.

This process is similar to what psychoanalysis calls the “psychic censor”—a mental barrier that filters or disguises thoughts. The author doubts that Nietzsche himself fully realized where these grand, positive ideas truly came from as he began to express them with his powerful writing skills.

Christian Roots of Nietzsche’s Concepts?

The author suggests these “earliest ideas” are Christian, particularly from Lutheranism. A key teaching of Lutheran Pietism is that life’s events are God’s will. Therefore, it’s wrong to wish things were different. Lutherans also hold to other core Christian beliefs.

The author presents the following as Christian parallels to the main ideas in Nietzsche’s mind from mid-1881 to early 1884, which he fully developed in Zarathustra:

• Amor fati (Love of Fate):

  • Nietzsche’s Idea: Accepting and loving whatever happens in life.
  • Christian Parallel: The Lutheran belief that all events are God’s will. This leads to affirming life itself as divine, a product of God’s will. Hating life, from this view, would be like blasphemy.

• Eternal Recurrence:

  • Nietzsche’s Idea: Life repeating itself endlessly in the exact same way.
  • Christian Parallel: This extreme form of life affirmation, following from amor fati, seems influenced by Christian ideas of eternal life and God’s unchanging nature (e.g., “as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end”).

• Will to Power:

  • Nietzsche’s Idea: The fundamental drive in all things to grow, dominate, and express strength.
  • Christian Parallel: Divine grace (God’s help and power). The connection is seen in “self-overcoming,” Nietzsche’s term for channeling basic drives (sublimation). This concept transforms the will to power from a negative, nihilistic idea into a positive, joyful one. The Christian equivalent is sinful human nature being saved and changed by God’s grace.
  • In both views, an inner quality (grace or sublimated will to power) lifts humans (or some humans) above ordinary nature. The strong emotion associated with “will to power” might also echo Christian phrases like “Thy will be done” and the connection of “power” and “glory,” plus the belief that all things are possible with God’s will.

• Live Dangerously!:

  • Nietzsche’s Idea: Embracing challenge, risk, and hardship.
  • Christian Parallel: The call to “Take up thy Cross, and follow me”—a Christian rejection of an easy, comfortable life.

• Great Noontide:

  • Nietzsche’s Idea: A future time of peak human potential and transformation.
  • Christian Parallel: The Second Coming of Christ, the Last Judgment, and the separation of good from evil.

• Superman (Overman):

  • Nietzsche’s Idea: The ideal human who has overcome traditional morality and achieved self-mastery.
  • Christian Parallel: God as the creator and “highest being”; Jesus (“Son of Man”) as God; humans as recipients of God’s grace who look forward to eternity. The Superman embodies all desirable qualities. The author notes that what Christians say about God (“Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever”) is very similar to how Nietzsche describes the Superman.

6

A Healing Return and Goethe’s Influence

Zarathustra’s role as an inspired prophet and someone who solves riddles suggests a return to an earlier way of thinking in Nietzsche’s mind (an atavism). Even if we couldn’t pinpoint exactly what earlier stage he was returning to, the prophetic style itself indicates this. However, this was a healing kind of return, like a thunderstorm that clears away the bad weather that caused it.

The main theme that ultimately shines through in Zarathustra is the joy of being alive. It’s about the self-reliant joy of the independent individual, and this joyful self-reliance as the goal and meaning of life. The author argues that this theme doesn’t come from the grand but ultimately restrictive ideas of Christianity. Instead, it comes from a figure Nietzsche later praised as a real-life example of the Superman: Goethe.

The author includes a passage from Goethe’s essay on Winckelmann (1805), which Nietzsche knew:

“When a person’s healthy and whole nature acts as one, when they feel part of the world as a grand, beautiful, worthy, and valuable whole, when this sense of harmony gives them pure, free delight: then the universe, if it could feel, would shout for joy. It would feel it had reached its goal and marvel at the peak of its own being and development. For what is the purpose of all the suns, planets, moons, stars, galaxies, comets, and nebulae, of worlds being born and dying, if, in the end, a happy person does not spontaneously rejoice in their own existence?”

This quote from Goethe could serve as the motto for Thus Spoke Zarathustra. It captures Goethe’s great, life-affirming spirit. Nietzsche called this kind of spirit “Dionysian.” Despite many differences in focus, Zarathustra shares this fundamental spirit.

7

A Closer Look at Thus Spoke Zarathustra

The author will now provide a brief overview of Zarathustra, chapter by chapter. He will also comment on a few specific points that might need more explanation.

Who Was the Original Zarathustra?

Zarathustra (also known by the Greek name Zoroaster) was the founder of the ancient Persian religion (Zoroastrianism). The Zend-Avesta is considered its holy book. In the 19th century, some scholars doubted if Zarathustra or even Homer (the ancient Greek poet) ever really existed. This skepticism was likely influenced by the rise of evolutionary theories. However, both figures are now generally accepted as historical.

Nietzsche himself argued against dismissing Homer as a real individual. He believed that great poetry always comes back to a specific poet, not just some vague “poetic soul of the people.” He felt the same about Zarathustra.

The historical Zarathustra is thought to have lived around the 7th century BC. The core of his religion was the struggle between:

• Ahura Mazda (Ormuzd): The god of light and good.
• Angra Mainyu (Ahriman): The god of darkness and evil.

Why Nietzsche Chose the Name Zarathustra

Nietzsche explained why he used this name for his own main character in his book Ecce Homo:

“People haven’t asked me, though they should have, what the name Zarathustra means coming from my mouth—the mouth of the first ‘immoralist’ (someone who goes beyond traditional morality). What makes the historical Persian Zarathustra so incredibly unique is actually the opposite of my stance.

Zarathustra was the first to see the fight between good and evil as the main force driving the world. He was the one who turned morality into a metaphysical concept—seeing it as a fundamental force, cause, and purpose in itself.

But this question about why I chose his name basically answers itself. Zarathustra created morality, this most fateful of errors. Therefore, he must also be the first one to recognize it as an error. It’s not just that he had more experience with this idea than any other thinker. More importantly, Zarathustra is more truthful than any other thinker. His teaching, and only his, considers truthfulness the highest virtue… To tell the truth and to be a good archer: that is Persian virtue.

Do you understand? The self-overcoming of morality through truthfulness, the moralist overcoming himself to become his opposite—to become me—that is what the name Zarathustra means in my mouth.”

Structure of the Book

Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra is not tightly structured. However, it does have a general direction and a kind of plot.

PART ONE

• Prologue:

  1. Zarathustra descends from his solitude.
  2. He announces that God is dead.
  3. He preaches about God’s successor: the Superman.
  4. People fail to understand him, even when he explains his new values (his “beatitudes”).
  5. He tries to appeal to their pride by describing the opposite of the Superman: the “Ultimate Man” (or “Last Man”). This is someone who sacrifices the future for their own immediate comfort.
  6. A tightrope walker (symbolizing humanity balanced over a void) is knocked down by a jester (perhaps Zarathustra himself).
  7. This event makes Zarathustra realize that human existence is “uncanny” or strangely unsettling.
  8. After a difficult night, Zarathustra decides to leave the marketplace.
  9. He resolves to share his message only with individuals, not crowds.

• The Twenty-Two Discourses: These are speeches Zarathustra gives to his group of followers. Each speech summarizes Nietzsche’s views on a particular topic:

  1. Education of the Spirit: Self-discipline, independence, creativity.
  2. Negative Virtue: Virtue that is about not doing wrong, rewarded by “peace of soul.”
  3. The Metaphysical World: Includes Nietzsche giving up his earlier idea that artistic values are the only true values.
  4. Mind and Body: An introduction to the theory of the will to power.
  5. The Nature of Virtue.
  6. The Criminal Instinct: The opposite of virtue.
  7. Authorship, Happiness, and Laughter: Introduces the “Spirit of Gravity” (a force that weighs humans down).
  8. Nobility of Soul.
  9. Pessimism.
  10. Live Dangerously!
  11. The State.
  12. Disgust with Mankind.
  13. Sensuality and Its Disguises.
  14. How to Be a True Friend.
  15. Relativity of Moral Values: Introduces the will to power.
  16. Critique of “Love Thy Neighbor as Thyself.”
  17. The Need for and Danger of Solitude.
  18. The Nature of Women.
  19. The Nature of Justice.
  20. Bad Marriages and Good Ones.
  21. Bad Deaths and Good Ones.

• Overarching Theme: Throughout these discourses, Zarathustra’s statement, “Man is something that must be overcome,” is a constant presence.

• Conclusion of Part One: The final chapter returns to the themes of the Prologue: the death of God and the need for the Superman to give meaning to the earth. Zarathustra praises the generous person. He encourages his followers to be independent. Then, he leaves them.

PART TWO

This part is much more varied than Part One. Zarathustra is more of a developed character, and eight of the twenty-two chapters include action.

1. Zarathustra’s Return: Similar to the Prologue of Part One.
2. “God is Dead” Revisited: A much larger exploration of this theme, reintroducing the Superman as God’s successor.
3. Pity for Mankind: And the need to overcome this pity.
4. Organized Religion and Priests.
5. True and False Virtue: Another look at virtue.
6. Disgust with Mankind Again: And how to avoid it.
7. Justice and Revenge: Another essay on justice, attacking revengefulness disguised as justice.
8. True and False Philosophy.
9. Prose Poems (Chapters 9-11): These are personal, mostly troubled, complaining, and unhappy in tone.
10. (Covered in 9)
11. (Covered in 9)
12. The Will to Power in Full: A complete explanation.
13. Philosophy Resumed: Continues and finishes the discussion from chapter 8.
14. Critique of Modern Culture.
15. Critique of Contemplative Life: And the search for “pure knowledge.” (Note: Original text has two chapter 16s, this seems to be the first mentioned as 16)
16. Critique of Scholarly Life. (Note: Original text has two chapter 16s, this seems to be the second mentioned as 16)
17. Critique of the Artistic Nature.
18. Turning Point of the Book: A chapter with a discussion on revolution and anarchism, combined with significant action and a strange story told by sailors. Zarathustra’s followers are more interested in the sailors’ story. The story implies Zarathustra’s double has been seen flying and crying, “It is time! It is high time!” Zarathustra wonders what it’s “high time” for. The answer, not yet spoken but always on his mind from now on, is: “Time to declare the eternal recurrence.”
19. Nightmarish Atmosphere: Continues the strange mood of chapter 18, becoming even more like a nightmare. Zarathustra is now nervous and depressed, very different from his usual optimistic state. This is a “dark night of the soul” that continues into Part Three.
20. Discourse on “Great Men”: Leads to thoughts on the nature of will. While speaking, Zarathustra is suddenly struck silent as he realizes what his words mean for the theory of eternal recurrence.
21. The Value of Masks: A beautifully written chapter, though it feels like it belongs earlier in the book. It interrupts the steady decline in mood from chapter 18 to 22.
22. Despair and Departure: After a second nightmare that shatters his self-confidence and almost his self-control, Zarathustra leaves his disciples again. This time, however, he is deeply miserable, and he leaves for good.

PART THREE

For most of this part, Zarathustra is alone and talking to himself. Earlier themes are revisited and woven together, sometimes becoming overly complex. The imagery can be dense at times. However, the intense expression Nietzsche aimed for is brilliantly achieved and sustained.

1. Zarathustra’s Journey Home: He has just left his disciples and is still depressed.
2. The Riddle of Eternal Recurrence: On a ship, he explains eternal recurrence as a riddle, using language that echoes the nightmare in Part Two, chapter 18. Though still mysterious, the act of even partially revealing this idea is enough to restore his usual cheerfulness.
3. Introspective Prose Poems (Chapters 3 & 4): Cheerful and calm, a middle ground between the sadness of Part Two (chapters 9-11) and the ecstatic joy of Part Three (chapters 14-16).
4. (Covered in 3)
5. Return of Nausea: Back on land, Zarathustra again feels his familiar disgust with mankind.
6. Self-Portrait of Zarathustra as Solitary.
7. Looking Away as Negation: A detailed explanation of the idea: “May looking away be my only form of negation!”
8. Attack on Piety.
9. Hymn to Solitude: Zarathustra arrives back at his cave.
10. Revaluation of Vices: A model “re-evaluation” of three vices.
11. Call to Cheerfulness.
12. Climax of the Book (Chapters 12-16): A supreme display of the sustained intellectual passion that makes Nietzsche one of the world’s great thinkers. Chapter 12 briefly re-explains Zarathustra’s teachings, up to (but not including) eternal recurrence.
13. Eternal Recurrence Revealed: This theory is finally stated fully and openly, and Zarathustra joyfully accepts it. With this, his self-education is complete.
14. Celebratory Prose Poems (Chapters 14-16): The fulfillment is celebrated with three prose poems of great energy and intensity. At this peak, Zarathustra is completely alone. So, when he wants to express his immense joy and gratitude in poetic form, he can only address himself.
    • Chapter 14 is addressed to his own soul.
    • Chapter 15 is addressed to the life he feels within him.
    • Chapter 16 is addressed to himself in his future reincarnations (due to eternal recurrence). The “child” he wants to have with “eternity” is himself.
15. (Covered in 14)
16. (Covered in 14)

PART FOUR

When Nietzsche finished Part Three in January 1884 (closing it with “Seven Seals”), he thought Zarathustra was complete. However, the following winter, he returned to the theme and planned three more parts.

• In the first planned new part (which became Part Four), Zarathustra is visited by various “higher men.” These men, through Zarathustra’s teachings, realize their own shortcomings. At the end of this part, Zarathustra is called to go out into the world again.
• In the next planned part, he would gather a large following and preach his now triumphant message.
• In the final planned part, he would die, though Nietzsche hadn’t decided how.

Of these three new parts, only the first was actually written. It was done slowly and with interruptions during the winter of 1884-85. Nietzsche had it privately printed but didn’t release it for publication. It first appeared as “the Fourth and Last Part” of Zarathustra in 1892, in the first collected edition of his works.

Style and Content of Part Four:

Stylistically, Part Four is quite different from the earlier parts and is considered less inspired. The “higher men” are both general types and specific individuals:

• The Gloomy Prophet: Represents Schopenhauer.
• The Two Kings: Represent any kings.
• The Conscientious Man of the Spirit: Likely Darwin, or any scientific specialist.
• The Sorcerer: Represents Wagner (the sorcerer’s poems mock Wagner’s later poetic style).
• The Last Pope: An imaginary figure (at the time).
• The Ugliest Man: Represents the atheist.
• The Shadow: Represents the freethinker.
• The Voluntary Beggar: Represents either the Buddha or Tolstoy.

The theme of eternal recurrence stays in the background in Part Four but comes to the forefront at the end, where it is affirmed with great power and ecstasy.

PART ONE

ZARATHUSTRA’S PROLOGUE

1

When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home. He also left the lake by his home and went into the mountains. Here, he enjoyed his own thoughts and his solitude. He did not get tired of this for ten years. But finally, his heart changed. One morning, he woke up with the dawn. He stood before the sun and spoke to it:

“Great star! Why would you be happy if you didn’t have those you shine for? For ten years, you have come up to my cave. You would have grown tired of your light and this journey without me, my eagle, and my serpent. But we waited for you every morning. We took your extra light and blessed you for it. Look! I am tired of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey. I need hands reaching out to take it. I want to give it away and share it. I want to do this until the wise among people are happy again in their foolishness, and the poor are happy in their wealth. To do this, I must go down into the deep places. You do this in the evening when you go behind the sea and bring light even to the world below, you overflowing star! Like you, I must go down—that is what the people I want to go to call it. So bless me then, calm eye. You can look at even too much happiness without envy! Bless the cup that wants to overflow. May golden waters flow from it and carry the reflection of your joy all over the world!

Look! This cup wants to be empty again, and Zarathustra wants to be human again.” This is how Zarathustra’s going down began.

2

Zarathustra went down the mountain alone. No one met him. But when he entered the forest, an old man suddenly stood before him. The old man had left his holy cabin to look for roots in the forest. And the old man spoke to Zarathustra:

“This wanderer is not a stranger to me. He passed by here many years ago. He was called Zarathustra, but he has changed. Back then, you carried your ashes to the mountains. Will you now carry your fire into the valleys? Aren’t you afraid of being punished like someone who starts fires? Yes, I recognize Zarathustra. His eyes are clear, and there is no disgust around his mouth. Doesn’t he move like a dancer? How Zarathustra has changed! Zarathustra has become like a child, someone who is awakened. What do you want now with those who are asleep? You lived in solitude as if you were in the sea, and the sea supported you. Oh, do you want to come ashore? Oh, do you want to drag your own body again?”

Zarathustra answered, “I love humankind.”

“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the wilderness? Wasn’t it because I loved humankind too much? Now I love God. I do not love humankind. Humans are too imperfect for me. Love for humankind would destroy me.”

Zarathustra answered, “What did I say about love? I am bringing humankind a gift.”

“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Instead, take something from them and carry it with them – that will please them best, as long as it pleases you! And if you want to give to them, give no more than a small charity, and let them beg for that!”

“No,” answered Zarathustra, “I give no charity. I am not poor enough for that.”

The saint laughed at Zarathustra and said, “Make sure they accept your treasures! They don’t trust hermits. They don’t believe we come to give. Our footsteps sound too lonely in their streets. And when they are in their beds at night and hear a man walking by long before the sun rises, they probably ask themselves: Where is that thief going? Don’t go to people. Stay in the forest! Go to the animals instead! Why won’t you be like me – a bear among bears, a bird among birds?”

“And what does the saint do in the forest?” asked Zarathustra.

The saint answered, “I make songs and sing them. And when I make songs, I laugh, cry, and mumble. This is how I praise God. With singing, crying, laughing, and mumbling, I praise the God who is my God. But what do you bring us as a gift?”

When Zarathustra heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said, “What could I possibly have to give you! But let me go quickly, so I don’t take anything from you!” And so they left each other, the old man and Zarathustra, laughing like two boys.

But when Zarathustra was alone, he said to his heart, “Could it be possible! This old saint in his forest hasn’t yet heard that God is dead!”

3

When Zarathustra reached the closest town near the forest, he found many people gathered in the market square. It had been announced that a tight-rope walker would perform. And Zarathustra spoke to the people:

“I teach you the Superman. Humans are something that should be overcome. What have you done to overcome them? All creatures so far have created something beyond themselves. Do you want to be the low point of this great tide? Do you want to go back to being animals rather than overcome humans? What is an ape to humans? A joke or a painful embarrassment. And that is what humans will be to the Superman: a joke or a painful embarrassment. You have made your way from worm to human, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now, humans are more like apes than any ape. But even the wisest among you is just a confusing mix of plant and ghost. But am I telling you to become ghosts or plants? Look, I teach you the Superman! The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Superman shall be the meaning of the earth! I beg you, my brothers, stay true to the earth. Do not believe those who tell you about hopes beyond this world! They are poisoners, whether they know it or not. They look down on life. They are decaying and self-poisoned people, and the earth is tired of them. So let them disappear! Once, cursing God was the greatest curse. But God died, and then these cursers died too. To curse the earth is now the most terrible crime. It is worse than valuing the secrets of the unknowable more than the meaning of the earth. Once, the soul looked down on the body. Back then, this contempt was the highest good. The soul wanted the body to be thin, grotesque, and starved. That is how the soul thought it could escape from the body and from the earth. Oh, this soul was itself thin, grotesque, and starved. And cruelty was this soul’s delight! But tell me, my brothers: What does your body say about your soul? Isn’t your soul just poverty, dirt, and a pathetic kind of comfort? Truly, a human is a polluted river. One must be a sea to take in a polluted river and not become unclean. Look, I teach you the Superman: he is this sea. In him, your great contempt can disappear. What is the greatest thing you can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour when even your happiness becomes disgusting to you, and so do your reason and your virtue. The hour when you say: ‘What good is my happiness? It is poverty, dirt, and a pathetic comfort. But my happiness should justify existence itself!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my reason? Does it crave knowledge like a lion craves food? It is poverty, dirt, and a pathetic comfort!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my virtue? It hasn’t driven me mad yet! How tired I am of my good and my evil! It is all poverty, dirt, and a pathetic comfort!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my justice? I don’t see that I am fire and hot coals. But the just person is fire and hot coals!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my pity? Isn’t pity the cross on which the one who loves humans is nailed? But my pity is not a crucifixion!’ Have you ever spoken like this? Have you ever cried like this? Oh, if only I had heard you crying like this! It is not your sin, but your moderation that cries out to heaven. Your very smallness in sinning cries out to heaven! Where is the lightning to strike you with its tongue? Where is the madness with which you should be cleansed? Look, I teach you the Superman: he is this lightning, he is this madness!”

When Zarathustra had said this, one of the people cried out, “Now we’ve heard enough about the tight-rope walker; let us see him too!” And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the tight-rope walker, who thought Zarathustra’s words were about him, began his act.

4

But Zarathustra looked at the people and was amazed. Then he spoke:

“Humans are a rope, tied between animal and Superman – a rope over a deep abyss. Crossing over is dangerous. Journeying is dangerous. Looking back is dangerous. Shuddering and standing still are dangerous. What is great in humans is that they are a bridge and not a destination. What can be loved in humans is that they are a process of going across and going down. I love those who only know how to live if their lives are a going down, for they are the ones who are going across. I love the great despisers, for they are the great worshippers and like arrows of longing for the other shore. I love those who do not first look beyond the stars for reasons to go down and be sacrifices. Instead, they sacrifice themselves to the earth, so that the earth may one day belong to the Superman. I love the one who lives for knowledge and who wants knowledge so that one day the Superman may live. And so, this person wills their own downfall. I love the one who works and invents to build a house for the Superman and to prepare the earth, animals, and plants for him: for so, this person wills their own downfall. I love the one who loves their virtue: for virtue is a will to downfall and an arrow of longing. I love the one who keeps no bit of spirit for themselves, but wants to be entirely the spirit of their virtue: so, as spirit, they step over the bridge. I love the one who makes their virtue their passion and their fate: so, for their virtue’s sake, they will choose to live or not live. I love the one who does not want too many virtues. One virtue is more virtue than two because it is more of a knot for fate to hold onto. I love the one whose soul is generous, who neither wants nor gives thanks in return: for this person always gives and will not try to save themselves. I love the one who is ashamed when the dice fall in their favor and who then asks: Am I a cheat? – for this person wants to perish. I love the one who speaks golden words before their actions and always does more than they promised: for this person wills their own downfall. I love the one who justifies people of the future and redeems people of the past: for this person wants to perish by the actions of people in the present. I love the one who punishes their God because they love their God: for this person must perish by the anger of their God. I love the one whose soul is deep even in its ability to be wounded, and whom even a small thing can destroy: so, this person is glad to go over the bridge. I love the one whose soul is overfull, so that they forget themselves and all things are within them: so, all things become their downfall. I love the one who has a free spirit and a free heart: so, their head is only the servant of their heart, but their heart drives them to their downfall. I love all those who are like heavy drops falling one by one from the dark cloud that hangs over humankind: they predict the coming of the lightning, and as prophets, they perish. Look, I am a prophet of the lightning and a heavy drop from the cloud: but this lightning is called Superman.”

5

When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he looked at the people again and fell silent. “There they stand,” he said to his heart, “there they laugh: they do not understand me. I am not the mouth for these ears. Must one first smash their ears to teach them to hear with their eyes? Must one roar like drums and Lenten preachers? Or do they only believe those who stutter? They have something they are proud of. What is it called that makes them proud? They call it culture; it sets them apart from the goatherds. Therefore, they dislike hearing the word ‘contempt’ spoken about them. So I shall speak to their pride. So I shall speak to them of the most contemptible human: and that is the Ultimate Man.”

And so Zarathustra spoke to the people:

“It is time for humans to set their goal. It is time for humans to plant the seed of their highest hope. Their soil is still rich enough for it. But this soil will one day be poor and weak; no longer will a tall tree be able to grow from it. Alas! The time is coming when humans will no longer shoot the arrow of their longing out over humankind, and the string of their bow will have forgotten how to vibrate! I tell you: one must have chaos inside oneself to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you still have chaos inside you. Alas! The time is coming when humans will give birth to no more stars. Alas! The time of the most contemptible human is coming, the one who can no longer despise themselves. Behold! I shall show you the Ultimate Man. ‘What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?’ asks the Ultimate Man and blinks. The earth has become small, and on it hops the Ultimate Man, who makes everything small. His kind is as impossible to get rid of as the flea; the Ultimate Man lives longest. ‘We have discovered happiness,’ say the Ultimate Men and blink. They have left the places where living was hard: for one needs warmth. One still loves one’s neighbor and rubs against them: for one needs warmth. Sickness and mistrust are considered sins by them: one should walk carefully. Only a fool still stumbles over stones or over people! A little poison now and then: that makes for pleasant dreams. And a lot of poison in the end, for a pleasant death. They still work, for work is entertainment. But they are careful that the entertainment does not tire them out. Nobody gets rich or poor anymore: both are too much trouble. Who still wants to rule? Who wants to obey? Both are too much trouble. No shepherd and one herd. Everyone wants the same thing, everyone is the same: whoever thinks differently goes to the madhouse voluntarily. ‘In the past, all the world was mad,’ say the cleverest of them and blink. They are clever and know everything that has ever happened: so there is no end to their mockery. They still quarrel, but they soon make up – otherwise, they would get indigestion. They have their little pleasure for the day and their little pleasure for the night: but they respect health. ‘We have discovered happiness,’ say the Ultimate Men and blink.”

And here Zarathustra’s first speech, which is also called “The Prologue,” ended: for at this point, the shouting and joy of the crowd interrupted him. “Give us this Ultimate Man, O Zarathustra” – they cried – “make us into this Ultimate Man! You can have the Superman!” And all the people laughed and shouted. But Zarathustra grew sad and said to his heart:

“They do not understand me: I am not the mouth for these ears. Perhaps I lived too long in the mountains, listened too much to the trees and the streams: now I speak to them as if they were goatherds. My soul is unmoved and bright as the mountains in the morning. But they think I am cold and a mocker making scary jokes. And now they look at me and laugh: and laughing, they still hate me. There is ice in their laughter.”

6

But then something happened that silenced every mouth and made every eye stare. In the meantime, of course, the tight-rope walker had begun his work. He had come out of a little door and was walking across the rope. The rope was stretched between two towers and so it hung over the people and the market square. Just as he had reached the middle of his path, the little door opened again. A brightly-dressed fellow, like a jester, sprang out and followed the first man with quick steps. “Go on, lame-foot!” cried his fearsome voice, “Go on, lazybones, intruder, pale-face! Or I’ll tickle you with my heels! What are you doing here between towers? You belong in the tower, you should be locked up, you are blocking the way of a better man than you!” And with each word, he came closer and closer to him. But when he was only a single step behind him, the dreadful thing happened that silenced every mouth and made every eye stare: he let out a cry like a devil and jumped over the man standing in his path. But the other man, when he saw his rival win like this, lost his head and his balance on the rope. He threw away his balancing pole and fell, even faster than the pole, like a whirlwind of arms and legs. The market square and the people were like a sea in a storm: they scattered in disorder, especially where the body was about to crash down.

But Zarathustra remained still, and the body fell quite close to him. It was badly injured and broken but not yet dead. After a while, the shattered man regained consciousness and saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What are you doing?” he finally asked. “I’ve known for a long time that the Devil would trip me up. Now he’s dragging me to Hell: are you trying to stop him?”

“On my honor, friend,” answered Zarathustra, “everything you have spoken of does not exist: there is no Devil and no Hell. Your soul will be dead even before your body: therefore, fear nothing anymore!”

The man looked up mistrustfully. “If you are speaking the truth,” he said then, “I leave nothing behind when I leave life. I am not much more than an animal that has been taught to dance by beatings and starvation.”

“Not so,” said Zarathustra. “You have made danger your profession; there is nothing in that to look down on. Now you die because of your profession: so I will bury you with my own hands.”

When Zarathustra had said this, the dying man replied no more. But he moved his hand, as if he were looking for Zarathustra’s hand to thank him.

7

Meanwhile, evening had come, and the market square was hidden in darkness. Then the people left, for even curiosity and terror get tiring. But Zarathustra sat on the ground beside the dead man and was deep in thought. So, he forgot the time. But at last, it became night, and a cold wind blew over the lonely figure. Then Zarathustra got up and said to his heart:

“Truly, Zarathustra has had a good catch today! He caught no human, but he did catch a corpse.”

Human life is strange and still has no meaning. A jester can bring it to a fatal end. I want to teach people the meaning of their existence. This meaning is the Superman, who is like lightning from the dark cloud of humanity. But I am still far from them, and my message does not connect with their minds. To these people, I am still a mix between a fool and a corpse. The night is dark, and Zarathustra’s paths are dark. Come, my cold and stiff companion! I am going to carry you to the place where I will bury you with my own hands.

8

After Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he lifted the corpse onto his back and started walking. He had not gone a hundred steps when a man snuck up to him and whispered in his ear. And look! It was the jester from the tower who spoke to him. “Go away from this town, O Zarathustra,” he said. “Too many people here hate you. The good and the just hate you and call you their enemy and someone who despises them. The believers of the true faith hate you, and they call you a danger to the people. It was lucky for you that they laughed at you. And truly, you spoke like a jester. It was lucky for you that you associated with the dead dog (the corpse). By lowering yourself like that, you have saved yourself for today. But leave this town – or tomorrow I will jump over you, a living man over a dead one.” And when he had said this, the man disappeared. Zarathustra, however, continued walking through the dark streets.

At the town gate, the gravediggers confronted him. They shone their torch in his face, recognized Zarathustra, and mocked him greatly. “Zarathustra is carrying the dead dog away! Excellent, Zarathustra has become a gravedigger! Our hands are too clean for this burnt offering. Does Zarathustra want to steal the Devil’s tasty bit of food? Good luck then! Enjoy your meal! But what if the Devil is a better thief than Zarathustra? He will steal them both, he will eat them both!” And they laughed and put their heads together.

Zarathustra said nothing and went on his way. After he had walked for two hours, past woods and swamps, he had heard too much hungry howling of wolves, and he himself grew hungry. So he stopped at a lonely house where a light was burning.

“Hunger has ambushed me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. My hunger has ambushed me in woods and swamps, and in the deep of night. My hunger has surprising moods. Often it only comes to me after mealtimes, and today it did not come at all. Where has it been?”

And with that, Zarathustra knocked on the door of the house. An old man appeared. He carried a light and asked, “Who comes here to me and to my troubled sleep?”

“A living man and a dead one,” said Zarathustra. “Give me food and drink; I forgot about them during the day. The one who feeds the hungry refreshes their own soul: this is what wisdom says.”

The old man went away but returned at once and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. “This is a bad country for hungry people,” he said. “That is why I live here. Animals and people come here to me, the hermit. But ask your companion to eat and drink too; he is more tired than you.” Zarathustra answered, “My companion is dead; I will hardly be able to persuade him.” “That has nothing to do with me,” said the old man grumpily. “Whoever knocks at my door must take what I offer them. Eat, and farewell!”

After that, Zarathustra walked for two more hours. He trusted the road and the light of the stars, for he was used to walking outside at night and liked to look at the faces of all sleeping things. But when morning dawned, Zarathustra found himself in a thick forest, and the road disappeared. Then he laid the dead man in a hollow tree, by his own head – for he wanted to protect him from the wolves – and laid himself down on the mossy ground. And immediately he fell asleep, tired in body but with a soul at peace.

9

Zarathustra slept for a long time. Not only the dawn but the morning too passed over his head. But at last, he opened his eyes. Zarathustra looked into the forest and the stillness with surprise. He looked into himself with surprise. Then he got up quickly, like a sailor who suddenly sees land, and he was joyful, for he saw a new truth. And then he spoke to his heart like this:

“A light has dawned for me! I need companions, living ones. I do not need dead companions and corpses that I carry with me wherever I want. But I need living companions who follow me because they want to follow themselves – and who want to go where I want to go. A light has dawned for me! Zarathustra shall not speak to the people but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be a shepherd and a dog to the herd! To lure many away from the herd – that is why I have come. The people and the herd will be angry with me. The shepherds will call Zarathustra a robber. I say shepherds, but they call themselves the good and the just. I say shepherds, but they call themselves the believers of the true faith. Look at the good and the just! Who do they hate most? They hate the one who smashes their tables of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker – but he is the creator. Look at the believers of all faiths! Who do they hate the most? They hate the one who smashes their tables of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker – but he is the creator. The creator seeks companions, not corpses or herds or believers. The creator seeks fellow-creators, those who write new values on new tables. The creator seeks companions and fellow-harvesters, for with him, everything is ripe for harvesting. But he is missing his hundred sickles, so he tears off the ears of corn and is annoyed. The creator seeks companions and those who know how to sharpen their sickles. They will be called destroyers and despisers of good and evil. But they are harvesters and rejoicers. Zarathustra seeks fellow-creators, fellow-harvesters, and fellow-rejoicers. What does he have to do with herds and shepherds and corpses! And you, my first companion, farewell! I have buried you well in your hollow tree. I have hidden you well from the wolves. But I am leaving you; the time has come. Between one dawn and the next, a new truth has come to me. I will not be a herdsman or a gravedigger. I will not speak again to the people. I have spoken to a dead man for the last time. I will join with creators, with harvesters, with rejoicers. I will show them the rainbow and the stairway to the Superman. I shall sing my song to the lone hermit and to hermits in pairs. And I will make the heart of anyone who still has ears for unheard-of things heavy with my happiness. I am heading for my goal; I go my way. I shall leap over the hesitant and the lazy. May my going forward be their going down!”

10

Zarathustra said this to his heart as the sun stood at noon. Then he looked questioningly into the sky – for he heard above him the sharp cry of a bird. And look! An eagle was sweeping through the air in wide circles. And from it was hanging a serpent, not like prey but like a friend, for it was coiled around the eagle’s neck.

“It is my animals!” said Zarathustra and rejoiced in his heart. “The proudest animal under the sun and the wisest animal under the sun – they have come scouting. They wanted to learn if Zarathustra was still alive. Am I, in fact, alive? I found it more dangerous among humans than among animals. Zarathustra is following dangerous paths. May my animals lead me!”

When Zarathustra had said this, he recalled the words of the saint in the forest, sighed, and spoke this way to his heart:

“I wish I were wise! I wish I were wise from the bottom of my heart, like my serpent! But I am asking for the impossible. Therefore, I ask my pride to always go along with my wisdom! And if one day my wisdom should leave me – ah, it loves to fly away! – then may my pride too fly with my foolishness!”

Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.

ZARATHUSTRA’S DISCOURSES Of the Three Metamorphoses

I will tell you about three changes the spirit goes through. First, the spirit becomes a camel. Then, the camel becomes a lion. And finally, the lion becomes a child.

The First Change: The Spirit as a Camel

There are many difficult things for the spirit. This is especially true for a strong spirit that is used to carrying weight and feels respect and awe. Its strength looks for heavy things, the heaviest things.

“What is heavy?” asks this weight-bearing spirit. It kneels like a camel and wants to be loaded up with a heavy burden.

“What is the heaviest thing, you heroes?” asks the weight-bearing spirit. “I want to take it on myself and feel good about my strength.”

Is it this:

• To put yourself down to hurt your own pride?
• To let your foolishness show to make fun of your own wisdom?

Or is it this:

• To abandon your cause just when it is winning?
• To climb high mountains to test the one who tempts you?

Or is it this:

• To feed on basic, rough knowledge (like acorns and grass)?
• And for the sake of truth, to let your soul go hungry?

Or is it this:

• To be sick and send away those who try to comfort you?
• To make friends with deaf people who never hear what you ask them?

Or is it this:

• To step into dirty water when it is the water of truth?
• And not to turn away from cold frogs and hot toads found there?

Or is it this:

• To love those who look down on us?
• And to offer our hand to a ghost when it wants to scare us?

The weight-bearing spirit takes all these heaviest things upon itself. It is like a camel loaded with goods, hurrying into the desert. That is how the spirit hurries into its own desert.

The Second Change: The Spirit as a Lion

But in the loneliest desert, the second change happens. Here, the spirit becomes a lion. The lion wants to capture freedom. It wants to be the master of its own desert.

Here, it looks for its ultimate master. It wants to be an enemy to this master and to its ultimate God. It will fight for victory against the great dragon.

What is this great dragon that the spirit no longer wants to call its master and God? The great dragon is called “Thou Shalt” (You Must). But the spirit of the lion says, “I Will!”

“Thou Shalt” lies in the lion’s path. It sparkles with gold, like a beast covered in scales. On every scale, the words “Thou Shalt” glitter in gold. Values from a thousand years ago glitter on these scales. And the mightiest of all dragons speaks: “All the values of things – they all glitter on me. All values have already been created. And all created values – they are part of me. Truly, there will be no more ‘I Will’!” This is what the dragon says.

My brothers, why is the lion needed in the spirit? Why isn’t the camel enough – the animal that carries burdens, gives things up, and is respectful?

To create new values – even the lion cannot do that. But to create freedom for new creation – the strength of the lion can do that. To create freedom for itself and to say a holy “No,” even to duty: the lion is needed for that, my brothers. To take the right to new values – that is the most terrifying thing for a spirit that is used to carrying burdens and being respectful. Truly, to this spirit, it feels like stealing, like something a predator would do. Once, this spirit loved “Thou Shalt” as the holiest thing. Now, it has to find illusion and whim even in the holiest things, so it can steal freedom from its love. The lion is needed for this theft.

The Third Change: The Spirit as a Child

But tell me, my brothers, what can the child do that even the lion cannot? Why must the preying lion still become a child?

The child is innocence and forgetting. It is a new beginning, a game, a wheel that spins by itself, a first movement, a holy “Yes.” Yes, my brothers, a holy “Yes” is needed for the game of creation. The spirit now wants its own will. The spirit that was separated from the world now wins its own world.

I have named for you three changes of the spirit:

1. How the spirit became a camel.
2. And how the camel became a lion.
3. And how the lion, finally, became a child.

Thus spoke Zarathustra. And at that time, he was living in the town called The Pied Cow.

Of the Chairs of Virtue

Zarathustra heard about a wise man who was praised for speaking well about sleep and virtue. This man was greatly honored and rewarded for his talks. All the young men would sit in front of his chair to listen. Zarathustra went to him and sat with all the young men before his chair. And this is what the wise man said:

The Wise Man on Sleep and Virtue

“Give honor to sleep and be humble before it! That is the first thing. And stay away from anyone who sleeps badly and stays awake at night! Even a thief feels ashamed when faced with sleep; he always steals quietly through the night. But the night-watchman is shameless; shamelessly he blows his horn. Sleeping is not a simple skill; you need to stay truly awake all day to do it well.

Here’s how to live for good sleep:

• You must overcome yourself ten times a day. This creates a good kind of tiredness and is like a soothing drug for the soul.
• Ten times a day, you must make peace with yourself again. Overcoming yourself can be a bitter experience, and a person who hasn’t found peace with themselves sleeps badly.
• You must discover ten truths a day. Otherwise, you will still be looking for truth at night, and your soul will remain hungry.
• You must laugh and be cheerful ten times a day. If you don’t, your stomach, that source of trouble, will bother you in the night.

Few people know this, but you must have all the virtues to sleep well.

• Should I lie?
• Should I cheat on my spouse?
• Should I desire my neighbor’s servant? None of these would lead to good sleep.

And even when you have all the virtues, there is still one more thing to remember: send even these virtues to sleep at the proper time. Don’t let them argue among themselves, these pretty little qualities! And especially not over you, you unhappy man!

Peace with God and with your neighbor: that’s what good sleep requires. And peace too with your neighbor’s devil. Otherwise, he will haunt you at night. Honor and obedience to the authorities, even to corrupt authorities! That’s what good sleep requires. How can I help it if power likes to take crooked paths? I will always call him the best shepherd who leads his sheep to the greenest fields. That goes along with good sleep.

I do not want much honor or great treasure; they stir up negative feelings. But one sleeps badly without a good reputation and a small amount of treasure. A few good companions are more welcome to me than bad company. But they must come and go at the proper time. That also goes along with good sleep. People who are ‘poor in spirit’ (humble or simple-minded) also please me greatly; they help promote sleep. They are indeed blessed and happy, especially if one always agrees with their opinions.

This is how the day passes for a virtuous man. And when night comes, I am very careful not to try to summon sleep! Sleep, the master of virtues, does not like to be called! Instead, I remember what I have done and thought during the day. Thinking it over, I ask myself, as patient as a cow: What were your ten acts of overcoming yourself today? And what were the ten times you made peace with yourself, the ten truths you found, and the ten fits of laughter that made your heart happy?

As I think about such things, rocked by my forty thoughts, sleep, the master of virtue, suddenly comes over me, uninvited. Sleep knocks on my eyes, and they grow heavy. Sleep touches my mouth, and it stays open. Truly, sleep comes to me on soft feet, the dearest of thieves, and steals my thoughts away. I stand as silent as this chair. But I do not stand for long: I am already lying down.”

Zarathustra’s Thoughts

When Zarathustra heard the wise man’s words, he laughed in his heart, for a new understanding had dawned on him. And he spoke to his heart like this:

“This wise man with his forty thoughts seems like a fool to me. But I believe he knows very well how to sleep. Happy is the person who lives near this wise man. Such sleep is contagious, even through a thick wall. There is even a magic spell in his teaching chair. And the young men have not sat listening to this preacher of virtue for nothing. His wisdom is this: stay awake (by living this cautious, controlled life) in order to sleep well. And truly, if life had no meaning and I had to choose some kind of nonsense, this would be the most desirable nonsense for me too.

Now it is clear to me what people were once looking for above all when they sought teachers of virtue. They were looking for good sleep and for virtues that would act like opium to bring it about! To all of these praised wise men in their academic chairs, wisdom meant sleep without dreams. They knew no better meaning for life. And even today, there are some like this preacher of virtue, and not always so honorable. But their time is over. And they will not stand for much longer; they are already lying down. Blessed are these sleepy men, for they will soon drift off.”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Afterworldsmen

Once, Zarathustra also let his mistaken ideas wander beyond humankind, just like all people who believe in an afterlife (the “afterworldsmen”). Back then, the world seemed to me like the creation of a God who was suffering and tormented. The world seemed like a dream and a story made up by a God. It was like colored smoke in front of the eyes of a dissatisfied God. Good and evil, joy and sorrow, “I” and “You” – I thought these were all just colored smoke in front of the creator’s eyes. The creator wanted to look away from himself, so he created the world. It is a thrilling joy for someone who is suffering to look away from their suffering and to forget themselves. Thrilling joy and self-forgetting – that is what I once thought the world was. This world, always imperfect, the eternal and imperfect image of a contradiction – a thrilling joy to its imperfect creator – that is what I once thought the world was. So, I too once let my mistaken ideas wander beyond humankind, like all afterworldsmen. Did they really go beyond humankind?

Ah, my brothers, this God that I created was made by humans and was a human madness, just like all gods! He was human, and only a poor piece of a human and of the self (the Ego). This ghost came to me from my own fire and ashes, that is the truth! It did not come to me from some “beyond”! What happened, my brothers? I, the sufferer, overcame myself. I carried my own ashes to the mountains. I made a brighter flame for myself. And look! The ghost fled from me! Now, for me, the one who is recovering, it would be suffering and torment to believe in such ghosts. It would be suffering to me now, and a humiliation. This is what I say to the afterworldsmen.

It was suffering and powerlessness – that is what created all afterworlds. And it was that short burst of insane happiness that only the greatest sufferer experiences. It was weariness that wanted to reach the very end with a single leap, a death-leap. A poor, ignorant weariness that no longer even wanted to want anything: that is what created all gods and afterworlds. Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the body – its confused spirit reached out and touched the ultimate limits. Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the earth – it heard the very core of existence speaking to it. And then it wanted to push its head through the ultimate walls – and not just its head – over into that “other world.”

But that “other world” is well hidden from humans. It is an inhuman, dehumanized world, a kind of heavenly Nothingness. And the core of existence does not speak to humans, except in human ways (through human understanding). Truly, all existence is hard to prove; it is hard to make it speak. Yet, tell me, brothers, isn’t the most wonderful of all things proven most clearly? Yes, this Self (the Ego), with its contradictions and confusion, speaks most honestly about its own existence. This creating, willing, judging Ego is the measure and value of all things. And this most honest being, the Ego – it speaks of the body. It insists on the body, even when it tells stories, makes things up, and flutters around with broken wings. The Ego learns to speak ever more honestly. And the more it learns, the more names and honors it finds for the body and the earth.

My Ego taught me a new pride, and I teach this pride to people: No longer bury your head in the sand of heavenly things. Instead, carry it freely – an earthly head that creates meaning for the earth! I teach humankind a new will: To desire this path that humans have followed blindly. To call this path good. And no longer to creep away from it, like the sick and dying!

It was the sick and dying who looked down on the body and the earth. They invented heavenly things and “redeeming drops of blood” (ideas of salvation in an afterlife). But even these sweet and sad poisons they took from the body and the earth! They wanted to escape from their misery, and the stars were too far away for them. Then they sighed: “Oh, if only there were heavenly paths to sneak into another existence and into happiness!” – then they invented for themselves their secret paths and their potions of blood! These ungrateful people thought they were carried away from their bodies and from this earth. Yet, what do they owe the excitement and joy of their spiritual journey to? To their bodies and to this earth.

Zarathustra is gentle with the sick. Truly, he is not angry at their ways of comforting themselves or their ingratitude. May they recover, overcome their sickness, and make for themselves a higher, stronger body! Zarathustra is also not angry with a recovering person if they look fondly at their past illusions or sneak around at midnight to the grave of their God. But even their tears still tell me of sickness and a sick body. There have always been many sickly people among those who invent stories and long for God. They have a furious hatred for the enlightened person and for that youngest of virtues, which is called honesty. They are always looking back to dark ages. In those times, indeed, illusion and faith were different matters. Raving reason was seen as godliness, and doubt was seen as sin. I know these god-like people all too well. They want others to believe in them, and they want doubt to be a sin. I also know all too well what they themselves most firmly believe in. Truly, it’s not in afterworlds or redeeming drops of blood. They believe most firmly in the body. Their own body is, for them, the ultimate reality (their “thing-in-itself”). But their body is a sickly thing to them, and they would dearly love to get out of their own skins. That is why they listen to preachers of death and themselves preach about afterworlds.

Listen instead, my brothers, to the voice of the healthy body. This is a purer voice and a more honest one. The healthy body, perfect and strong, speaks more purely and honestly. And it speaks of the meaning of the earth.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Despisers of the Body

I want to speak to those who look down on the body. My advice to them is not to learn new things or teach new things. Instead, they should just say farewell to their own bodies – and become silent.

A child says, “I am body and soul.” And why shouldn’t we speak like children? But the awakened, the enlightened person says: “I am all body, and nothing else. ‘Soul’ is just a word for something that is part of the body.” The body has a great intelligence. It is like many parts with one purpose, a war and a peace, a herd of animals and a shepherd guiding them.

My brother, your “little intelligence,” which you call “spirit,” is also a tool of your body. It’s a small instrument and a toy for your body’s great intelligence. You say “I” and you are proud of this word. But something is greater than this – even though you won’t believe it. That greater thing is your body and its great intelligence. It doesn’t just say “I”; it does “I.”

What your senses feel and what your spirit understands are never goals in themselves. But your senses and spirit try to convince you that they are the purpose of everything. They are that vain. Senses and spirit are tools and toys. Behind them still lies the Self. The Self uses the eyes of your senses to seek. It also listens with the ears of your spirit. The Self is always listening and seeking. It compares, controls, conquers, and destroys. It rules, and it is also the ruler of your “I” (your Ego).

Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, stands a mighty commander, an unknown wise being – it is called the Self. It lives in your body; it is your body. There is more reason in your body than in your best wisdom. And who knows why your body needs precisely your best wisdom? Your Self laughs at your Ego and its proud leaps of thought. “What are these leaps and flights of thought to me?” it says to itself. “They are just a detour to my goal. I am the Ego’s guide, and I give it its ideas.”

The Self says to the Ego: “Feel pain!” Then the Ego suffers and thinks about how to end its suffering – and it is meant to think for exactly that purpose. The Self says to the Ego: “Feel joy!” Then the Ego rejoices and thinks about how it can rejoice often – and it is meant to think for exactly that purpose.

I want to say a word to those who despise the body. It is their own way of valuing things that leads to this disrespect. What is it that created value and disrespect, worth and will? The creative Self created value and disrespect for itself. It created joy and sorrow for itself. The creative body created spirit for itself, like a hand to carry out its will.

Even in your foolishness and contempt, you who despise the body, you are serving your Self. I tell you: your Self actually wants to die and turn away from life. Your Self can no longer do what it most wants to do: to create something beyond itself. That is what it desires most; that is its entire passion. But now it is too late for that. So your Self wants to perish, you despisers of the body. Your Self wants to die, and that is why you have become despisers of the body! It is because you are no longer able to create beyond yourselves. And that is why you are now angry with life and with the earth. An unconscious envy lies in the sideways glance of your contempt.

I do not follow your path, you despisers of the body! You are not bridges to the Superman!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Joys and Passions

My brother, if you have a virtue, and it is truly your own virtue, you don’t share it with anyone else in the same way. Of course, you want to give it a name and treat it fondly. You want to play with it and admire it. But look! Once you give it a common name, your virtue becomes like everyone else’s. You and your virtue become part of the crowd, the herd!

It would be better for you to say: “That which both pains and delights my soul, and which is also the hunger in my stomach, is something that cannot be fully expressed or named.” Let your virtue be too special, too elevated for everyday names. And if you must speak of it, don’t be ashamed to hesitate or “stammer.”

So, speak and stammer like this: “This is my good. This is what I love. I like it just the way it is. This is the only way I want the good to be. I don’t want it as a law from God. I don’t want it as a human rule or law. Let it not be a signpost pointing to heavens or paradises. It is an earthly virtue that I love. There is little cleverness in it, and certainly not what people call common sense. But this bird has built its nest under my roof. Therefore, I love and protect it. Now it sits there on its golden eggs.” This is how you should stammer and praise your virtue.

Once, you had passions, and you called them evil. But now, you only have your virtues. They grew out of your passions. You placed your highest goals into the heart of these passions. Then, they became your virtues and your joys. And even if you came from people who were quick-tempered, or full of lust, or fanatical, or vengeful: In the end, all your passions have become virtues, and all your devils have become angels. Once, you had fierce dogs in your cellar (your untamed drives). But at last, they changed into birds and sweet singers. From your own poison, you made your healing balm. You milked your cow, “Affliction” (suffering), and now you drink the sweet milk from her udder.

And from now on, nothing evil shall come out of you, unless it is the evil that comes from the conflict among your own virtues. My brother, if you are lucky, you will have only one virtue and no more. This way, you will cross the bridge of life more easily. To have many virtues makes you stand out, but it is a difficult fate. Many a person has gone into the desert and killed themselves because they were tired of being a battle and a battleground for their virtues.

My brother, are war and battle evil? But this kind of “evil” is necessary. Envy, mistrust, and negative talk among your virtues are necessary. Look how each of your virtues wants the highest place. It wants your entire spirit to be its announcer. It wants all your strength, whether in anger, hate, or love. Every virtue is jealous of the others, and jealousy is a terrible thing. Even virtues can be destroyed by jealousy. The person who is surrounded by the flames of jealousy eventually turns their poisoned sting against themselves, like a scorpion. Ah, my brother, have you never yet seen a virtue turn upon itself and stab itself?

Humans are something that must be overcome. And for that reason, you must love your virtues – for you will perish by them (they will drive you to your own transformation or end).

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Pale Criminal

You judges and those who make sacrifices, don’t you wait to kill until the animal has bowed its neck in submission? Look, the pale criminal has bowed his neck. His eyes show his great contempt for himself. “My Ego (my ‘I’) is something that should be overcome. My Ego is, to me, the great human failing,” this is what his eyes say. He judged himself – that was his highest moment. Do not let this elevated man fall back into his low condition! There is no salvation for someone who suffers from himself like this, except for a quick death.

Your killing, you judges, should be an act of mercy, not revenge. And since you kill, make sure that you yourselves are justifying life! It is not enough for you to make peace with the one you kill. May your sorrow be a love for the Superman. That is how you will justify your own continued living! You should say “enemy,” but not “wicked person.” You should say “sick person,” but not “scoundrel.” You should say “fool,” but not “sinner.”

And you, scarlet judge, if you were to say out loud all the things you have done in your thoughts, everyone would cry, “Get rid of this filth and poisonous snake!” But a thought is one thing, an action is another, and the image or memory of the action is yet another. The wheel of cause and effect does not roll smoothly between them.

An image made this pale man pale. He was equal to his action when he did it. But he could not stand the image of it after it was done. Now, he forever saw himself as the doer of that one action. I call this madness: for him, the one exceptional event became the rule for his whole life. A chalk line on the floor can transfix a hen; the blow he struck transfixed his simple mind. I call this “madness after the deed.”

Listen, you judges! There is another kind of madness as well, and it comes before the deed. Ah, you have not looked deep enough into this soul! The scarlet judge says: “Why did this criminal murder? He wanted to steal.” But I tell you: his soul wanted blood, not loot. He thirsted for the joy of using the knife! But his simple mind did not understand this madness, and it convinced him otherwise. “What good is blood?” it said. “Won’t you at least commit a theft too? Take some revenge?” And he listened to his simple mind. Its words lay on him like lead. So he robbed as he murdered. He did not want to be ashamed of his madness. And now again, the lead weight of his guilt lies on him. And again, his simple mind is so numb, so paralyzed, so heavy. If only he could shake his head, his burden would roll off. But who can shake this head?

What is this man? He is a heap of diseases that reach out into the world through his spirit. There, they want to catch their prey. What is this man? He is a knot of savage serpents that are rarely at peace among themselves. So they go out alone to seek prey in the world.

Look at this poor body! This poor soul tried to understand what this body suffered and desired. It interpreted these feelings as a lust for murder and a greed for the joy of the knife. The evil that is now considered evil overtakes him who is now becoming sick. He wants to cause harm with that which harms him. But there have been other times and other ideas of evil and good. Once, doubt and the will to have a Self were considered evil. Then, the sick person became a heretic or a witch. As a heretic and witch, this person suffered and wanted to cause suffering. But this idea will not enter your ears; you tell me it hurts your “good people.” But what are your good people to me? Much about your good people disgusts me, and I don’t mean their “evil.” How I wish they had a kind of madness that would make them perish, like this pale criminal! Truly, I wish their madness was called truth, or loyalty, or justice. But they have their virtues only so they can live a long time and in a miserable, comfortable ease.

I am a railing beside a rushing stream. Whoever can grasp me, let him grasp me! However, I am not your crutch.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Reading and Writing

Of all the things people write, I only love what is written with blood. If you write with blood, you will discover that blood is spirit. It is not easy to understand someone else’s blood (their deep, personal truth). I hate readers who are just lazy and don’t make an effort. A writer who truly understands readers eventually stops trying to please them. If we have another century of just any kind of readers, the spirit itself will start to stink (become corrupted or common). The fact that everyone can learn to read will, in the long run, ruin not only writing but also thinking. Once, the spirit was seen as God. Then it became human. And now, it is even becoming like the mob (common and unthinking).

Someone who writes in blood and in short, powerful statements (aphorisms) does not want to be merely read. They want their words to be learned by heart. In the mountains, the shortest path is from one peak to another. But for that, you need long legs. Aphorisms should be like mountain peaks, and the people they are spoken to should be strong and capable of reaching them.

The air should be thin and pure. Danger should be near. And the spirit should be full of a joyful sense of mischief. These things go well together. I want playful spirits (hobgoblins) around me because I am courageous. Courage that scares away ghosts creates its own playful challenges. Courage wants to laugh.

I no longer feel the same way you do. This cloud that I see below me, this darkness and heaviness that I laugh at – this is precisely what you see as your thunder-cloud. You look up when you want to feel uplifted or exalted. But I look down because I am exalted. Who among you can laugh and be exalted at the same time? The person who climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, whether they are real or imaginary.

Untroubled, scornful, and outrageous – that is how wisdom wants us to be. Wisdom is like a woman, and she never loves anyone but a warrior. You tell me, “Life is hard to bear.” But if it were easy, why would you have your pride in the morning and your acceptance of hardship in the evening? Life is hard to bear, but don’t pretend to be so delicate! We are all pretty strong beasts of burden, like donkeys! What do we have in common with a rosebud that trembles because a single drop of dew is lying 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 a certain madness in love. But there is also always a certain logic or method in madness.

And to me too, as someone who loves life, it seems that butterflies and soap bubbles, and anything among humans that is like them, know the most about happiness. To see these light, foolish, delicate, and touching little souls flutter about – that moves Zarathustra to tears and to song. I would only believe in a God who knew how to dance.

And when I looked at my devil, I found him to be serious, thorough, deep, and solemn. He was the Spirit of Gravity – it is through him that all things are ruined. One does not kill with anger but with laughter. Come, let us kill the Spirit of Gravity!

I have learned to walk; since then, I have run. I have learned to fly; since then, I do not need to be pushed to move. Now I am light and quick, now I fly, now I see myself from above, now a god dances within me.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Tree on the Mountainside

Zarathustra had noticed that a young man was avoiding him. One evening, as Zarathustra was walking alone in the mountains near the town called The Pied Cow, he found this young man. The young man was leaning against a tree and looking tiredly into the valley. Zarathustra took hold of the tree beside which the young man was sitting and said:

“If I wanted to shake this tree with my hands, I would not be able to do it. But the wind, which we cannot see, troubles it and bends it any way it wishes. It is invisible hands that torment and bend us the most.”

At that, the young man stood up, confused. He said, “I hear Zarathustra, and I was just thinking of him.” Zarathustra replied, “Why are you alarmed by that? It is the same with people as it is with this tree. The more it wants to rise into the heights and the light, the more strongly its roots push down into the earth, into the darkness, into the depths – into what some call evil.”

“Yes, into evil!” cried the young man. “How is it possible that you can see into my soul?” Zarathustra smiled and said, “There are many souls one will never understand, unless one first imagines what they might be like.” “Yes, into evil!” cried the young man again. “You have spoken the truth, Zarathustra. Since I wanted to rise into the heights, I have no longer trusted myself, and no one trusts me anymore. How did this happen? I change too quickly. My today contradicts my yesterday. When I climb, I often skip steps, and no step forgives me for that. When I am high up, I always find myself alone. No one speaks to me. The coldness of solitude makes me tremble. What do I really want in the heights? My contempt and my desire grow together. The higher I climb, the more I look down on anyone who climbs. What do I want in the heights? How ashamed I am of my climbing and stumbling! How I hate my own heavy breathing! How I hate the person who can fly! How tired I am in the heights!”

Here the young man fell silent. Zarathustra looked at the tree beside which they were standing and then said:

“This tree stands here alone on the mountainside. It has grown up high above humans and animals. And if it wanted to speak, it would find no one who understood it, because it has grown so high. Now it waits and waits – but what is it waiting for? It lives too close to where the clouds are. Is it waiting, perhaps, for the first lightning strike?”

When Zarathustra said this, the young man cried out with strong gestures, “Yes, Zarathustra, you speak the truth! I wanted my own destruction when I wanted to climb into the heights, and you are the lightning I have been waiting for! Look, what have I been since you appeared among us? It is envy of you that has destroyed me!” The young man spoke like this and wept bitterly. But Zarathustra put his arm around him and led him away.

And when they had been walking together for a while, Zarathustra began to speak:

“It breaks my heart. Your eyes tell me all about your danger, even better than your words do. You are not yet free; you are still searching for freedom. Your search has made you tired and too alert, unable to rest. You long for the open heights; your soul thirsts for the stars. But your bad instincts also thirst for freedom. Your fierce inner ‘dogs’ (your wild desires) long for freedom. They bark for joy in their cellar when your spirit tries to break open all prisons. To me, you are still like a prisoner who only imagines freedom. Ah, such prisoners of the soul become clever, but also deceitful and mean. Even the person who is spiritually free must still purify themselves. Much of the prison and the rottenness still remain within them. Their way of seeing things still has to become pure.

Yes, I know your danger. But, by my love and hope, I beg you: do not reject your love and hope! You still feel that you are noble. And others too, who dislike you and give you evil looks, still feel you are noble. You must learn that everyone finds a noble person to be an obstacle. Even ‘good’ people find the noble person an obstacle. And even when they call such a person ‘good,’ they often do it only because they want to get rid of them. The noble person wants to create new things and a new kind of virtue. The ‘good’ person wants the old things, and for the old things to be kept safe. But that is not the main danger for the noble person – that they might become a ‘good’ person (in the conventional sense). The danger is that they might become arrogant, a mocker, a destroyer. Alas, I have known noble people who lost their highest hope. And from then on, they spoke badly of all high hopes. From then on, they lived shamelessly for brief pleasures, and they hardly had any goals beyond the current day. ‘Spirit is also a kind of sensual pleasure’ – that’s what they said. Then the wings of their spirit broke. Now their spirit creeps around and makes dirty whatever it feeds on. Once they thought of becoming heroes. Now they are just pleasure-seekers. The hero is, to them, a source of pain and terror. But, by my love and hope, I beg you: do not reject the hero in your soul! Keep your highest hope sacred!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Preachers of Death

There are people who preach about death. And the earth is full of people who need to hear this message about leaving life. The earth is full of too many people, the “superfluous.” Life has been spoiled by having far too many. Let these people be tempted by the idea of “eternal life” so they will leave this life! These preachers of death might be called “yellow men” or “black men,” but those are just labels. I want to show you these preachers in their other true colors, by describing their different types.

Here are some types of those who preach death:

• The Tormented Ones: There are dreadful people who carry a wild beast of prey inside them. They have no choice except to follow their lusts or to punish themselves severely. Even their lusts are a form of self-punishment. These dreadful people have not even become fully human yet. Let them preach about leaving life, and then let them leave it themselves!

• Those with Sick Souls: There are those whose souls are like a wasting disease (consumptives). They are hardly born before they begin to die. They long for teachings about weariness and giving up. They would like to be dead, and we should agree with their wish! Let us be careful not to awaken these “dead” people or to damage these “living coffins.”

• Those Who Judge Life by Single Instances: They meet a sick person, an old person, or a corpse. Immediately they say, “Life is proven worthless!” But only they are proven worthless, they and their eyes that see only one small part of existence. Wrapped in deep sadness, and longing for the small accidents that bring death, they wait and clench their teeth.

• Those Who Cling to Life While Mocking It: Or, they snatch at sweets (small pleasures) and, in doing so, make fun of their own childishness. They cling to their “straw of life” and mock themselves because they are still clinging to a mere straw. Their wisdom says: “Anyone who goes on living is a fool, but we are such fools! And that is precisely the most foolish thing in life!”

• Those Who Say Life Is Only Suffering: “Life is only suffering” – this is what others among them say, and they are not lying. So, make sure that you stop living! Make sure that the life which is only suffering comes to an end! And let the teaching of your virtue be: “You shall kill yourself! You shall steal yourself away from life!”

• Those Who Preach Against Procreation: “Lust is sin” – say some who preach death – “so let us go aside and not have children!” “Giving birth is hard work” – say others – “why go on giving birth? One only gives birth to unhappy children!” And they too are preachers of death.

• Those Who Pity and Give (Binding Others to Life): “People are to be pitied” – this is what others say. “Take what I have! Take what I am! By giving these things away, I am less tied to life!” If they were truly compassionate from the very bottom of their hearts, they would try to make their neighbors disgusted with life. To be “evil” in that way – encouraging an end to a life they see as pitiful – would be their true form of good. But they want to escape from life themselves. What does it matter to them if, with their chains and gifts, they bind others even more firmly to it?

And you too, for whom life is endless work and worry, are you not very tired of life? Are you not very ready for the sermon of death? All of you who love restless work, and things that are swift, new, and strange – you find it hard to endure yourselves. Your hard work is a kind of escape and a wish to forget yourselves. If you believed more in life, you would devote yourselves less to the present moment. But you do not have enough ability to wait – or even for laziness!

Everywhere, the voices of those who preach death can be heard. And the earth is full of those to whom death must be preached. Or they preach “eternal life” – it is all the same to me, as long as they pass away quickly!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of War and Warriors

We do not want our best enemies to go easy on us. We also don’t want this from those we love with all our hearts. So let me tell you the truth!

My brothers in war! I love you with all my heart. I am and have always been one of your kind. And I am also your best enemy. So let me tell you the truth! I know about the hatred and envy in your hearts. You are not great enough to be free of hatred and envy. So, be great enough not to be ashamed of these feelings! And if you cannot be saints of knowledge, at least be its warriors. Warriors are the companions and pioneers of such sainthood.

I see many soldiers. If only I could see many warriors! What they wear is called a uniform. Let’s hope that what they hide underneath it is not also uniform and lacking individuality! You should be the kind of people who are always looking for an enemy – for your enemy. And for some of you, there is hatred at first sight. You should seek out your enemy. You should fight your war – a war for your opinions. And if your opinion is defeated, your honesty should still celebrate a victory over that!

You should love peace as a way to prepare for new wars. And love a short peace more than a long one. I do not urge you to work, but to battle. I do not urge you to peace, but to victory. May your work be a battle, and may your peace be a victory! One can only be silent and sit still when one has an arrow and bow (is prepared and strong). Otherwise, one just babbles and quarrels. May your peace be a victory!

You say it is the good cause that makes even war holy. I tell you: it is the good war that makes every cause holy. War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your pity, but your bravery has saved unfortunate people up to now. “What is good?” you ask. To be brave is good. Let the little girls say: “To be good is to be what is pretty and also touching.”

People call you heartless. But your heart is true, and I love the humility in your kindness. You feel ashamed when your emotions overflow, while others feel ashamed when their emotions run dry. Are you ugly? Very well, my brothers! Wrap yourselves in the sublime – wear the cloak of ugliness proudly, as a sign of your inner greatness! And when your soul grows great, it grows arrogant. There is a kind of “wickedness” (a strength that goes beyond simple good) in your greatness. I know you. In this “wickedness,” the arrogant person and the weak person meet. But they misunderstand one another. I know you.

You may have enemies whom you hate, but not enemies whom you despise (look down on). You must be proud of your enemy. Then the success of your enemy will also be your success. To rebel – that shows nobility in a slave. Let your nobility show itself in obeying! Let even your commanding be an act of obedience (to a higher purpose)! To a good warrior, “you must” sounds more agreeable than “I will.” And everything that is dear to you, you should first have it commanded to you (by your higher purpose).

Let your love for life be love for your highest hope. And let your highest hope be the highest idea of life! But you should let me recommend your highest idea to you – and it is: Humans are something that should be overcome. So, live your life of obedience (to this idea) and war (struggle)! What good is a long life? What warrior wants to be spared from challenges? I do not spare you; I love you with all my heart, my brothers in war!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the New Idol

There are still true peoples and communities somewhere in the world, but not here with us, my brothers. Here, there are only states. The state? What is that? Well then! Now open your ears, because I am going to tell you about the death of peoples.

The state is the coldest of all cold monsters. It also tells cold lies. This lie creeps from its mouth: “I, the state, am the people.” That is a lie! It was creators who formed peoples. They gave them a shared faith and a common love. That is how they served life. It is destroyers who set traps for many people and call it the state. They hang a sword and a hundred desires over these people.

Where a true people still exists, they do not understand the state. They hate it as if it were an evil eye or a sin against their customs and laws. I offer you this sign: every people speaks its own language of good and evil. Its neighbor does not understand this language. Each people invented its language for itself through its customs and laws. But the state tells lies in all languages of good and evil. Whatever it says, it lies. And whatever it has, it has stolen. Everything about the state is false. It bites with stolen teeth. Even its insides are false. A confusion of the language of good and evil: I offer you this sign as the sign of the state. Truly, this sign points to the will to death! Truly, it calls out to the preachers of death!

Too many people are born: the state was invented for these superfluous people (those who are not needed, the excess)! Just see how it lures them, the many-too-many! See how it devours them, chews them up, and chews them again! “There is nothing greater on earth than I! I am the guiding finger of God!” – this is how the monster bellows. And it’s not only the long-eared and short-sighted who fall to their knees! Ah, it whispers its sad lies to you too, you great souls! Ah, it senses the generous hearts that like to give themselves away freely! Yes, it senses you too, you conquerors of the old God! You grew tired in your battle, and now your tiredness serves this new idol! This new idol would like to gather heroes and honorable people around itself! It likes to warm itself in the sunshine of good consciences – this cold monster! It will give you everything if you worship it, this new idol. That is how it buys the shine of your virtues and the glance of your proud eyes. It wants to use you to lure the many-too-many. Yes, a clever trick from Hell has been invented here, a horse of death jingling with the decorations of divine honors! Yes, a kind of death for many has been invented here, a death that praises itself as life. Truly, it is a heartfelt service to all preachers of death!

I call it the state where everyone, good and bad, drinks poison. The state is where everyone, good and bad, loses themselves. The state is where widespread, slow suicide is called – “life.”

Just look at these superfluous people! They steal the works of inventors and the treasures of wise people. They call their theft “culture” – and they turn everything into sickness and disaster. Just look at these superfluous people! They are always sick. They vomit their bile and call it a newspaper. They devour one another and cannot even digest themselves. Just look at these superfluous people! They gather wealth and become poorer because of it. They desire power, and especially the lever of power – lots of money – these powerless people! See them climb, these quick little apes! They climb over one another and so they scramble into the mud and the abyss. They all try to get to the throne. It is a madness they have – as if happiness sat on the throne! Often, filth sits on the throne – and often the throne sits on filth too. They all seem like madmen to me, like climbing apes, and too frantic. Their idol, that cold monster, smells unpleasant to me. All of them, all these idol-worshippers, smell unpleasant to me.

My brothers, do you really want to suffocate in the fumes of their animal-like mouths and appetites? It is better to break the window and leap into the open air. Avoid this bad smell! Leave the idol-worship of the superfluous! Avoid this bad smell! Leave the smoke of these human sacrifices!

The earth still remains free for great souls. Many places – with the scent of calm seas blowing around them – are still empty for individuals and couples who seek solitude. A free life still remains for great souls. Truly, the person who possesses little is possessed so much less by things. Let us praise a moderate poverty! Only there, where the state ends, does the person who is not superfluous begin. There, the song of the necessary person, the unique and irreplaceable melody, begins. There, where the state ends – look there, my brothers. Do you not see it: the rainbow and the bridges to the Superman?

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Flies of the Market-place

Flee, my friend, into your solitude! I see that you are deafened by the noise of the “great men” and pricked by the stings of the small ones. The forest and the rocks know well how to be silent with you. Be like the tree again, the wide-branching tree that you love. Calmly and attentively, it leans out over the sea. Where solitude ends, that is where the market-place begins. And where the market-place begins, there begins the noise of the great actors and the buzzing of the poisonous flies.

In the world, even the best things have no value unless someone presents them. People call these presenters “great men.” The common people have little understanding of true greatness, which is creativeness. But they do enjoy all presenters and actors who put on a show of great things. The world truly revolves around the inventors of new values, though this happens quietly, almost unseen. But the people and public glory revolve around the actor. That is “the way of the world.”

The actor has spirit, but little true understanding or conscience of that spirit. He always believes in whatever helps him make others believe in him most strongly! Tomorrow he will have a new faith, and the day after tomorrow, an even newer one. He has quick perceptions, just like the common people, and a changeable mood. To overthrow something – for him, that means to prove his point. To drive people into a frenzy – for him, that means to convince them. And blood is, for him, the best of all arguments. A truth that only sensitive ears can understand, he calls a lie and worthless. Truly, he only believes in gods who make a great noise in the world!

The market-place is full of serious-looking clowns – and the people boast about their “great men!” These are their heroes of the moment. But the moment pressures these heroes, so they, in turn, pressure you. And from you too, they demand a “Yes” or a “No.” And it will be bad for you if you try to set your chair between “For” and “Against.” Do not be jealous, you lover of truth, because of these rigid and demanding men! Truth has never yet held onto the arm of an inflexible man. Return to your place of safety because of these abrupt men. Only in the market-place is one attacked with demands for a simple “Yes?” or “No?”

The wisdom from all deep wells comes slowly. They must wait a long time to know what has fallen into their depths. All great things happen away from public glory and the market-place. The inventors of new values have always lived away from glory and the market-place. Flee, my friend, into your solitude! I see you are being stung by poisonous flies. Flee to where the raw, rough breeze blows!

Flee into your solitude! You have lived too close to small and pitiful people. Flee from their hidden desire for revenge! Towards you, they feel nothing but vengeance. Do not raise your arm against them anymore! They are countless, and it is not your destiny to be a fly-swat. These small and pitiful people are innumerable. And many proud buildings have already been destroyed by mere raindrops and weeds. You are not a stone, but already these many drops have made you hollow. You will yet break and burst apart because of these many drops. I see you are tired from the poisonous flies. I see you are bloodily torn in a hundred places. And your pride refuses even to be angry. They want blood from you in all innocence. Their bloodless souls thirst for blood – and so they sting in all innocence.

But you, profound man, you suffer too deeply even from small wounds. And before you have recovered, the same poison-worm is crawling over your hand again. You are too proud to kill these creatures who have a sweet tooth for your lifeblood. But be careful that it does not become your fate to bear all their poisonous injustice! They buzz around you even with their praise. And their praise is an annoying intrusion. They want to be near your skin and your blood. They flatter you as if you were a god or a devil. They whine before you as if before a god or a devil. What does it matter! They are flatterers and whiners, and nothing more. And they are often kind to you. But that has always been the cleverness of cowards. Yes, cowards are clever!

They think about you a great deal with their narrow souls – you always make them suspicious. Everything that is thought about a great deal is eventually considered suspicious. They punish you for all your virtues. In the end, they only forgive you for your mistakes. Because you are gentle and fair-minded, you say, “They are not to be blamed for their small existence.” But their little souls think, “All great existence is blameworthy.” Even when you are gentle towards them, they still feel that you despise them. And they return your kindness with secret unkindness. Your silent pride always offends their taste. They rejoice if you are ever modest enough to be vain. When we recognize a unique trait in a person, we also tend to provoke or intensify that trait. So guard yourself against the small people! In your presence, they feel small. And their lowliness glimmers and glows against you in hidden vengeance. Have you not noticed how often they became silent when you approached them? And how their strength left them like smoke from a dying fire? Yes, my friend, you are a bad conscience to your neighbors, because they are unworthy of you. So they hate you and would dearly like to suck your blood. Your neighbors will always be poisonous flies. That which is great about you must itself make them more poisonous and ever more like flies. Flee, my friend, into your solitude and to where the raw, rough breeze blows! It is not your destiny to be a fly-swat.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Chastity

I love the forest. It is bad to live in towns because too many lustful people live there. Isn’t it better to fall into the hands of a murderer than into the dreams of a lustful woman? And just look at these men: their eyes reveal it – they know of nothing better on earth than to lie with a woman. There is filth at the bottom of their souls. It is even worse if this filth still has some “spirit” or intellect mixed in with it! If only you had become perfect at least as animals are! Animals possess innocence.

Do I tell you to kill your senses? No, I tell you to have an innocence of the senses. Do I tell you to be chaste (to abstain from sexual activity)? For some people, chastity is a virtue. But for many, it is almost a vice (a bad habit or moral failing). These people do abstain, it is true. But the nasty dog, Sensuality, looks out with envy from everything they do. This restless beast (their repressed desire) follows them even into the highest points of their virtue and into the cold depths of their spirit. And how cleverly this dog, Sensuality, knows how to beg for a piece of spirit when a piece of flesh is denied to her!

Do you love tragedies and everything that breaks the heart? I am suspicious of your dog, Sensuality. Your eyes are too cruel for me; you look at those who suffer with a kind of lust. Hasn’t your own lewdness just disguised itself and called itself pity? And I offer you this short story as an example: More than a few people who tried to drive out their inner devil ended up becoming like the swine themselves (becoming consumed by what they tried to reject).

Those people for whom chastity is difficult should be advised against it. Otherwise, it might become the way to Hell – that is, to filth and a lustful corruption of the soul. Am I speaking of dirty things? That does not seem to me the worst thing I could do. It’s not when truth is “dirty” (unpleasant or difficult) that the enlightened person dislikes getting into it. It’s when truth is shallow. Truly, there are those who are chaste from the very bottom of their hearts. They are more gentle-hearted, and they laugh more often and more heartily than you do. They even laugh at chastity itself and ask: “What is chastity? Is chastity not a kind of foolishness? But this foolishness came to us; we did not go to it. We offered this guest (chastity) love and a place to stay. Now it lives with us – let it stay as long as it wishes!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Friend

The hermit (one who lives alone) says: “One person around me is always one too many. If it’s always just ‘one and one’ – in the long run, that makes two!” My inner “I” and “Me” are always talking too seriously with each other. How could anyone stand that if there wasn’t a friend? For the hermit, the friend is always the third person. This third person is like a cork that stops the conversation between the other two (the “I” and “Me”) from sinking into deep, dark places. Alas, for all hermits, there are too many deep places. That is why they long so much for a friend and for the uplifting company a friend brings.

Our faith in others shows what we wish we had faith in within ourselves. Our longing for a friend reveals this about us. And often, when we show love, we are only trying to jump over our own envy. And often, we attack someone and make an enemy just to hide that we ourselves can be easily attacked.

“At least be my enemy!” – this is what true respect says when it does not dare to ask for friendship. If you want a friend, you must also be willing to fight a war for them. And to fight a war, you must be capable of being an enemy. You should honor even the enemy within your friend. Can you get close to your friend without completely going over to their side (and losing yourself)? In your friend, you should have your best enemy. Your heart should feel closest to them when you are opposing them.

Do you want to show yourself completely naked to your friend? Do you show yourself as you are to honor your friend? But your friend might wish you to the Devil for it! Someone who hides nothing about themselves makes other people angry. That is how much reason you have to fear complete openness! If you were gods, you might then have reason to be ashamed of your clothes! You cannot dress yourself up too well for your friend. For you should be like an arrow to them, and a longing for the Superman.

Have you ever watched your friend asleep – to see what they looked like? Yet, your friend’s face when they are asleep is something else. It is like your own face, reflected in a rough and imperfect mirror. Have you ever watched your friend asleep? Were you not startled to see what they looked like? Oh, my friend, humans are something that must be overcome.

A friend should be a master at guessing what is needed and at keeping silent. You must not want to see everything about them. Your dreams should tell you what your friend does when they are awake. Let your pity be a kind of guess. First, find out if your friend even wants pity. Perhaps what they love in you is your clear, unwavering eye and your gaze that seems to see into eternity. Let your pity for your friend be hidden under a hard shell. You should have to break a tooth biting on it. That way, it will have a delicate and sweet quality.

Are you like pure air and solitude and bread and medicine to your friend? Many people cannot free themselves from their own chains, yet they can be a deliverer for their friend. Are you a slave? If so, you cannot be a friend. Are you a tyrant? If so, you cannot have friends.

In woman, a slave and a tyrant have been hidden for too long. For that reason, woman is not yet capable of friendship. She only knows love. In a woman’s love, there is injustice and blindness towards everything she does not love. And even in the enlightened love of a woman, there is still the unexpected attack, lightning, and night, along with the light. Woman is not yet capable of friendship. Women are still like cats and birds. Or, at best, like cows. Woman is not yet capable of friendship. But tell me, you men, which of you is yet capable of friendship? Oh, your poverty, you men, and your stinginess of soul! As much as you give to your friend, I will give even to my enemy, and I will not have become poorer by doing so.

There is comradeship (being companions). May there also be true friendship!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Thousand and One Goals

Zarathustra has seen many lands and many different peoples. By doing this, he has discovered the ideas of good and evil held by many peoples. Zarathustra has found no greater power on earth than these ideas of good and evil.

No group of people could live without judging what is good or bad (evaluating). But if a group wants to survive and maintain its identity, it must not judge things in the same way its neighbor does. Much that seemed good to one group of people seemed like shame and disgrace to another. This is what I found. I found that much of what was called evil in one place was honored with purple ribbons in another. One neighbor never understood another. Each one’s soul was always amazed at their neighbor’s madness and wickedness.

A “table of values” – a set of moral rules – hangs over every group of people. Look, it is the list of their “overcomings” (the challenges they have mastered). Look, it is the voice of their will to power (their drive to grow and exert strength). What a group considers difficult, it calls praiseworthy. What it considers essential and difficult, it calls good. And that which helps them in their greatest need, the rare thing, the hardest thing of all – it praises as holy. Whatever causes a group to rule, conquer, and shine brightly, making their neighbors afraid and envious – that is what they consider the highest, the most important thing, the standard for judging everything, and the meaning of all things.

Truly, my brother, if you only knew a people’s needs, their land, their sky, and their neighbors, you could surely figure out the law of their overcomings. You could see why they climb this particular ladder towards their hope.

• “You should always be the first and be better than all others. Your jealous soul should love no one, except your friend.” This rule made the soul of a Greek tremble with ambition. By following it, he followed his path to greatness.
• “To speak the truth and to know how to handle a bow and arrow well.” This seemed both valuable and difficult to the people from whom I got my name – a name that is both valuable and difficult for me.
• “To honor your father and mother and to do their will from the very roots of your soul.” Another group of people hung this table of overcoming above themselves, and with it, they became mighty and have lasted for ages.
• “To practice loyalty, and for the sake of loyalty, to risk honor and blood even in evil and dangerous situations.” Another group mastered itself with such teaching. By mastering itself this way, it became pregnant and heavy with great hopes.

Truly, humans have given themselves all their ideas of good and evil. Truly, they did not take these ideas from somewhere else, they did not find them, and these ideas did not come down to them as a voice from heaven. Humans first placed values into things to help themselves survive. Humans created the meaning of things, a human meaning! Therefore, humans call themselves “Man,” which means “the evaluator,” the one who gives value.

Evaluation is creation! Hear this, you creative people! The act of valuing is itself the value and the jewel of all things that are considered valuable. Only through evaluation is there value. Without evaluation, the nut of existence would be hollow and empty. Hear this, you creative people! A change in values means a change in the creators of values. Anyone who has to be a creator always has to destroy old things.

Groups of people were the first creators of values. Only later did individuals become creators. Indeed, the individual human being is itself the most recent creation. Once, groups of people hung a table of values above themselves. The love that wants to rule and the love that wants to obey, working together, created tables like these. Joy in the herd (the group) is older than joy in the Ego (the individual self). And as long as “good conscience” is called “herd,” only the “bad conscience” (the individual who thinks differently) says: “I.” Truly, the cunning, loveless Ego that seeks its own advantage in the advantage of many – that is not the origin of the herd, but the herd’s destruction.

It has always been creators and loving people who created good and evil. The fire of love and the fire of anger glow in the names of all virtues. Zarathustra has seen many lands and many peoples. Zarathustra has found no greater power on earth than the works of these loving people: these works are named “good” and “evil.” Truly, the power of this praising and blaming is like a monster. Tell me, who will control it for me, brothers? Tell me, who will put chains on the thousand necks of this beast?

So far, there have been a thousand goals, because there have been a thousand peoples. Only chains are still missing for these thousand necks; the one single goal for all is still missing. Yet tell me, my brothers: if a goal for all humanity is still lacking, is there not still lacking – humanity itself?

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Love of One’s Neighbour

You crowd together with your neighbors and use beautiful words to describe it. But I tell you: Your “love of your neighbor” is actually a bad or unhealthy love of yourselves. You run away from yourselves to your neighbor, and you would like to make this escape seem like a virtue. But I see through your so-called “selflessness.” The idea of “You” (the other person, society) is older and has been given more importance than the idea of “I” (the individual self). The “You” has been made holy, but not yet the “I.” That is why people crowd towards their neighbors.

Do I encourage you to love your neighbor? No. I encourage you instead to flee from your neighbor and to love what is most distant! Higher than love of one’s neighbor is the love for the most distant human being and for the human of the future. Higher still than love for humans is the love for causes and for ideals (what I call “phantoms”). This ideal that runs along behind you, my brother, is more beautiful than you are. Why do you not give it your flesh and your bones? Why not try to become that ideal? But you are afraid, and so you run to your neighbor instead.

You cannot stand to be alone with yourselves, and you do not love yourselves enough. Now you want to trick your neighbor into loving you, and then you try to make yourselves look good through their mistaken view of you. I wish, instead, that you could not stand to be with any kind of neighbor or with your neighbor’s neighbor. If that were the case, you would then have to create your true friend and their overflowing heart out of your own selves.

You invite someone to be a witness when you want to speak well of yourselves. And when you have tricked that witness into thinking well of you, you then think well of yourselves. It is not only the person who says things contrary to what they know who lies. Even more so, the person who says things contrary to what they do not know is a liar. And this is how you speak of yourselves when you interact with others; you deceive your neighbor with the false image you present. This is what a fool says: “Mixing with people ruins your character, especially when you don’t have one to begin with.”

One person runs to their neighbor because they are looking for themselves. Another person runs to their neighbor because they want to lose themselves. Your bad or unhealthy love for yourselves makes solitude feel like a prison to you. It is the distant person – your ideal, your future self – who pays the price for your love of your neighbor. And when five of you are together, a sixth person or idea always has to die (individuality gets lost).

I do not like your festivals either. I have found too many actors there, and the audience, too, behaved like actors. I do not teach you about the neighbor, but about the friend. May the friend be a celebration of the earth for you, and a glimpse of the Superman. I teach you about the friend and their overflowing heart. But you must understand how to be like a sponge if you want to be loved by overflowing hearts – you must be able to receive what they offer. I teach you about the friend in whom the world seems complete, a container of all that is good. This is the creative friend, who always has a complete world to give. And just as the world once seemed scattered and chaotic to this friend, it comes together again for them. This happens like the development of good through evil, or like purpose emerging from chance.

May the future and the most distant things be the guiding principle for your life today. In your friend, you should love the Superman as your guiding principle. My brothers, I do not encourage you to love your neighbor. I encourage you to love what is most distant.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Way of the Creator

My brother, do you want to go apart and be alone? Do you want to seek the way to find your true Self? Pause just a moment and listen to me. The herd (the common crowd) says: “Anyone who seeks may easily get lost. It is a crime to go apart and be alone.” The voice of the herd will still echo within you. And when you say, “We no longer have the same conscience, you and I,” it will bring you sadness and pain. You see, it is still this same old conscience that causes your pain. And the last glimmer of this conscience still glows in your suffering.

But you want to follow the way of your suffering, which is the way to your true Self? If so, show me that you have the strength for it and the right to it! Are you a new strength and a new right? Are you a first movement, a wheel that spins itself? Can you also force stars to revolve around you? Alas, there is so much longing to be important! There is so much drama from ambitious people! Show me that you are not one of the lustful or ambitious ones! Alas, there are so many great ideas that do no more than a bellows in a fireplace: they inflate things with air and then make them even emptier.

Do you call yourself free? I want to hear about your main guiding idea, not just that you have escaped from some restriction or “yoke.” Are you the kind of person who ought to escape a yoke? Many people threw away their greatest worth when they threw off their servitude. Free from what? Zarathustra does not care about that! But your eye should clearly tell me: free for what? Can you provide yourself with your own good and evil? Can you hang your own will above yourself as a law? Can you be your own judge and the enforcer of your own law?

It is terrible to be alone with the judge and enforcer of one’s own law. It is like being a star thrown out into empty space and into the icy breath of solitude. Today, you still suffer from the opinions of the many, O you who are set apart. Today, you still have all your courage and your hopes. But one day, solitude will make you weary. One day, your pride will bend, and your courage will break. One day you will cry, “I am alone!” One day, you will no longer see what is great in you. And what is low or base in you, you will see all too clearly. Your own excellence will make you afraid, as if it were a ghost. One day you will cry, “Everything is false!”

There are emotions that try to kill the solitary person. If they do not succeed, well, then these emotions must die themselves! But are you capable of being a murderer (of these destructive emotions or parts of yourself)? My brother, have you ever known the word “contempt”? And have you known the anguish of your own justice when you try to be just to those who despise you? You force many people to change their opinion about you; they hold that very much against you. You approached them and yet went on past them: they will never forgive you for that. You go above and beyond them. But the higher you climb, the smaller you appear to the eye of envy. And the person who flies is hated most of all.

“How could you be just towards me?” – that is how you must speak to them – “I choose your injustice as my rightful share.” They throw injustice and dirt at the solitary person. But, my brother, if you want to be a star, you must shine for them no less brightly because of it! And be on your guard against the “good and just” people! They would like to crucify those who create their own virtue – they hate the solitary person. Be on your guard, too, against holy simplicity! Anything that is not simple is unholy to it. And this “simplicity” also likes to play with fire – in this case, the fire of burning people at the stake. And be on your guard, too, against the attacks your own love makes upon you! The solitary person offers their hand too quickly to anyone they meet. To many people, you should not give your hand, but only your paw (a more reserved gesture). And I would like it if your paw had claws, too.

But the worst enemy you can ever meet will always be yourself. You yourself lie in wait for yourself in caves and forests. Solitary man, you are going the way to your Self! And your way leads past your current self and your seven devils (your inner demons and challenges)! You will be a heretic to yourself, and a witch, and a prophet, and an evildoer, and a villain (as you break down your old self). You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame. How could you become new if you had not first become ashes?

Solitary man, you are going the way of the Creator. You want to create a god for yourself from your seven devils! Solitary man, you are going the way of the lover. You love yourself, and for that reason, you despise yourself, as only lovers can despise. The lover wants to create because he despises (is dissatisfied with what is)! What does someone know of love if they have not had to despise precisely what they loved (in order to help it grow or change)? Go apart and be alone with your love and your creating, my brother. And justice will be slow to limp after you. Go apart and be alone with my tears, my brother. I love the one who wants to create something beyond himself, and in doing so, perishes (is transformed).

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Old and Young Women

“Why do you sneak so shyly through the twilight, Zarathustra? And what are you hiding so carefully under your cloak? Is it a treasure someone has given you? Or a child that has been born to you? Or are you now taking the way of thieves yourself, you friend of the wicked?”

“Truly, my brother!” said Zarathustra, “It is a treasure that has been given to me. It is a little truth that I carry. But it is as wild and unruly as a little child. If I do not cover its mouth, it will cry too loudly.”

Today, as I was going my way alone, at the hour when the sun sets, I met a little old woman. She spoke to my soul like this: “Zarathustra has spoken much to us women, too, but he has never spoken to us about woman.” And I answered her: “One should speak about women only to men.” “Speak to me too of woman,” she said. “I am old enough that I will soon forget it anyway.” And I did what the little old woman asked and spoke to her like this:

Zarathustra on Woman

Everything about woman is a riddle. And everything about woman has one solution: it is called pregnancy. For the woman, the man is a tool or a path. The goal is always the child. But what is the woman for the man? The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason, he wants woman, because she is the most dangerous plaything. Man should be trained for war, and woman should be trained for the recreation of the warrior. Everything else is foolishness. The warrior does not like fruit that is too sweet. Therefore, he likes woman; even the sweetest woman still has a touch of bitterness. Woman understands children better than a man does. But man is more childlike than woman. A child is hidden in the true man, and this child wants to play. Come, women, discover the child in man!

Let woman be a plaything – pure and fine like a precious stone, lit up by the virtues of a world that does not yet exist. Let the flash of a star sparkle in your love! Let your hope be: “May I bear the Superman!” Let there be bravery in your love! With your love, you should go towards the one who inspires fear in you. Let your honor be in your love! Woman has otherwise understood little about honor. But let this be your honor: always to love more than you are loved, and never to be second in this. Let man fear woman when she loves. For then she makes every sacrifice and considers everything else worthless. Let man fear woman when she hates. For man, deep in his soul, is only wicked, but woman is base (fundamentally low or corrupt).

Whom does woman hate most? The iron once spoke to the magnet: “I hate you most, because you attract me, but you are not strong enough to draw me all the way to you.” (Meaning, woman hates what attracts her but doesn’t fully master or possess her.) The man’s happiness is to say: “I will.” The woman’s happiness is to say: “He wills.” “Look, now the world has become perfect!” – this is what every woman thinks when she obeys with all her love. And woman has to obey and find a depth for her surface. Woman’s nature is surface, like a changeable, stormy film of water on a shallow pond. But a man’s nature is deep. Its current roars in underground caves. Woman senses its power, but she does not understand it.

The Old Woman’s Response

Then the little old woman answered me: “Zarathustra has said many nice things, especially for those who are young enough for them. It is strange, Zarathustra knows little about women, and yet he is right about them! Is this because with women, nothing is impossible? And now, please accept a little truth as thanks. I am certainly old enough for it! Wrap it up and cover its mouth. Otherwise, it will cry too loudly, this little truth!” “Give me your little truth, woman!” I said. And this is what the little old woman said: “Are you visiting women? Do not forget your whip!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Adder’s Bite

One day, Zarathustra had fallen asleep under a fig tree because it was hot. He had laid his arms over his face. An adder (a type of venomous snake) came along and bit him in the neck. Zarathustra cried out with pain. When he had taken his arm from his face, he looked at the snake. The snake recognized Zarathustra’s eyes, turned away awkwardly, and was about to leave. “No, don’t go,” said Zarathustra. “You have not yet received my thanks! You have awakened me at the right time; I still have a long way to go.” “You have only a short way to go,” said the adder sadly. “My poison is deadly.” Zarathustra smiled. “When did a dragon ever die from the poison of a snake?” he said. “But take your poison back! You are not rich enough to give it to me!” Then the adder fell upon his neck again and licked his wound.

When Zarathustra once told this story to his disciples, they asked, “And what, O Zarathustra, is the moral of your story?” Zarathustra answered the question like this:

Zarathustra’s “Immoral” Lesson

The good and just people call me the destroyer of morals. So, my story is immoral. However, when you have an enemy, do not repay their evil with good. That would make them ashamed. Instead, prove that they have done something good for you. It is better to be angry than to make someone ashamed! And when you are cursed, I do not like it if you then want to bless them. Instead, curse back a little! And if a great injustice is done to you, then quickly do five little injustices in return. Someone who bears injustice all alone is terrible to see.

Did you already know this? Shared injustice is half justice. And whoever can bear it should take the injustice upon himself. A little revenge is more human than no revenge at all. And if punishment is not also a right and an honor for the wrongdoer, then I do not like your kind of punishment. It is more noble to declare yourself wrong than to insist you are right, especially when you are right. Only, you must be rich enough (strong enough in character) to do this.

I do not like your cold justice. From the eyes of your judges, there always looks out only the executioner and his cold steel. Tell me, where can one find the justice that is love with seeing eyes? So, create the kind of love that bears not only all punishment but also all guilt! Then, create the kind of justice that acquits everyone except the judges themselves!

Will you learn this too? For someone who wants to be just from the very heart, even a lie can become an act of kindness for humanity. But how could I be just from the very heart? How can I give everyone what is rightfully theirs? Let this be enough for me: I give everyone what is mine (my own unique perspective and gifts).

Finally, my brothers, be careful not to do wrong to any hermit! How could a hermit forget? How could they repay such a wrong? A hermit is like a deep well. It is easy to throw a stone into it. But if the stone sinks to the bottom, tell me, who will bring it out again? Be careful not to offend the hermit! But if you have already done so, well then, you might as well kill him too! (This is a stark warning about the depth and lasting nature of a hermit’s reaction to offense.)

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Marriage and Children

My brother, I have a question for you alone. I throw this question like a measuring line into your soul, to find out how deep it is. You are young, and you desire marriage and children. But I ask you: are you the kind of man who should desire a child? Are you a victor, someone who has conquered themselves, a ruler of your senses, the master of your virtues? This is what I ask you. Or is it just an animal instinct and basic need speaking from your desire? Or is it loneliness? Or a lack of harmony within yourself?

I would want your victory and your freedom to be what longs for a child. You should build living monuments to your victory and your liberation through your children. You should build something beyond yourself. But first, you yourself must be well-built, solid in body and soul. You should not only reproduce yourself by continuing forward, but you should also aim upward, towards something higher! May the garden of marriage help you to do this! You should create a higher kind of body, a first movement, a wheel that spins itself – you should create a creator.

Marriage: This is what I call the will of two people to create one being who is more than those who created it. Respect for each other, as people who share such a will – that is what I call marriage. Let this be the meaning and the truth of your marriage. But that which the many-too-many people, the superfluous ones, call marriage – ah, what should I call that? Ah, this poverty of soul in partnerships! Ah, this filth of soul in partnerships! Ah, this miserable comfort in partnerships! All this they call marriage; and they say their marriages are made in Heaven.

Well, I do not like it, this Heaven of the superfluous! No, I do not like them, these animals caught in a heavenly net! And let the God who limps over to bless what he has not truly joined stay far from me! Do not laugh at such marriages! What child has not had reason to weep over its parents?

This man seemed worthy and ready for understanding the meaning of the earth. But when I saw his wife, the earth seemed to me like a house for foolishness. Yes, I wish the earth would shake with great movements when a saint (a wise person) and a goose (a foolish person) get married.

This man set out like a hero searching for truth. In the end, he only captured a little, dressed-up lie. He calls it his marriage. That man used to be reserved in his interactions and careful in his choices. But all at once, he spoiled his company for good. He calls it his marriage. That man looked for a servant girl with the virtues of an angel. But all at once, he became the servant of a woman, and now he needs to become an angel too! I have found that all buyers are cautious, and all of them have sharp eyes. But even the smartest man buys his wife while she is still “wrapped up” (not fully known or understood).

Many brief follies – that is what you call love. And your marriage puts an end to many brief follies with one long act of stupidity. Your love for woman and woman’s love for man: ah, if only it were pity for suffering and for hidden, veiled gods! But usually, it is just two animals sensing each other. But even your best love is only a passionate imitation and a painful, intense feeling. It is a torch that should light your way to higher paths. One day you shall love beyond yourselves! So first, learn to love! To do that, you have had to drink the bitter cup of your current love. There is bitterness in the cup of even the best love. This bitterness creates a longing for the Superman. It creates a thirst in you, the creator! A creator’s thirst, an arrow, and a longing for the Superman: tell me, my brother, is this your will to marriage? I call such a will and such a marriage holy.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Voluntary Death

Many people die too late, and some die too early. The teaching “Die at the right time” still sounds strange to many. Die at the right time: this is what Zarathustra teaches. To be sure, someone who never lived at the right time could hardly die at the right time! It would be better if such a person were never born! This is my advice for the superfluous people (those who are not needed). But even the superfluous make a big deal of their dying. Yes, even the emptiest nut wants to be cracked. Everyone treats death as an important matter. But death is not yet a festival. People have not yet learned how to make the most beautiful festivals sacred.

I will show you the consummating death – a death that completes a life. This death will be an inspiration and a promise to the living. The person who is completing their life dies their death in triumph, surrounded by people filled with hope and making serious vows. This is how one should learn to die. And there should be no festivals where such a dying person does not make the vows of the living sacred! To die this way is the best death. But the second best death is this: to die in battle and to spend a great soul freely. But equally hateful to the fighter and to the victor is your grinning death, which creeps up like a thief – and yet comes as if it were the master.

I recommend to you my kind of death: voluntary death, a death that comes to me because I wish for it. And when will I wish for it? Someone who has a goal and an heir (someone to carry on their work or legacy) wants death at the time that is best for their goal and their heir. And out of respect for their goal and their heir, they will not hang up any more withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life (they will not cling to life when their time is past). Truly, I do not want to be like the rope-makers. They spin out their thread, and as they do so, they themselves keep going backward.

Many people grow too old even for their own truths and victories. A toothless mouth no longer has the right to speak every truth. And everyone who wants glory must say goodbye to honor at the right time. They must practice the difficult art of – leaving at the right time. One must stop letting oneself be “eaten” (consumed by life or others) when one tastes best (is at one’s peak). This is understood by those who want to be loved for a long time. Of course, there are sour apples whose fate is to wait until the last day of autumn. And they become ripe, yellow, and shriveled all at the same time. In some people, the heart ages first, and in others, the spirit ages first. And some are old even in their youth. But those who become young late in life stay young for a long time.

For many people, life is a failure. A poison-worm eats at their heart. So, let such a person make sure that their death is all the more a success. Many people never become “sweet” (fully developed or ripe); they rot even in the summer. It is cowardice that keeps them stuck to their branch. Far too many people live, and they hang on their branches for much too long. I wish a storm would come and shake all this rottenness and worm-eaten decay from the tree! I wish preachers of speedy death would come! They would be the right kind of storm and shakers for the trees of life! But I only hear preaching about slow death and patience with all “earthly things.” Ah, do you preach patience with earthly things? It is these earthly things that have too much patience with you, you blasphemers!

Truly, that Hebrew (Jesus) whom the preachers of slow death honor died too early. And the fact that he died too early has been a disaster for many ever since. At that time, he knew only tears and the sadness of the Hebrews, along with the hatred of the good and just people. This was the Hebrew Jesus. Then, the longing for death seized him. If only he had remained in the desert and far from the good and just! Perhaps he would have learned to live and learned to love the earth – and laughter as well! Believe it, my brothers! He died too early. He himself would have taken back his teaching if he had lived to my age! He was noble enough to take it back! But he was still immature. A youth loves immaturely, and immaturely too, he hates humanity and the earth. His heart and the wings of his spirit are still bound and heavy.

But there is more of the child in a mature man than in a youth, and less sadness. A mature man has a better understanding of life and death. Free for death and free in death; someone who solemnly says “No” (to life) when there is no longer time for “Yes”: this is how one understands life and death. May your death not be a blasphemy against humanity and the earth, my friends. That is what I beg from the sweetness of your soul. In your death, your spirit and your virtue should still glow like a sunset glow around the earth. Otherwise, yours is a bad death. This is how I want to die myself, so that you, my friends, may love the earth more for my sake. And I want to become earth again, so that I may have peace in her (the earth) who gave me birth.

Truly, Zarathustra had a goal; he threw his ball. Now may you, my friends, be the heirs of my goal. I throw the golden ball to you. But best of all, I like to see you too, my friends, throwing on the golden ball! So I shall stay on earth a little longer. Forgive me for it!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Bestowing Virtue

1. The Nature of Giving Virtue

When Zarathustra had left the town he loved, called “The Pied Cow,” many who called themselves his disciples followed and walked with him. They came to a crossroad. There, Zarathustra told them that from then on, he wanted to go alone, because he was a friend of going alone. But as a farewell gift, his disciples handed him a staff. On its golden handle, a serpent was coiled around a sun. Zarathustra was delighted with the staff and leaned on it. Then he spoke to his disciples:

“Tell me: how did gold come to have the highest value? It is because gold is uncommon and, in a way, ‘useless’ (not for basic needs). It is shining and has a soft, mellow glow. And it always gives of itself. Only as an image of the highest virtue did gold gain its highest value. The glance of a giver shines like gold. The glow of gold makes peace between the moon and the sun. The highest virtue is also uncommon and ‘useless’ in a practical sense. It is shining and has a soft glow. The highest virtue is a bestowing virtue – a virtue that gives of itself.

Truly, I understand you well, my disciples. You aim for the bestowing virtue, just as I do. What could you possibly have in common with cats and wolves (who only take)? You thirst to become sacrifices and gifts yourselves. That is why you thirst to gather all riches in your soul. Your soul longs without limit for treasures and jewels, because your virtue is without limit in its desire to give. You make all things come to you and into you, so that they may flow back from your inner fountain as gifts of your love. Truly, such a bestowing love must become a kind of thief of all values (it must re-evaluate everything to serve its giving). But I call this kind of selfishness healthy and holy.

There is another kind of selfishness. It is an all-too-poor, hungry selfishness that always wants to steal. This is the selfishness of the sick, a sick selfishness. It looks with the eye of a thief at all shining things. With the greed of hunger, it measures the person who has plenty to eat. And it is always lurking around the table of those who give. Sickness speaks from such craving, and hidden decline. The thieving greed of this longing tells of a sick body.

Tell me, my brothers: what do we consider bad and the worst of all? Is it not decline and degeneration? And we always suspect degeneration when the bestowing soul is missing. Our way is upward, from the human species towards the super-species (the Superman). But the declining mind that says, ‘Everything for me,’ is a horror to us. Our mind flies upward. This is an image of our bodies, an image of an advance and an elevation. The names of the virtues are images of such advances and elevations. This is how the body goes through history, evolving and battling. And the spirit – what is it to the body? It is the messenger, companion, and echo of the body’s battles and victories.

All names of good and evil are images. They do not state things plainly; they only hint. Anyone who seeks knowledge only from these names is a fool. Pay attention whenever your spirit wants to speak in images. For that is when your virtue has its origin and beginning. Then your body is lifted up and has risen. It fills the spirit with its joy, so that the spirit may become a creator, an evaluator, a lover, and a giver of good to all things.

• When your heart swells, broad and full like a river – a blessing and a danger to those who live nearby: that is when your virtue has its origin and beginning.
• When you are raised above praise and blame, and your will wants to command all things as a lover’s will does: that is when your virtue has its origin and beginning.
• When you look down on the soft bed and what is pleasant, and you cannot make your bed too far away from those who are soft-hearted: that is when your virtue has its origin and beginning.
• When you are people who will a single will, and you call this force that banishes all need your most essential thing, your necessity: that is when your virtue has its origin and beginning.

Truly, it is a new good and evil! Truly, a new roaring in the depths and the voice of a new fountain! It is power, this new virtue. It is a ruling idea, and around it is a wise soul: a golden sun, and around it, the serpent of knowledge.”

2. Bringing Virtue Back to Earth

Here Zarathustra fell silent for a while and looked lovingly at his disciples. Then he went on speaking, and his voice was different:

“Stay loyal to the earth, my brothers, with the power of your virtue! May your bestowing love and your knowledge serve to give meaning to the earth! This I beg and plead with you. Do not let your virtue fly away from the things of earth and beat its wings against eternal walls! Alas, there has always been much virtue that has flown away! Lead, as I do, the flown-away virtue back to earth – yes, back to the body and life! So that it may give the earth its meaning, a human meaning! A hundred times until now, spirit as well as virtue has flown away and made mistakes. Alas, all this illusion and error still lives in our bodies. It has become part of our body and will there. A hundred times, spirit as well as virtue has experimented and gone astray. Yes, humanity itself was an experiment. Alas, much ignorance and error has become part of our bodies! Not only the reason of thousands of years – the madness of thousands of years too breaks out in us. It is dangerous to be an heir to the past. We are still fighting step by step with the giant called Chance. And until now, what is senseless and meaningless has still ruled over humankind. May your spirit and your virtue serve the meaning of the earth, my brothers. And may the value of all things be set anew by you! For that purpose, you should be fighters! For that purpose, you should be creators!

The body purifies itself through knowledge. By experimenting with knowledge, it elevates itself. To the discerning person, all instincts are holy. The soul of the elevated person grows joyful. Physician, heal yourself: in doing so, you will heal your patient too. Let the best healing aid for your patient be to see with their own eyes someone who makes themselves well. There are a thousand paths that have never yet been walked, a thousand forms of health and hidden islands of life. Humanity and humanity’s earth are still unexhausted and undiscovered.

Watch and listen, you solitary ones! From the future come winds with a stealthy flapping of wings. And good news goes out to delicate ears. You solitary ones of today, you who have separated from society, you shall one day be a people. From you, who have chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people spring – and from this chosen people, the Superman. Truly, the earth shall yet become a place of healing! And already a new scent floats around it, a scent that brings health – and a new hope!”

3. Zarathustra’s Farewell to His Disciples

When Zarathustra had said these words, he paused like someone who has not said their last word. For a long time, he balanced the staff doubtfully in his hand. At last, he spoke, and his voice was different again:

“I now go away alone, my disciples! You too now go away and be alone! This is what I want. Truly, I advise you: go away from me and protect yourselves from Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he has deceived you. The person of knowledge must be able not only to love their enemies but also to hate their friends. One repays a teacher badly if one remains only a pupil. And why, then, should you not pluck at my laurel wreaths (try to surpass me)? You respect me; but what if one day your respect should fall apart? Take care that a falling statue does not strike you dead! You say you believe in Zarathustra? But what importance is Zarathustra? You are my believers, but what importance are all believers? You had not yet looked for yourselves when you found me. This is how all believers are; that is why all belief is worth so little.

Now I tell you to lose me and find yourselves. And only when you have all denied me will I return to you. Truly, with other eyes, my brothers, I shall then seek my lost ones. With another love, I shall then love you. And once more you shall have become my friends and children of one hope. And then I will be with you a third time, so that I may celebrate the great noontide with you. And this is the great noontide: it is when humanity stands at the middle of its course between animal and Superman. It is when humanity celebrates its journey to the evening (the end of its current form) as its highest hope, for it is the journey to a new morning. Then humanity, as it is “going under” (overcoming its old self), will bless itself. For it will be going over to become the Superman. And the sun of its knowledge will stand at its highest point, like the noonday sun. ‘All gods are dead: now we want the Superman to live’ – let this be our last will one day at the great noontide!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

PART TWO

The Child with the Mirror

Then Zarathustra went back into the mountains. He returned to the solitude of his cave and withdrew from people. He was waiting, like a farmer who has scattered his seeds and waits for them to grow. His soul, however, became full of impatience. He longed for those whom he loved, because he still had much to give them. This, indeed, is the most difficult thing: to close your open hand out of love, and to remain modest even when you are a giver.

So, months and years passed for the solitary Zarathustra. But his wisdom increased, and its abundance caused him pain. One morning, however, he woke up before dawn. He thought for a long time while lying on his bed. At last, he spoke to his heart:

“Why was I so frightened in my dream that I woke up? Didn’t a child carrying a mirror come to me? ‘O Zarathustra,’ the child said to me, ‘look at yourself in the mirror!’ But when I looked into the mirror, I cried out, and my heart was shaken. For I did not see myself. Instead, I saw the sneering, ugly face of a devil. Truly, I understand the dream’s message and warning all too well. My teaching is in danger! Weeds want to be called wheat! (False ideas want to be accepted as truth). My enemies have grown powerful. They have twisted the meaning of my teaching. Now, my dearest friends are ashamed of the gifts I gave them. My friends are lost to me. The time has come to seek my lost ones!”

With these words, Zarathustra sprang up. He did not seem like someone gasping for air. Instead, he was like a prophet or a singer whom the spirit has moved. His eagle and his serpent looked at him with amazement. A dawning happiness lit up his face like the sunrise.

“What has happened to me, my animals?” said Zarathustra. “Have I not changed? Hasn’t pure joy come to me like a strong wind? My happiness is foolish, and it will say foolish things. It is still too young – so be patient with it! My happiness has wounded me. All those who suffer shall be like doctors to me! I can go down to my friends again, and to my enemies too! Zarathustra can speak and give again. He can again show love to those he loves. My impatient love overflows in rushing streams, down towards morning and evening. My soul streams out from silent mountains and storms of grief into the valleys. I have desired and looked into the distance for too long. I have belonged to solitude for too long. Because of this, I have forgotten how to be silent. I have become nothing but speech. I am like the tumbling water of a brook flowing from high rocks. I want to hurl my words down into the valleys. And let my stream of love plunge into places that are hard to pass and have no paths! How could a stream not find its way to the sea at last! There is surely a lake within me, a secluded lake that is content with itself. But my stream of love draws it down with it – towards the sea! I am going new ways; a new way of speaking has come to me. Like all creators, I have grown tired of the old languages. My spirit no longer wants to walk on worn-out soles. All speech moves too slowly for me – I leap into your chariot, storm! And I will even whip you onward with my venom (my sharp, intense truth)! I want to sail across broad seas like a cry and a shout of joy. I will sail until I find the Blissful Islands where my friends are waiting – And my enemies are with them! How I now love anyone to whom I can simply speak! My enemies too are part of my happiness. And when I want to mount my wildest horse, it is my spear that best helps me get on it. My spear is an ever-ready servant to my foot. It is the spear which I throw at my enemies! How I thank my enemies that at last I can throw it! The tension of my cloud (my pent-up energy and ideas) has been too great. Between peals of laughter like lightning, I want to cast showers of hail down into the depths. Mightily then my chest will heave. Mightily it will blow its storm away over the mountains. And so it will find relief. Truly, my happiness and my freedom come like a storm! But my enemies shall think that the Evil One is raging over their heads. Yes, you too, my friends, will be terrified by my wild wisdom. And perhaps you will flee from it together with my enemies. Ah, if only I knew how to lure you back with shepherds’ flutes! Ah, if only my lioness Wisdom had learned to roar fondly! And we have already learned so much with one another! My wild Wisdom became pregnant upon lonely mountains. Upon rough rocks, she gave birth to her young, her youngest child (her newest insight). Now she runs madly through the cruel desert and seeks and seeks for the soft grassland – my old, wild Wisdom! Upon the soft grassland of your hearts, my friends! – upon your love she would like to lay her dearest one to rest!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

On the Blissful Islands

The figs are falling from the trees. They are fine and sweet. As they fall, their red skins split open. I am like a north wind to ripe figs, helping them fall. My friends, these teachings fall to you like these figs. Now, drink their juice and eat their sweet flesh! It is autumn all around. The sky is clear, and it is afternoon. Look at the abundance all around us! And it is wonderful to look out upon distant seas from the midst of so much richness.

Once, when you looked out upon distant seas, you used to say “God.” But now, I have taught you to say “Superman.” God is just an idea, a guess. But I want your guessing not to reach further than your own creative will. Could you create a god? If not, then be silent about all gods! But you could surely create the Superman. Perhaps not you yourselves, my brothers! But you could change yourselves into the forefathers and ancestors of the Superman. Let this be your finest act of creation!

God is an idea. But I want your ideas to be limited by what you can actually conceive or imagine. Could you truly conceive a god in your mind? Instead, let the will to find truth mean this to you: that everything should be changed into something humans can conceive, something humans can see clearly, something humans can touch! You should follow your own senses all the way to their end! And you yourselves should create what you have, until now, called “the World.” The World should be formed in your image – by your reason, your will, and your love! And truly, it will bring you happiness, you enlightened people! And how could you endure life without this hope, you enlightened ones? You cannot feel at home with things that are incomprehensible or irrational.

But to tell you my whole heart, friends: if there were gods, how could I stand not to be a god! Therefore, there are no gods. Indeed, I once drew that conclusion for myself. But now, that conclusion draws me forward. God is an idea. But who could take in all the anguish of this idea without dying? Should the creator be robbed of his faith, or the eagle of its ability to soar into the heights? God is a thought that makes all straight things crooked, and all things that stand firm become dizzy. What? Would time be gone, and all things that pass away be just a lie? To think this causes dizziness and a spinning feeling for the human body, and it makes the stomach want to vomit. Truly, I call it the “dizzy sickness” to suppose such a thing.

I call all this teaching about the one, the perfect, the unmoved, the self-sufficient, and the unchangeable “evil” and “misanthropic” (hating humankind). All that is unchangeable – that is just an image, an illusion! And the poets lie too much. But the best images and parables should speak of time and of becoming (change and development). They should be a song of praise and a justification for all things that pass away.

Creation – that is the great redemption from suffering, and what makes life easier to bear. But for the creator to exist, that itself requires suffering and much transformation. Yes, there must be much bitter dying in your life, you creators! In this way, you become advocates and justifiers of all things that pass away. For the creator himself to be like a newborn child, he must also be willing to be the mother and endure the mother’s pain. Truly, I have gone my way through a hundred souls, and through a hundred cradles and birth-pains. I have made many departures; I know the heart-breaking final hours. But my creative will, my destiny, wants it this way. Or, to speak more honestly: my will wants precisely such a destiny.

All feeling suffers in me and is like a prisoner. But my willing always comes to me as my liberator and the one who brings joy. Willing liberates: that is the true teaching of will and freedom – this is what Zarathustra teaches you. To will no more, and to evaluate no more, and to create no more! Ah, may this great tiredness always stay far from me! In knowing and understanding, too, I only feel my will’s delight in creating and becoming. And if there is innocence in my knowledge, it is because the will to create is in it. This will lured me away from God and gods. For what would there be to create if gods already existed! But again and again, it drives me towards humankind – my passionate, creative will. In this way, it drives the hammer to the stone. Ah, you humans, I see an image sleeping in the stone, the image of my visions! Ah, that it must sleep in the hardest, ugliest stone! Now my hammer rages fiercely against its prison (the stone). Fragments fly from the stone. What is that to me? I will complete it, bring forth the image. For a shadow came to me – the most silent, the lightest of all things once came to me! The beauty of the Superman came to me as a shadow. Ah, my brothers! What are the gods to me now!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Compassionate

My friends, your friend Zarathustra has heard a mocking saying: “Just look at Zarathustra! Doesn’t he walk among us as if he were among animals?” But it is better to say it like this: “The enlightened person walks among humans as if among animals.” The enlightened person calls humanity itself: the animal with red cheeks. How did this happen to humans? Isn’t it because they have had to be ashamed too often? Oh, my friends! This is what the enlightened person says: “Shame, shame, shame – that is the history of humanity!” And for that reason, the noble person decides not to make others ashamed. The noble person decides to feel shame before all who suffer.

Truly, I do not like them, those compassionate people who are happy in their compassion. They lack too much shame themselves. If I must be compassionate, I still do not want to be called compassionate. And if I am compassionate, then I prefer it to be from a distance. I would also prefer to cover my head and run away before I am recognized as being compassionate. And this is what I advise you to do, my friends! May my destiny always lead me only to those who, like you, do not experience deep sorrow or suffering, and those with whom I can share hope, meals, and sweetness!

Truly, I did this and that for those who were suffering. But it always seemed to me that I did better things when I learned to enjoy myself more. As long as humans have existed, they have enjoyed themselves too little. That alone, my brothers, is our original sin! And if we learn to enjoy ourselves better, we best unlearn how to do harm to others and how to plan harm. Therefore, I wash my hand when it has helped someone who suffers. Therefore, I wipe my soul clean as well. For I saw the sufferer suffer, and because I saw it, I was ashamed on account of their shame. And when I helped them, I badly injured their pride.

Great obligations do not make a person grateful; they make a person resentful. And if a small kindness is not forgotten, it becomes like a gnawing worm. “Be hesitant in accepting things! Honor a person by accepting something from them!” – this is my advice to those who have nothing to give. I, however, am a giver. I give gladly as a friend to friends. But strangers and the poor may pick the fruit from my tree for themselves. That way causes less shame. Beggars, however, should be completely done away with! Truly, it is annoying to give to them, and it is annoying not to give to them. And the same goes for sinners and those with bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the stings of conscience teach one to sting others.

But worst of all are petty thoughts. Truly, it is better even to have done something wicked than to have thought pettily! To be sure, you might say: “Enjoying petty wickedness saves us from doing many great evil deeds.” But here, one should not wish to be spared in that way. An evil deed is like a boil: it itches and irritates and then breaks open – it speaks honestly. “Look, I am a disease” – this is what the evil deed says. That is its honesty. But a petty thought is like a hidden sore (a canker): it creeps and hides and doesn’t want to be seen – until the whole body is rotten and withered by little sores.

But I whisper this advice in the ear of someone possessed by a devil (strong negative impulses): “It is better for you to raise your devil properly! There is a way to greatness even for you!” Ah, my brothers! One knows a little too much about everybody! And many a person who has become transparent to us (easy to see through) is still, for a long time, impossible to harm. It is hard to live with people because keeping silent is so hard. And we are most unfair, not towards the person we do not like, but towards the person for whom we feel nothing at all.

But if you have a suffering friend, be a resting-place for their suffering. But be a resting-place like a hard bed, a camp-bed (supportive but not overly soft). This is how you will serve them best. And if your friend does you a wrong, then say: “I forgive you for what you did to me. But that you did it to yourself – how could I forgive that?” This is what all great love says. It overcomes even forgiveness and pity. One should hold on tightly to one’s heart. For if one lets it go, how soon one loses one’s head too!

Alas, where in the world have there been greater follies than among compassionate people? And what in the world has caused more suffering than the follies of compassionate people? Woe to all lovers who cannot rise above pity! The Devil once said this to me: “Even God has his Hell: it is his love for humanity.” And I recently heard him say these words: “God is dead; God has died of his pity for humanity.”

So be warned against pity: from it shall yet come a heavy cloud for humanity! Truly, I understand weather-signs! But mark this saying too: All great love is above pity, because great love wants to – create what is loved! “I offer myself to my love, and my neighbor as I offer myself” – this is the language of all creators. All creators, however, are hard.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Priests

And one day, Zarathustra made a sign to his disciples and spoke these words to them: “Here are priests. Although they are my enemies, pass by them quietly. Keep your swords in their sheaths (do not fight them now). There are even heroes among them. Many of them have suffered too much, so now they want to make others suffer. They are bad enemies. Nothing is more revengeful than their humility. And anyone who touches them is easily made unclean. But my blood is related to theirs. I want to know that my blood is honored even in them.”

And when they had passed by the priests, Zarathustra was overcome by a pain. He struggled with his pain for a short time, and then he began to speak:

“I pity these priests. They also go against my personal taste, but that means little to me since I am among humans. But I suffer and have suffered with them. They seem to me like prisoners and men who have been marked for doom. The one whom they call Redeemer has put them into bondage – Into the bondage of false values and false holy writings! Ah, if only someone would redeem them from their Redeemer! Once, when the sea was tossing them about, they thought they had landed upon an island. But look, it was a sleeping monster! False values and false holy writings: these are the worst monsters for mortal humans. Fate sleeps and waits for a long time within them. But at last, fate comes and awakens. It eats and devours all those who have built their huts upon it.

Oh, just look at these huts that these priests have built for themselves! Churches they call their sweet-smelling caves! Oh, this fake light! Oh, this stale, musty air! Here, in these places, the soul is not allowed to fly up to its true height! On the contrary, their faith commands: ‘Up the steps on your knees, you sinners!’ Truly, I would rather see people who are still shameless than people with the twisted eyes of their shame and devotion! Who created such caves and steps for penance? Wasn’t it those who wanted to hide themselves and were ashamed in the face of the clear sky? And only when the clear sky again looks through broken roofs and down upon grass and red poppies growing on broken walls – only then will I turn my heart again towards the places of this God.

They called ‘God’ whatever contradicted them and harmed them. And truly, there was much that was heroic in their worship! And they knew no other way of loving their God than by nailing men to the Cross! They thought they should live like corpses. They dressed their corpses in black. Even in their speech, I still smell the evil scent of burial vaults. And anyone who lives near them lives near black pools of water. From these pools, the toad, that prophet of evil, sings its song with sweet sadness. They would have to sing better songs to make me believe in their Redeemer. His disciples would have to look more redeemed, more saved! I would like to see them naked. For beauty alone should preach repentance. But whom could this disguised suffering persuade? Truly, their Redeemers themselves did not come from freedom and the seventh heaven of freedom! Truly, they themselves never walked upon the carpets of knowledge! The spirit of their Redeemers was full of holes. But into every hole, they had put their illusion, their temporary fix, which they called God. Their spirit was drowned in their pity. And when they swelled up and overflowed with pity, a great foolishness always floated to the top.

Zealously and with loud cries, they drove their herds over their bridge – as if there were only one bridge to the future! Truly, these shepherds, too, still belonged among the sheep! These shepherds had small intellects but souls they thought were spacious. But, my brothers, what small countries have even the most spacious souls been, up to now! They wrote messages in blood on the path they followed. And their foolishness taught that truth is proven by blood. But blood is the worst witness of truth. Blood poisons and changes the purest teaching into delusion and hatred of the heart. And if someone goes through fire for their teaching – what does that prove? Truly, it is more significant when one’s own teaching comes out of one’s own burning inner conviction!

A passionate heart and a cold head: when these two meet, there arises the blusterer, the loudmouth – the “Redeemer.” Truly, there have been greater men and higher-born ones than those whom the people call Redeemer – those captivating and overpowering, blustering winds! And you, my brothers, must be redeemed by greater men than any Redeemer has been, if you would find the way to freedom! There has never yet been a Superman. I have seen them both naked, the greatest man and the smallest man. They are still all too similar to one another. Truly, I found even the greatest man to be – all-too-human!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Virtuous

One has to speak with thunder and heavenly fireworks to senses that are feeble and asleep. But the voice of beauty speaks softly. It steals into only the most awakened souls. Gently, my mirror trembled and laughed to me today. It was beauty’s holy laughter and trembling. My beauty laughed at you today, you “virtuous” people. And this is the voice that came to me: “They want to be – paid as well!”

You want to be paid as well, you virtuous ones! Do you want a reward for virtue, heaven in exchange for earth, and eternity for your today? And are you now angry with me because I teach that there is no one who gives rewards or pays for virtue? And truly, I do not even teach that virtue is its own reward. Alas, this is my sorrow: reward and punishment have been falsely introduced into the very foundation of things – and now even into the foundation of your souls, you virtuous ones! But my words, like the snout of a wild boar, shall tear up the foundations of your souls. You shall call me a ploughshare, turning everything over. All the secrets of your heart shall be brought to light. And when you lie in the sunlight, dug up and broken, then your falsehood will be separated from your truth.

For this is your truth: You are too pure for the dirt of words like “revenge,” “punishment,” “reward,” “retribution.” You love your virtue as a mother loves her child. But whoever heard of a mother wanting to be paid for her love? Your virtue is your dearest Self. The desire of a ring is within you: to achieve itself again – every ring struggles and turns itself to reach that goal. And every work of your virtue is like a star that has burned out: its light travels forever – and when will it stop traveling? So, the light of your virtue is still traveling even when its task is done. Though it may be forgotten and dead, its beam of light still lives and travels on. That your virtue is your Self and not something foreign, not like a skin or a covering: that is the truth from the bottom of your souls, you virtuous ones!

But there are indeed those for whom virtue is like twisting in pain under a whip. And you have listened too much to their cries! And with others, their vices grow lazy, and they call that laziness virtue. And once their hatred and jealousy stretch themselves out to rest, their “justice” becomes lively and rubs its sleepy eyes. And there are others who are drawn downward: their devils draw them. But the more they sink, the more brightly their eyes shine, and the more they long for their God. Alas, their cry, too, has reached your ears, you virtuous ones: “What I am not, that, that to me is God and virtue!” And there are others who go along, heavy and creaking, like carts carrying stones downhill. They speak much of dignity and virtue – they call their brake (what slows them down) virtue! And there are others who are like household clocks that have been wound up. They repeat their “tick-tock” and want people to call this “tick-tock” – virtue. Truly, I have fun with these. Wherever I find such clocks, I shall wind them up with my mockery. Let them chime loudly as well as tick!

And others are proud of their small amount of righteousness. For its sake, they commit shocking outrages upon all things, so that the world is drowned in their unrighteousness. Alas, how ill the word “virtue” sounds in their mouths! And when they say, “I am just,” it always sounds like, “I am revenged!” They want to scratch out the eyes of their enemies with their virtue. And they raise themselves up only in order to lower others.

And again, there are those who sit in their swamp and speak like this from among the reeds: “Virtue – that means to sit quietly in the swamp. We bite nobody and avoid anyone who wants to bite. And in everything, we hold the opinion that is given to us.” And again, there are those who like posing and think: Virtue is a kind of pose. Their knees are always worshipping, and their hands are praising virtue, but their heart knows nothing of it.

And again, there are those who consider it a virtue to say: “Virtue is necessary.” But deep down, they believe only that the police are necessary. And many a person who cannot see what is noble in humans calls it virtue that they can see human baseness all too clearly. Thus, they call their evil eye (their critical, fault-finding gaze) virtue. And some want to be edified and lifted up and call it virtue. And others want to be thrown down – and call that virtue too. And in that way, almost everyone firmly believes they are participating in virtue. And at least, they claim to be an expert on “good” and “evil.”

But Zarathustra has not come to say to all these liars and fools: “What do you know of virtue? What could you know of virtue?” No, he has come so that you, my friends, might grow weary of the old words you have learned from the fools and liars. That you might grow weary of the words “reward,” “retribution,” “punishment,” “righteous revenge.” That you might grow weary of saying: “An action is good when it is unselfish.” Ah, my friends! That your Self may be in the action, as the mother is in the child: let that be your guiding principle for virtue!

Truly, I have taken a hundred old sayings and your virtues’ dearest playthings away from you. And now you scold me, as children scold. They were playing on the sea-shore – then a wave came and swept their playthings into the deep water. Now they cry. But the same wave shall bring them new playthings and pour out new colored sea-shells before them! Thus they will be consoled. And you too, my friends, shall, like them, have your consolations – and new colored sea-shells!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Rabble

Life is a fountain of delight. But if the rabble (the common crowd) also drinks from it, all wells become poisoned. I love everything that is clean. But I do not like to see the grinning mouths and the thirst of unclean people. They look down into the well. Now, their repulsive smile glitters up at me from the well. They have poisoned the holy water with their lewdness. And when they called their dirty dreams “delight,” they poisoned the words themselves too. The flame is unwilling to burn when they put their damp hearts near the fire. The spirit itself bubbles and smokes when the rabble approaches the fire. Fruit becomes tasteless and over-ripe in their hands. The fruit tree becomes unstable and withered at the top when they look at it.

And many people who turned away from life only turned away from the rabble. They did not want to share the well, the flame, and the fruit with the rabble. And many people who went into the desert and suffered thirst with wild animals did so merely because they did not want to sit around the water cistern with dirty camel-drivers (a metaphor for the rabble). And many people who came along like a destroyer, like a hailstorm to all orchards, merely wanted to put their foot into the jaws of the rabble and so stop its throat.

And knowing that life itself needs conflict, dying, and martyrdoms – that was not the truth that choked me the most. But I once asked a question, and this question almost suffocated me: What, does life also need the rabble? Are poisoned wells necessary, and stinking fires, and dirty dreams, and maggots in the bread of life? Not my hate, but my disgust, hungrily devoured my life! Alas, I often grew weary of the spirit when I found that the rabble, too, had been gifted with spirit!

And I turned my back on rulers when I saw what they now call ruling: bargaining and haggling for power – with the rabble! I lived with my ears stopped up among peoples who spoke a strange language, so that the language of their bargaining and their haggling for power might remain strange to me. And holding my nose, I went unhappily through all past times and present times. Truly, all yesterdays and todays smell badly of the scribbling rabble! Like a person who is crippled, blind, deaf, and unable to speak: this is how I have lived for a long time, so that I might not live with the power-rabble, the scribbling-rabble, and the pleasure-rabble.

My spirit climbed steps wearily and carefully. Small gifts of delight were its refreshment. The blind man’s life crept along with a staff. Yet what happened to me? How did I free myself from disgust? Who made my eyes young again? How did I fly to the height where the rabble no longer sit at the well? Did my disgust itself create wings and water-finding powers for me? Truly, I had to fly to the very highest point to find the fountain of delight again! Oh, I have found it, my brothers! Here, at the very highest point, the fountain of delight gushes up for me! And here there is a life where no rabble drinks with me!

You gush up almost too forcefully, fountain of delight! And often, in wanting to fill the cup, you empty it again! And I still have to learn to approach you more carefully. My heart still flows towards you much too forcefully. My heart, upon which my summer burns – a short, hot, sad, overly joyful summer: how my summer-heart longs for your coolness! Gone is the lingering suffering of my spring! Gone is the bitterness of my snowflakes in June! I have become entirely summer, and summer-noonday! A summer at the very highest point with cold fountains and blissful stillness: oh come, my friends, so that the stillness may become even more blissful!

For this is our height and our home. We live too nobly and boldly here for all unclean people and their thirsts. Only cast your pure eyes into the well of my delight, friends! You will not dim its sparkle! It shall laugh back at you with its own purity. We build our nest in the tree called “Future.” Eagles shall bring food in their beaks to us, the solitary ones! Truly, it will be food in which no unclean people could join us! They would think they were eating fire and would burn their mouths! Truly, we do not prepare a home here for unclean people! Their bodies and their spirits would call our happiness a cave of ice! So let us live above them like strong winds – neighbors of the eagles, neighbors of the snow, neighbors of the sun. That is how strong winds live. And like a wind, I will one day blow among them. And with my spirit, I will take away the breath from their spirit. This is what my future wants. Truly, Zarathustra is a strong wind to all flatlands. And he offers this advice to his enemies and to all that spews and spits: “Take care not to spit against the wind!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Tarantulas

Look, this is the tarantula’s cave! Do you want to see the tarantula itself? Here hangs its web. Touch it and make it tremble. Here it comes obediently. Welcome, tarantula! Your triangle and symbol are black upon your back. And I also know what sits within your soul. Revenge sits within your soul. A black scab grows wherever you bite. With revenge, your poison makes the soul dizzy and confused! This is how I speak to you in parables (symbolic stories), you who make the soul dizzy, you preachers of equality! You are tarantulas, and you deal in hidden revenge! But I will soon bring your hiding places into the light. Therefore, I laugh my laughter of the heights in your faces. I pull at your web so that your rage may lure you out of your cave of lies. I pull so your revenge may jump forward from behind your word “justice.”

For humanity to be freed from the chains of revenge: that is the bridge to my highest hope. It is like a rainbow after long storms. But, naturally, the tarantulas would want things differently. “Let the world become full of the storms of our revenge; let precisely that be called justice by us” – this is how they talk among themselves. “We shall practice revenge and outrage against all who are not like us” – this is what the tarantula-hearts promise themselves. “And ‘will to equality’ – that itself shall from now on be the name of virtue. And we shall raise an outcry against everything that has power!”

You preachers of equality, this is how the tyrant-madness of your powerlessness cries out for “equality.” This is how your most secret desire for tyranny disguises itself in words of virtue. Soured self-importance, repressed envy, perhaps the self-importance and envy of your fathers: these burst from you as a flame and a madness of revenge. What the father kept silent, the son speaks out. And I often found that the son was the father’s revealed secret. They look like inspired men. But it is not the heart that inspires them – it is revenge. And when they become refined and cold, it is not their mind; it is their envy that makes them refined and cold. Their jealousy leads them onto thinkers’ paths too. And this is the mark of their jealousy – they always go too far. So, their weariness eventually has to lie down and sleep, even on the snow. Revenge rings in all their complaints. There is ill will in all their praise. And to be a judge seems like bliss to them.

This, however, is my advice to you, my friends: Mistrust everyone in whom the urge to punish is strong! They are people of a bad kind and from a bad background. The faces of the executioner and the bloodhound peer out from their faces. Mistrust all those who talk a lot about their justice! Truly, it is not only honey that their souls lack. And when they call themselves “the good and just,” do not forget that the only thing they lack to make them into Pharisees (hypocrites) is – power!

My friends, I do not want to be confused with others or mistaken for what I am not. There are those who preach my doctrine of life. Yet, at the same time, they are preachers of equality, and they are tarantulas. These poison-spiders speak well of life, even though they sit in their caves with their backs turned on life. They do this because they want to do harm by speaking well of life. They want to do harm to those who now possess power. For with those in power, the preaching of death is still most at home (meaning, those in power are often associated with life-denying values). If it were otherwise, the tarantulas would teach otherwise. And it is precisely these people who were formerly the best at slandering the world and burning heretics.

I do not want to be confused with these preachers of equality, nor mistaken for one of them. For justice speaks to me like this: “Humans are not equal.” And they should not become equal, either! For what would my love of the Superman be worth if I spoke otherwise? They should press on to the future across a thousand bridges and pathways. And there should be more and more war and inequality among them. This is what my great love makes me say! They should become creators of symbols and ideals in their conflicts. And with their symbols and ideals, they should fight together the highest fight! Good and evil, and rich and poor, and noble and common, and all the names of the virtues: they should be weapons and ringing symbols that show that life must overcome itself again and again!

Life wants to raise itself high with pillars and steps. It wants to gaze into the far distance and out upon joyful splendor – that is why it needs height! And because it needs height, it needs steps, and conflict between the steps and those who climb them! Life wants to climb, and in climbing, overcome itself. And just look, my friends! Here, where the tarantula’s cave is, there rise up the ruins of an old temple – just look at it with enlightened eyes! Truly, the one who once built up his thoughts in stone here knew the secret of all life as well as the wisest person! That there is battle and inequality and war for power and dominance even in beauty: he teaches us that here in the clearest parable. How divinely the vault and arch here oppose one another in the struggle! How they strive against one another with light and shadow, these divinely-striving things! Beautiful and sure of ourselves like these, let us also be enemies, my friends! Let us divinely strive against one another!

Ha! Now the tarantula, my old enemy, has bitten me! Divinely beautiful and sure of itself, it bit me in the finger! “There must be punishment and justice” – this is what it thinks. “Here he shall not sing songs in honor of enmity for nothing!” Yes, the tarantula has taken its revenge! And alas, now it will make my soul, too, dizzy with revenge! But so that I may not spin around in confusion, tie me tight to this pillar, my friends! I would rather be a saint tied to a pillar than a whirlpool of revengefulness! Truly, Zarathustra is no veering wind or whirlwind. And although he is a dancer, he is by no means a tarantella dancer (a frantic dance)!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Famous Philosophers

All you famous philosophers, you have served the people and the people’s superstitions! You have not served truth! And it is precisely for that reason that the people have respected you. And for that reason too, they put up with your disbelief, because it was like a joke and a side path for the people. In this way, a master allows his slaves some freedom and even enjoys their boldness.

But the person who is hated by the people, like a wolf is by dogs – that person is the free spirit. He is the enemy of chains, a non-worshipper, someone who lives in the forests. To hunt him out of his hiding place – the people always called that “having a sense of right.” They have always set their sharpest-toothed dogs upon him. “For truth is where the people are! Woe to anyone who seeks beyond that!” That is how it has been from the beginning.

You famous philosophers tried to make the people feel justified in their respect for you. That is what you called your “will to truth”! And your heart always said to itself: “I came from the people. God’s voice also came to me from them.” You have always been stubborn and cunning, like a donkey, when acting as the people’s advocate. And many powerful men who wanted to get along well with the people have harnessed a little donkey – a famous philosopher – in front of their horses.

And now, you famous philosophers, I would like you to throw off the lion-skin you wear right now! Throw off the spotted skin of the beast of prey and the matted hair of the inquirer, the seeker, the overcomer! Ah, for me to learn to believe that you are “genuine,” you would first have to break your habit of revering things. Genuine – that is what I call the person who goes into godforsaken deserts and has broken their revering heart. In the yellow sand and burned by the sun, perhaps this person blinks thirstily at the islands filled with springs, where living creatures rest beneath shady trees. But their thirst does not persuade them to become like these comfortable creatures. For where there are oases, there are also idols (false gods). Hungry, violent, solitary, godless: that is how the lion-will (the strong, independent will) wants to be. Free from the happiness of servants, redeemed from gods and worship, fearless and yet capable of inspiring fear, great and solitary: that is how the will of the genuine person is.

The genuine people, the free spirits, have always lived in the desert, as lords of the desert. But in the towns live the well-fed famous philosophers – the draft animals. For they always, like donkeys, pull – the people’s cart! I am not angry with them for that. However, they are still servants and animals in harness, even when they glitter with golden gear. And they have often been good and praiseworthy servants. For this is what virtue says: “If you must be a servant, then find the one whom you can serve best! The spirit and the virtue of your master should grow because you are his servant. In this way, you yourself will grow with your master’s spirit and virtue!” And in truth, you famous philosophers, you servants of the people, you yourselves have grown with the spirit and virtue of the people – and the people have grown through you! I say this to your honor! But you are still of the people even in your virtue, of the people with their dim eyes – of the people who do not know what spirit is!

Spirit is the life that itself strikes into life. Through its own suffering, it increases its own knowledge – did you know that before? And this is the spirit’s happiness: to be anointed and, by tears, made sacred as a sacrificial animal – did you know that before? And the blindness of the blind man, and his searching and groping, shall yet bear witness to the power of the sun into which he gazed – did you know that before? And the enlightened person shall learn to build with mountains! It is a small thing for the spirit to move mountains – did you know that before? You know only the sparks of the spirit. But you do not see the anvil which the spirit is, nor the fierceness of its hammer! In truth, you do not know the spirit’s pride! But you could endure the spirit’s modesty even less, if it should ever decide to speak! And you have never yet dared to cast your spirit into a pit of snow. You are not “hot” enough (passionate or strong enough) for that! So you do not know the intense joy of its coldness either. But you behave in all things in too familiar a way with the spirit. And you have often made wisdom into a poorhouse and a hospital for bad poets. You are not eagles. So you also do not know the spirit’s joy in terror. And anyone who is not a bird should not make their home above deep abysses. You are lukewarm. But all deep knowledge flows cold. The innermost wells of the spirit are ice-cold: a refreshment to hot hands and those who handle things. You stand there respectable and stiff, with a straight back, you famous philosophers! No strong wind or strong will pushes you along. Have you never seen a sail moving over the sea, rounded and swelling and shuddering before the force of the wind? Like a sail, shuddering before the force of the spirit, my wisdom travels over the sea – my untamed wisdom! But you servants of the people, you famous philosophers – how could you travel with me?

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

The Night Song

It is night. Now all the leaping fountains seem to speak louder. And my soul too is like a leaping fountain. It is night. Only now do all the songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.

Something inside me has not been satisfied, something that cannot be satisfied. It wants to speak out. A deep desire for love is in me, and this desire itself speaks the language of love. I am light. Ah, I wish I were night! But this is my solitude: I am surrounded by light. Ah, I wish I were dark and hidden! How I would suck nourishment from the breasts of light! And I would bless you, little sparkling stars and glow-worms up above! I would be happy in your gifts of light.

But I live in my own light. I drink back into myself the flames that break out from me. I do not know the joy of the person who receives. And I have often dreamed that stealing must be more blessed than receiving. This is my poverty: my hand never rests from giving. This is my envy: I see expectant eyes and the shining nights of desire in others. Oh, the misery of all givers! Oh, the eclipse of my own sun! Oh, this craving to feel desire! Oh, this ravenous hunger even when I am full!

They take from me. But do I even touch their souls? A great gap stands between giving and receiving. And even the smallest gap must eventually be bridged. A hunger grows out of my own beauty. I would like to do harm, to rob those to whom I give – this is how I hunger for “wickedness” (something beyond simple goodness). To pull back my hand when another hand is already reaching out for it; to hesitate, like a waterfall that hesitates even as it plunges – this is how I hunger for “wickedness.” Such revenge my own abundance cooks up. Such spite wells up from my solitude. My joy in giving died in the act of giving. My virtue grew tired of itself because it had too much to give!

The danger for someone who always gives is that they may lose their sense of shame. The hand and heart of someone who constantly distributes things grow calloused and hard simply from the act of distributing. My eye no longer overflows with tears at the shame of those who beg. My hand has become too hard for the trembling of hands that have been filled with gifts. Where have the tears of my eye and the fresh bloom of my heart gone? Oh, the solitude of all givers! Oh, the silence of all who give light!

Many suns circle in empty space. To all that is dark, they speak with their light. But to me, they are silent. Oh, this is the hostility of light towards anything else that gives light. It travels its path without pity. Unjust towards other light-givers in its deepest heart, cold towards other suns – this is how every sun travels. Like a storm, the suns fly along their courses; that is their way of traveling. They follow their unbending will; that is their coldness. Oh, it is only you, obscure and dark ones, who draw warmth from those who give light! Oh, only you drink milk and comfort from the life-giving breasts of light!

Ah, ice is all around me; my hand is burned with ice! Ah, there is a thirst in me, and it yearns for your thirst! It is night. Ah, that I must be light! And I thirst for the things of the night! And I thirst for solitude! It is night. Now my longing breaks from me like a spring of water – I long for speech. It is night. Now all leaping fountains speak louder. And my soul too is a leaping fountain. It is night. Only now do all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.

Thus sang Zarathustra.

The Dance Song

One evening, Zarathustra was walking in the forest with his followers. He was looking for a well. Instead, he found a green meadow. Trees and bushes quietly surrounded it. In the meadow, girls were dancing together.

When the girls saw Zarathustra, they stopped dancing. But Zarathustra walked over to them with a friendly look. He said:

“Please don’t stop dancing, sweet girls! I haven’t come to spoil your fun with a mean look. I’m not an enemy of girls.

I argue on God’s side against the Devil. And the Devil is like the Spirit of Seriousness, the one that weighs everything down. How could I, you lively young women, be an enemy to beautiful dancing? Or to girls’ feet with pretty ankles?

It’s true, I am like a forest and a night full of dark trees. But anyone who isn’t afraid of my darkness will also find beautiful rose gardens hidden beneath my cypress trees.

And there, they will also find the little god that girls love the most. He’s lying by the fountain, quiet, with his eyes closed.

Really, the lazy little thing has fallen asleep in broad daylight! Was he too busy chasing butterflies?

Don’t be upset with me, lovely dancers, if I gently tease this little god. Maybe he will cry out and weep. But he’s funny even when he’s crying!

And with tears in his eyes, he will ask you for a dance. I myself will sing a song for his dance.

It will be a dance song and a song that makes fun of the Spirit of Seriousness. This Spirit is my biggest, most powerful devil. Some people say he is ‘the lord of the earth.’”

And this is the song Zarathustra sang while Cupid and the girls danced together:

“Not long ago, I looked into your eyes, O Life! And it felt like I was sinking into something bottomless, something I couldn’t understand.

But you pulled me out with a golden fishing rod. You laughed at me when I called you impossible to understand.

‘All fish talk like that,’ you said. ‘Whatever they can’t figure out, they call bottomless.

‘But I am just always changing and wild. In every way, I’m like a woman, and not always a well-behaved one.

‘You men might call me things like “deep” or “faithful,” “eternal,” or “mysterious.”

‘But you men always give us credit for your own good qualities – oh, you good men!’

That’s how she laughed, this unbelievable woman. But I never believe her and her laughter when she says bad things about herself.

And when I was talking privately with my wild Wisdom, she said to me angrily: ‘You want Life, you desire Life, you love Life. That’s the only reason you praise her!’

Then I almost answered her rudely and told my angry Wisdom the truth. And you can’t answer more rudely than when you tell your Wisdom ‘the truth.’

So, this is how things are between the three of us. Deep in my heart, I only love Life – and to be honest, I love her most of all when I hate her!

But the reason I like Wisdom, and often like her too much, is because she reminds me so much of Life!

Wisdom has Life’s eyes, her laugh, and even her little golden fishing rod. How can I help it if they look so much alike?

And one time, Life asked me: ‘So, who is this Wisdom then?’ – and I eagerly said: ‘Ah yes! Wisdom!

‘People thirst for her but are never satisfied. They look at her through veils. They try to catch her with nets.

‘Is she beautiful? I don’t know! But even the smartest old fish are still tempted by her.

‘She is always changing and likes to resist. I’ve often seen her bite her lip and comb her hair the wrong way.

‘Maybe she is mean and dishonest, and in every way a bad girl. But when she says bad things about herself, that’s exactly when she is most charming.’

When I said this to Life, she laughed in a sly way and closed her eyes. ‘But who are you talking about?’ she asked. ‘Surely, you mean me?

‘And if you’re right – should you say that to my face? But now, tell me about your Wisdom too!’

Ah, and then you opened your eyes again, O beloved Life! And once more, it felt like I was sinking into something I couldn’t understand.”

Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the girls had left, he became sad.

“The sun set a long time ago,” he finally said. “The meadow is damp. A coolness is coming from the forests.

Something strange and unknown is around me, looking at me thoughtfully. What! Are you still alive, Zarathustra?

Why? What for? By what means? To where? Where? How? Isn’t it foolish to keep on living?

Ah, my friends, it is the evening that asks these questions inside me. Forgive me for my sadness!

Evening has come: forgive me that it has become evening!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

The Funeral Song

“Over there is the island of graves, the silent island. The graves of my youth are there too. I will take an evergreen wreath of life there.”

With this decision in my heart, I traveled over the sea.

Oh, you sights and memories of my youth! Oh, all you looks of love, you god-like fleeting moments! How quickly you disappeared! Today, I think of you as if you are dead.

A sweet smell comes to me from you, my dearest dead memories. It’s a smell that comforts my heart and stops my tears. Truly, it touches and eases the heart of a lonely traveler on the sea.

I am still the richest and most enviable man – I, the most lonely one! Because I had you, and you are still with me in a way. Tell me, who else has had such wonderful blessings, like rosy apples falling from a tree, as I have?

I am still the heir to your love. I bloom in your memory with many kinds of wild, growing virtues, O my most beloved memories!

Ah, we were made for each other, you gentle, wonderful things. You came to me and my longing not like shy birds. No, you came trusting me, because I also trusted.

Yes, you were made for faithfulness, like me, and for tender, lasting moments. Must I now call you by your unfaithfulness, you divine looks and moments? I haven’t learned any other name for what happened.

Truly, you disappeared too soon, you fleeting things. Yet, you didn’t run away from me, and I didn’t run away from you. We are both innocent in our separation.

They killed you, you song-birds of my hopes, to kill me! Yes, the arrows of evil were always aimed at you, my beloved ones – to strike my heart!

And they struck! You were always dearest to my heart, what I owned and what owned me. That’s why you had to die young, much too early!

They shot their arrow at the most vulnerable thing I had: and that was you. Your skin is like soft feathers, and even more like a smile that disappears in an instant!

But I will say this to my enemies: What is killing a person compared to what you did to me!

You did something worse to me than any killing. You took away from me what can never be brought back – this is what I say to you, my enemies!

You murdered my youth’s visions and dearest wonders! You took my playmates from me, those blessed spirits! In their memory, I lay this wreath and this curse.

This curse is on you, my enemies! You have cut short my eternity, like a musical note is cut short in the cold night! It came to me barely as a twinkle in divine eyes – just for a moment!

Once, in a happy hour, my pure self said: ‘All beings shall be divine to me.’

Then you ambushed me with disgusting illusions. Alas, where has that happy hour gone now?

‘All days shall be holy to me’ – this is what the wisdom of my youth once said. Truly, the words of a joyful wisdom!

But then you, my enemies, stole my nights from me and sold them to sleepless suffering. Alas, where has that joyful wisdom gone now?

Once I longed for happy signs from birds. Then you led a monstrous owl across my path, a bad omen. Alas, where did my tender longings go then?

I once promised to give up all disgust. Then you turned my relatives and neighbors into infected sores. Alas, where did my noblest promise go then?

Once, like a blind man, I walked on happy paths. Then you threw dirt in the blind man’s path. And now the old footpath disgusts him.

And when I finished my most difficult task and celebrated the victory of my accomplishments, then you made those whom I loved cry out that I hurt them the most.

Truly, all of that was your doing. You made my finest honey bitter and ruined the work of my best bees.

You have always sent the rudest beggars to test my generosity. You have always crowded the hopelessly shameless people around my pity. This is how you have wounded my faith in virtues.

And when I brought my holiest thing as an offering, your ‘piety’ immediately placed its fatter, showier gifts beside it. So my holiest thing was choked in the smoke of your fat.

And once I wanted to dance as I had never danced before. I wanted to dance beyond all heavens. Then you lured away my favorite singer.

And then he started to play a horrible, gloomy tune. Alas, he blared into my ears like a sad horn!

Murderous singer, tool of evil, most innocent man! I stood ready for the finest dance. Then you murdered my joy with your sounds!

I only know how to speak about the highest things through the metaphor of dance – and now my greatest metaphor has remained unspoken in my body!

My highest hope has remained unspoken and unachieved! And all the visions and comforts of my youth are dead!

How did I bear it? How did I recover from such wounds, how did I overcome them? How did my soul rise again from these graves?

Yes, something within me cannot be wounded, cannot be buried. It is something that shatters rocks: it is called my Will. Silently and unchanging, it moves through the years.

It shall go its own way, using my feet, my old Will. Its nature is hard-hearted and invulnerable.

I am only vulnerable in my heels. You live there and are always the same, most patient one! You will always break out of all graves!

In you, all the unachieved dreams of my youth still live on. And you sit like life and youth, hopefully, here upon yellow ruins of graves.

Yes, you are still my destroyer of all graves: Greetings to you, my Will! And only where there are graves can there be resurrections.

Thus sang Zarathustra.

Of Self-Overcoming

You wisest of men, what is it that pushes you and stirs up your passion? Do you call it a ‘desire for truth’?

I call your desire something else: a desire to make everything understandable.

First, you want to make everything fit into your understanding. You have a healthy doubt about whether things are actually understandable on their own. But reality must bend and shape itself to you! That’s what your desire wants. Reality must become smooth and obedient to your mind, like a mirror reflecting your mind.

That is your whole desire, you wisest men. It is a will to power. This is true even when you talk about good and evil, or how to judge values.

You want to create a world that you can kneel before. This is your ultimate hope and your greatest thrill.

Of course, ignorant people – the general public – are like a river. A boat floats down this river. Inside the boat, looking serious and disguised, sit the judgments of value.

You wisest men place your will and your values onto this river of change. What the people believe is good or evil actually shows me an ancient will to power.

It was you, wisest men, who put such ideas (passengers) in this boat. You gave them importance and proud names – you and your ruling will!

Now the river carries your boat along. It has to carry it. It doesn’t matter much if a breaking wave foams up and angrily pushes against the boat’s keel!

The river is not your real danger, nor is it the end of your ideas of good and evil, you wisest men. Your danger is that will itself: the will to power. This is the unspent, creative life-force.

But so you can understand my teaching about good and evil, I will tell you my teaching about life and the nature of all living things.

I have closely watched living creatures. I have studied them in great detail, the largest and the smallest, so I could understand their nature.

I saw their true selves, as if in a hundred mirrors, even when they were silent. I let their eyes speak to me. And their eyes did speak.

But wherever I found living creatures, I also heard the language of obedience. All living creatures are creatures that obey.

And this is the second thing: a person who cannot obey himself will be commanded by others. That is the nature of living creatures.

But this is the third thing I heard: commanding is more difficult than obeying. And it’s not just because the commander carries the burden of all who obey, and this burden can easily crush him.

In all commanding, it seemed to me there was an experiment and a risk. The living creature always risks himself when he commands.

Yes, even when he commands himself, he must then pay the price for his commanding. He must become the judge, the enforcer, and the victim of his own law.

How did this happen? I asked myself. What convinces a living creature to obey, to command, and to practice obedience even when commanding?

Listen now to my teaching, you wisest men! Seriously test whether I have gotten to the very heart of life itself, down to its roots!

Where I found a living creature, there I found will to power. And even in the will of a servant, I found the will to be a master.

The will of the weaker person persuades them to serve the stronger. But that weaker person’s will also wants to be master over those who are even weaker. This is the one pleasure they are unwilling to give up.

And just as the lesser person gives in to the greater one, so they can have pleasure and power over the very least, the greatest person also gives in and risks life itself – for the sake of power.

The dedication of the greatest person involves facing risk and danger, and gambling with death.

And where there is sacrifice, service, and loving looks, there is also a will to be master. There, the weaker person secretly slips into the castle, and even into the heart of the more powerful person – and steals power.

And life itself told me this secret: ‘Look,’ it said, ‘I am what must overcome itself again and again.

‘Sure, you call it a will to reproduce, or an impulse towards a goal – towards something higher, more distant, more varied. But all this is one thing, one secret.

‘I would rather die than give up this one thing. And truly, where there is death and the falling of leaves, look, there life sacrifices itself – for the sake of power!

‘I have to be struggle, and change, and a goal, and a conflict of goals. Ah, whoever figures out my will surely also figures out what crooked paths it has to take!

‘Whatever I create and however much I love it – soon I have to oppose it and my love for it. That is what my will demands.

‘And you too, seeker of knowledge, are only a path and a footstep of my will. Truly, my will to power walks with the feet of your ‘will to truth’!

‘The person who aimed the idea of a “will to exist” at truth certainly did not hit the truth. This will – the will to merely exist – does not exist!

‘For what does not exist cannot have a will. But something that already exists, how could it still want to come into existence?

‘Only where there is life, there is also will. But it is not a will to simply live. Instead – so I teach you – it is will to power!

‘A living creature values many things more than life itself. Yet, out of this very system of valuing speaks – the will to power!’

This is what life once taught me. And with this teaching, I solve the puzzle of your hearts, you wisest men.

Truly, I say to you: Good and evil that never change do not exist! From within themselves, they must overcome themselves again and again.

You exert power with your values and your teachings about good and evil, you who assess values. And this is your hidden love and the glittering, trembling, and overflowing of your souls.

But a mightier power and a new way of overcoming grow from your values. Your current values will break against them, like an egg and its shell.

And whoever has to be a creator of new good and evil, truly, must first be a destroyer and break old values.

Thus, the greatest evil is connected to the greatest good. This, however, is the creative good – the good that creates new things.

Let us speak of this, you wisest men, even if it is a bad thing to discuss. To be silent is worse. All truths that are held back become poisonous.

And let everything that can break upon our truths – break! There are still many houses to build!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Sublime Men

The bottom of my sea is still. Who could guess that it hides playful monsters! My depths are undisturbed. But they glitter with swimming riddles and laughter.

Today I saw a sublime man. He was a serious man, one who seemed sorry for his spirit. Oh, how my soul laughed at his ugliness!

With his chest pushed out, like a man taking a deep breath, the sublime man stood there silently. He was draped with ugly truths, the prizes from his hunt for knowledge. His clothes were torn. Many thorns also hung on him – but I saw no roses.

He has not yet learned about laughter and beauty. This hunter came back gloomily from the forest of knowledge. He returned from fighting wild animals. But a wild animal still looks out from his seriousness – an animal that has not been truly conquered!

He stands there like a tiger about to jump. But I do not like these tense souls. My taste is against all these withdrawn, intense men.

And do you tell me, friends, that there is no arguing about taste and what one prefers? But all life is an argument and a choice about taste!

Taste: it is like a weight, a set of scales, and the person doing the weighing, all at once. And pity any living thing that wants to live without this constant arguing and choosing about weight, scales, and who weighs!

If this sublime man grew tired of his own seriousness, of his “sublimity,” only then would his beauty begin to show. And only then will I appreciate him and find him appealing.

And only if he turns away from himself will he jump over his own shadow – and jump, truly, into his own sunlight.

He has sat in the shadows for far too long. The cheeks of this man, so sorry for his spirit, have grown pale. He has almost starved waiting for his expectations to be met.

There is still disrespect in his eye. Disgust hides around his mouth. He rests now, it’s true, but he has never yet relaxed in the sunlight.

He should act like an ox. His happiness should smell of the earth, not of looking down on the earth. I would like to see him as a white ox, snorting and bellowing as he pulls the plow. And his bellowing should also praise all earthly things!

His face is still dark. The shadow of his hand plays on it. The understanding in his eyes is also overshadowed. His own actions still cast a shadow upon him. The hand darkens the person doing the deed. He has still not overcome his past actions.

It’s true, I love the strength in him, like the neck of an ox. But now I want to see the eye of an angel in him too.

He must also unlearn his heroic, forceful will. He should be an uplifted man, not just a sublime one. The very air itself should raise him up, him, the one without a forceful will!

He has tamed monsters. He has solved riddles. But he should also free his monsters and riddles. He should transform them into heavenly children.

His knowledge has not yet learned to smile and to be without jealousy. His overflowing passion has not yet grown calm in beauty.

Truly, his deep desire should be quieted and find its satisfaction not just in being full, but in beauty! The generosity of a great-souled man should include gracefulness.

With his arm resting across his head: that is how a hero should rest. That is also how he should overcome his need for rest.

But beauty is the most difficult thing of all for the hero. Beauty cannot be reached by any violent, forceful will.

A little more, a little less: that small difference is exactly what means so much here. Here, that is the most important thing.

To stand with relaxed muscles and a will that is not tensed for action: that is the most difficult thing for all of you, you sublime men!

When power becomes kind and gentle, and comes down into the visible world, I call such a coming-down beauty.

And I want beauty from no one as much as I want it from you, you man of power. May your goodness be your final act of overcoming yourself.

I believe you are capable of any evil. Therefore, I desire good from you.

In truth, I have often laughed at weak people who think they are good only because their claws are not sharp!

You should aim for the virtue of a pillar: the higher it rises, the more beautiful and graceful it grows. But inwardly, it becomes harder and able to bear more weight.

Yes, you sublime man, one day you too shall be beautiful. You will hold a mirror before your own beauty.

Then your soul will tremble with divine desires. And there will be worship even in your self-admiration!

This indeed is the secret of the soul: only when the hero has left the soul does the superhero approach it in dreams.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Land of Culture

I flew too far into the future, and a feeling of horror struck me. When I looked around, I realized that time itself was my only companion.

Then I flew back, towards home – faster and faster I flew. And so I came to you, you people of the present, and to this land of culture.

The first time I came, I had an open mind to see you and healthy hopes. Truly, I came to you with a longing in my heart. But what happened to me? Although I was so afraid, I had to laugh! My eyes had never seen anything so jumbled and patched together!

I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled and my heart did too. “This must be the home of all the paint cans!” I said.

You sat there, painted with fifty colorful spots on your faces and bodies. This amazed me, you people of the present! And you had fifty mirrors all around you, flattering you and reflecting your shimmering, colorful surfaces!

Truly, you could wear no better masks than your own faces, you people of the present! Who could even recognize you!

You are covered with writings from the past. And these writings are sloppily painted over with new writings. You have hidden yourselves well from anyone trying to understand what you mean!

And if one tries to test your strength or substance, one finds only emptiness! You seem to be baked from colors and scraps of paper glued together.

All past ages and all different peoples look out from behind your veils in a confused mixture. All customs and all beliefs speak in a jumbled way through your actions.

If someone tore away your veils, your coverings, your paint, and your fake gestures, there would be just enough left to scare the birds.

Truly, I myself am that scared bird. I once saw you naked and without paint. I flew away when the skeleton of your true selves tried to get close to me.

I would rather be a simple worker in the underworld, among the ghosts of the past! Even the people in the underworld are fatter and fuller, more substantial than you!

This, yes this, is a bitter taste in my mouth: I cannot stand you, whether you are naked or clothed, you people of the present!

All the unfamiliar things of the future, and whatever scares lost birds, are truly more familiar and friendlier than your “reality.”

Because this is what you say: “We are completely realistic, and we have no beliefs or superstitions.” You thump your chests when you say this – alas, even though you don’t really have chests to thump, no real heart or substance!

But how could you believe anything, you jumbled, patched-together people! You who are walking pictures of everything that has ever been believed!

You are living arguments against belief itself. You are a break in all clear thought. Unworthy of belief: that is what I call you, you “realists”!

All past ages chatter confusedly in your spirits. And the dreams and chatter of all past ages were more real than your current state of being awake!

You are not creative; you produce nothing new. Therefore, you lack belief. But anyone who had to create always had their guiding dreams and hopeful signs – and they believed in belief itself!

You are like half-open doors where gravediggers are waiting. And this is your reality: “Everything deserves to die.”

Ah, how you stand there, you unproductive people, so thin and lacking substance! And indeed, many of you have noticed this.

And they have said: “Perhaps a god secretly took something from me while I slept? Truly, just enough to make a little woman for himself! “Amazing, how poor my ribs are!” This is how many a person of the present has spoken.

Yes, you are laughable to me, you people of the present! And especially when you are amazed at yourselves!

And it would be terrible for me if I could not laugh at your amazement, and if I had to swallow all the disgusting things inside you.

However, I will treat you lightly, since I have heavy things to carry. And what do I care if little bugs and dragonflies land on my load!

Truly, my load will not become heavier because of that! And my great tiredness will not come from you, you people of the present.

Alas, where shall I climb now with my longing? I look out from every mountain for homelands, for a true place to belong.

But I have found no home anywhere. I am unsettled in every city, and I leave through every gate.

The people of the present, who my heart once pulled me towards, are strange to me now, and a joke. I have been driven away from any sense of homeland.

So now I love only the land of my children, the undiscovered land in the furthest sea. I tell my sails to search for it, and search again.

I will make up to my children for being the child of my fathers. And I will make up to all the future – for this present time!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Immaculate Perception

When the moon rose yesterday, it was so big and round on the horizon, I thought it was about to give birth to a sun. But its pregnancy was a lie. I would sooner believe in the man in the moon than believe the moon is truly fertile.

To be honest, this timid night-wanderer, the man in the moon, isn’t much of a man either. Truly, he travels over the rooftops with a guilty conscience. For he is full of lust and jealousy, this monk in the moon. He lusts for the earth and for all the joys of lovers.

No, I do not like him, this cat on the roofs! Anyone who sneaks around half-closed windows disgusts me! He walks devoutly and silently on star-covered paths. But I do not like soft-stepping feet on which not even a spur makes a sound. (A spur jingles, signaling an open, honest approach.)

Every honest person’s step makes a sound. But the cat steals silently over the ground. Look, the moon also moves like a cat, without honesty.

I offer this comparison to you sentimental hypocrites, you who claim to have “pure knowledge”! I call you – lustful!

You also love the earth and earthly things. I have figured you out! But there is shame and a guilty conscience in your love – you are like the moon! Your mind has been talked into looking down on earthly things, but your gut feelings have not. And your gut feelings are the strongest part of you!

And now your mind is ashamed that it has to do what your gut wants. So, your mind follows roundabout and dishonest paths to avoid its own shame.

Your lying mind tells itself: “For me, the highest thing would be to look at life without desire, not like a dog with its tongue hanging out.” It says: “To be happy just by looking, with a numb will, without the selfish grabbing and greed – to be cold and pale in body but with dreamy, moon-like eyes!” It says: “For me, the dearest thing would be to love the earth as the moon loves it, and to touch its beauty only with my eyes.” This is how the person fooled by their own mind continues to fool themselves.

“And let me call this immaculate perception of all things: that I desire nothing from things, except that I may lie before them like a mirror with a hundred eyes, passively reflecting them.”

Oh, you sentimental hypocrites, you lustful men! Your desire lacks innocence. And so, now you slander desire itself!

Truly, you do not love the earth like creators, like those who bring forth new life, like people who are joyful about starting something new!

Where is innocence? It is where there is a will to create. And for me, the person who wants to create something beyond themselves has the purest will.

Where is beauty? It is where I must will with all my will. It is where I want to love and be consumed by that love, so that an idea or vision does not just remain a mere idea. Loving and being consumed by love: these two have gone together since the beginning of time. The will to love means also being willing to face destruction for it. I say this to you cowards!

But now your weak, suggestive way of looking wants to be called “contemplation”! And that which lets cowardly eyes merely touch it is to be named “beautiful”! Oh, you who dirty noble names!

But this will be your curse, you supposedly “immaculate” men, you of “pure knowledge”: you will never create anything, even if you lie on the horizon looking big and pregnant like the moon!

Truly, you fill your mouths with fancy words. Are we supposed to believe that your hearts are overflowing with sincerity, you habitual liars?

But my words are poor, disliked, and stumbling. I am happy to take the scraps that fall from the table at your fancy feasts. Yet, with these scraps, I can still tell the truth to hypocrites! Yes, my fish-bones, shells, and prickly leaves will tickle the noses of hypocrites!

There is always bad air around you and your feasts. This is because your lustful thoughts, your lies, and your secrets are in the air!

Only dare to believe in yourselves – in yourselves and in your gut feelings! Whoever does not believe in himself always lies.

You have put on the mask of a god, you “pure” ones. But your dreadful, coiling snake (your hidden, base desires) has crawled into that mask of a god. Truly, you are deceivers, you “contemplative” ones! Even I, Zarathustra, was once fooled by your god-like appearance. I did not guess at the serpent-coils with which it was filled.

Once I thought I saw a god’s soul playing in your games, you of “pure knowledge”! Once I thought there was no better art than your arts! Distance hid the snake’s filth and the evil smell from me. It hid the fact that a lizard’s cunning was prowling around lustfully.

But I came closer to you. Then the day dawned for me – and now it dawns for you. The moon’s kind of love affair is over! Just look! There the moon stands, pale and exposed – before the dawn!

For the glowing sun is already coming – its love for the earth is coming! All love like the sun’s is innocence and creative desire! Just look how it comes impatiently over the sea! Do you not feel the thirst and the hot breath of its love? It wants to suck at the sea and drink the sea’s depths up to its own height. Now the sea’s desire rises with a thousand breasts. The sea wants to be kissed and sucked by the sun’s thirst. It wants to become air and height and a pathway for light, and light itself!

Truly, like the sun, I love life and all deep seas. And this is what I call knowledge: all that is deep shall rise up – to my height!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Scholars

As I lay asleep, a sheep nibbled at the ivy wreath on my head. It ate and then said, “Zarathustra is no longer a scholar.” It said this and then walked away stiffly and proudly. A child told me about it.

I like to lie here where children play, beside the broken wall, among thistles and red poppies. To children, I am still a scholar. I am also a scholar to the thistles and red poppies. They are innocent, even in their wildness. But to the sheep, I am no longer a scholar. This is how my fate will have it – and I am thankful for my fate!

For this is the truth: I have left the house of scholars, and I slammed the door behind me. My soul sat hungry at their table for too long. I have not been trained, as they have, to crack open knowledge like one cracks open nuts.

I love freedom and the air over fresh soil. I would rather sleep on rough ox skins than on their dignified and respectable positions.

I am too hot and burned by my own thoughts. My thoughts often almost take my breath away. Then I have to get out into the open air and away from all dusty rooms. But the scholars sit cool in the cool shade. They want to be merely observers in everything. They are careful not to sit where the sun burns on the steps.

Like people who stand in the street and just stare at others passing by, scholars also wait and stare at thoughts that other people have already thought.

If you grab hold of them, they puff out dust like bags of flour, without meaning to. But who would guess that their dust originally came from grain and from the golden joy of summer fields? (Meaning: their knowledge is dry and far removed from its living source).

When they present themselves as wise, their little sayings and truths make me shiver. Their wisdom often smells like it came from a swamp. Indeed, I have even heard a frog croaking in it!

They are clever and have skillful fingers. What is my simplicity compared to their complexity? Their fingers understand all about threading, knitting, and weaving. In this way, they weave the “stockings of the spirit”! (Meaning: they create complicated but perhaps confining intellectual structures).

They are like excellent clocks: just be careful to wind them up properly! Then they tell the hour without mistakes and make a quiet, modest noise while doing so.

They work like mills and pounding tools: just throw grain into them! They know how to grind grain small and make white dust from it.

They keep a sharp eye on one another and do not trust each other as much as they could. They are inventive in small, sly tricks. They lie in wait for those whose wills are weak or unsteady – they lie in wait like spiders.

I have seen how carefully they prepare their poisons. They always put on protective gloves when they do. (Meaning: they handle dangerous or corrupting ideas with a detached, careful precision).

They also know how to play with loaded dice (cheat). And I found them playing so eagerly that they were sweating.

We are strangers to one another. Their virtues are even more against my taste than their lies and their cheating.

And when I lived among them, I lived above them. They grew angry with me for that. They did not want to know that someone was walking over their heads. So they put wood, dirt, and rubbish between their heads and me. In this way, they muffled the sound of my steps. And from then on, the most scholarly ones heard me the least.

They put all the faults and weaknesses of humankind between themselves and me – they call this a “false floor” in their houses. (Meaning: they used human flaws as an excuse or barrier to avoid engaging with his higher ideas).

But I walk above their heads with my thoughts, in spite of that. And even if I were to walk upon my own faults, I would still be above them and their heads.

For people are not equal: this is what justice says. And what I desire, they may not desire!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Poets

Zarathustra said to one of his followers, “Since I have understood the body better, the ‘spirit’ has become just a symbolic word to me. And everything people call ‘permanent’ or ‘unchanging’ – that too has only been an ‘image’ or a symbol.”

The follower answered, “I heard you say that once before. And then you added: ‘But the poets lie too much.’ Why did you say that the poets lie too much?”

“Why?” said Zarathustra. “You ask why? I am not the kind of person who can be easily questioned about my reasons. Do my experiences only date from yesterday? It has been a long time since I experienced the reasons for my opinions. Would I not have to be like a barrel full of memories if I wanted to carry all my reasons around with me too? It is already too much for me to even hold onto my opinions. And many a bird of thought has flown away. And now and then, I find a new, strange idea in my mind, like an unfamiliar bird in my birdhouse, and it trembles when I touch it.”

“But what did Zarathustra once say to you? That poets lie too much? Well, Zarathustra is also a poet. Do you now believe he spoke the truth then? Why do you believe it?”

The follower answered, “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled.

“Belief does not make me feel blessed,” he said, “especially not belief in myself. But let’s assume someone has said in all seriousness that poets lie too much. That person is right – we poets do lie too much. We know too little, and we are bad learners. So, we have to lie.

And which of us poets has not mixed impurities into his wine? Many poisonous concoctions have been made in our cellars. Many indescribable things have been done there. And because we know little, we are delighted by people who are simple-minded, especially if they are young women. We even desire the kinds of stories old women tell each other in the evening. We call that the ‘eternal-feminine’ part of ourselves.

And we believe in the common people and their ‘wisdom,’ as if there were a special secret entrance to knowledge that is blocked to anyone who has actually learned something. But all poets believe this: that a person who lies in the grass or in lonely quiet places, and listens carefully, can catch a little of the mysterious things that are between heaven and earth.

And if poets feel tender emotions, they always think that nature herself is in love with them. They think nature creeps up to their ears to whisper secrets and loving, flattering words. They boast about this and feel proud in front of all other people!

Alas, there are so many things between heaven and earth that only poets have allowed themselves to dream of! And especially things above heaven: for all gods are just images created by poets, things poets have sneakily invented!

Truly, these ideas always draw us upward – that is, to a land of clouds. We place our colorful puppets on the clouds and then call them gods and supermen. And aren’t these gods and supermen light enough for such flimsy seats? They lack substance.

Alas, how tired I am of all the unreachable things that are supposed to be reality! Alas, how tired I am of the poets!”

When Zarathustra had said this, his follower was angry with him but said nothing. Zarathustra also kept silent. His gaze had turned inward, as if he were looking into the far distance. Finally, he sighed and took a breath.

“I am a man of today and of the past,” he then said. “But there is something in me that is of tomorrow, and of the day after tomorrow, and of the future.

I have grown tired of the poets, both old and new. They all seem superficial and like shallow seas to me. They have not thought deeply enough. Therefore, their feelings have not reached true depths. A little bit of pleasure and a little bit of boredom: that is all their best ideas have ever been. All their playing on harps sounds to me like the coughing and puffing of ghosts. What have they ever known of the true passion of musical tones or powerful expression!

They are not clean enough for me either. They all stir up their waters to make them seem deep. And in that way, they would like to present themselves as people who bring harmony. But to me, they remain just go-betweens and meddlers, mediocre and unclean men!

Ah, indeed, I cast my net into their sea and hoped to catch fine fish. But I always pulled out the head of an old god. So, the sea gave a stone to a hungry man. And the poets themselves may well come from the sea. (Meaning: they are changeable, superficial, or full of illusions).

To be sure, one finds pearls in them. When that happens, they themselves are all the more like hard shellfish. And instead of a soul, I often found salty slime in them.

They also learned vanity from the sea. Isn’t the sea the peacock of peacocks? It spreads its tail even before the ugliest of buffaloes. It never gets tired of its lace-fan of silver and silk. The buffalo looks on rudely. Its soul is like the sand, or more like a dense thicket, but most like a swamp. What are beauty, the sea, and peacock-decorations to him? I tell this parable to the poets.

Truly, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks and a sea of vanity! The poet’s spirit wants an audience, even if that audience is only buffaloes!

But I have grown weary of this spirit. And I see the day coming when it will grow weary of itself. Already I have seen poets change. I have seen them turn their gaze upon themselves. I have seen people appearing who are sorry for their past spirit: they grew out of the poets.”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Great Events

There is an island in the sea, not far from Zarathustra’s Blissful Islands. A volcano on this island smokes all the time. The local people, especially the old women, say the volcano is like a big stone placed before the gate of the underworld. They also say that the narrow path leading down to this underworld gate goes right through the volcano itself.

Now, at the time Zarathustra was living on the Blissful Islands, something happened. A ship dropped its anchor at the island with the smoking mountain. The ship’s crew went ashore to shoot rabbits. Around noon, however, when the captain and his men gathered again, they suddenly saw a man coming towards them through the air. A voice said clearly, “It is time! It is high time!” But as the figure got closest to them – it flew past quickly like a shadow, heading towards the volcano – they were shocked to recognize it was Zarathustra. All of them had seen him before, except the captain. They loved him as the people love: with both love and awe.

“Just look!” said the old sailor steering the ship. “Zarathustra is going to Hell!”

At the same time these sailors landed on the volcano island, a rumor started that Zarathustra had disappeared. When his friends were asked, they said he had boarded a ship at night without saying where he was going.

So, people became uneasy. After three days, the sailors’ story was added to this unease. Then everyone said that the Devil had carried Zarathustra away. Of course, his followers laughed at this talk. One of them even said, “I would rather believe that Zarathustra had carried off the Devil.” But deep in their souls, they were all full of worry and longing. So, their joy was great when, on the fifth day, Zarathustra appeared among them.

And this is the story of Zarathustra’s conversation with the fire-dog:

The earth, he said, has a skin. And this skin has diseases. One of these diseases, for example, is called ‘Man.’ And another of these diseases is called ‘the fire-dog.’ People have told many lies about him, and many lies have been told to people about him. (The fire-dog represents loud, violent, and often superficial revolutionary forces.)

To understand this secret, I traveled across the sea. And I have seen truth completely naked, truly! From head to toe. Now I know all about the fire-dog. I also know about all the revolutionary and destructive devils that not only old women are afraid of.

“Get up, fire-dog, up from your depths!” I cried. “And admit how deep that depth really is! Where does what you snort up come from? You drink deeply from the sea: your bitter way of speaking shows that! Truly, for a dog of the depths, you get your food too much from the surface! (Meaning: your ideas are superficial despite pretending to be deep.)

At best, I consider you the earth’s ventriloquist. Whenever I have heard destructive and revolutionary devils speak, I have always found them to be like you: bitter, lying, and superficial. You know how to roar and how to darken the air with ashes! You are the biggest braggart, and you have certainly learned the art of making mud boil. (Meaning: you create chaos and confusion.)

Wherever you are, there must always be mud around, and many things that are spongy, hollow, and squeezed: these things want to be free. ‘Freedom!’ is what you all like to roar the most. But I have stopped believing in ‘great events’ whenever there is a lot of roaring and smoke around them.

And believe me, friend Infernal-Noise! The greatest events – they are not our loudest moments, but our quietest ones. The world turns, not around the inventors of new noises, but around the inventors of new values. It turns silently.

And just admit it! Little was ever found to have actually happened when your noise and smoke cleared away. What did it matter that a town had been preserved like a mummy or that a statue lay in the mud!

And I say this to those who overthrow statues: To throw salt into the sea and statues into the mud are perhaps the greatest of foolish acts. The statue lay in the mud of your contempt. But this is precisely its nature: that its life and living beauty grow again out of contempt! And now it rises again, with more god-like features, and sadly tempting. And in truth! It will even thank you for overthrowing it, you overthrowers!

However, I offer this advice to kings and churches, and to all that is weak because of old age or too much virtue: just let yourselves be overthrown! So that you may return to life, and so that virtue – may return to you!”

This is what I said before the fire-dog. Then he interrupted me gloomily and asked, “The church? What is that then?”

“The church?” I answered. “The church is a kind of state, and indeed the most dishonest kind. But keep quiet, you hypocrite dog! You surely know your own kind best! Like you, the state is a hypocrite dog. Like you, it likes to speak with smoke and roaring – to make people believe, like you, that it speaks from the very heart of things. For the state wants to be absolutely the most important beast on earth; and people believe it is so, too!”

When I said that, the fire-dog acted as if he were crazy with envy. “What?” he cried. “The most important beast on earth? And people believe it is so, too?” And so much steam and hideous shrieking came from his throat that I thought he would choke with anger and envy. Eventually, he grew quieter, and his panting stopped. As soon as he was quiet, however, I said, laughing:

“You are angry, fire-dog: therefore, I am right about you! And so that I may make my point clearer, let me speak of another fire-dog, one which really speaks from the heart of the earth. His breath sends out gold and golden rain: that is what his heart desires. What are ashes and smoke and hot mud to him now! Laughter flutters from him like a colorful cloud. He dislikes your gurgling and spitting and stomach pains! But gold and laughter, he takes from the heart of the earth: for, so you may know it – the heart of the earth is made of gold.”

When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer bear to listen to me. Embarrassed, he tucked his tail between his legs, said “Bow-wow” in a small voice, and crawled down into his cave.

Thus narrated Zarathustra. But his followers hardly listened to him. They were too eager to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the flying man.

“What am I to think of it?” said Zarathustra. “Am I then a ghost? But it must have been my shadow. Surely you have heard something of the Wanderer and his Shadow? This, however, is certain: I must keep my shadow under stricter control – otherwise it will ruin my reputation.” And once again Zarathustra shook his head and wondered. “What am I to think of it?” he said again. “Why, then, did the phantom cry: ‘It is time! It is high time!’? For what, then, is it – high time?”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

The Prophet

And I saw a great sadness come over humankind. The best people grew tired of their work. A teaching spread, and a belief went along with it: Everything is empty, everything is the same, everything is in the past! And from every hill, this message echoed: Everything is empty, everything is the same, everything is in the past!

People said: “We have harvested our crops, it is true. But why did all our fruits turn rotten and brown? What bad influence fell from the wicked moon last night? All our work has been for nothing. Our wine has turned into poison. An evil eye has scorched our fields and our hearts. We have all become dry. If fire fell on us, we would scatter like ashes – yes, we have made even fire itself tired. All our wells have dried up. Even the sea has pulled back. The earth wants to break open, but the depths will not swallow us! Alas, where is there still a sea we could drown in? This is our mournful cry – heard across shallow swamps. Truly, we have grown too tired even to die. Now we are still awake, and we live on – in tombs!”

This is what Zarathustra heard a prophet say. The prophet’s words went to Zarathustra’s heart and changed him. He went about sad and weary. He became like those the prophet had spoken about.

“Truly,” he said to his followers, “this long period of darkness is very nearly upon us. Alas, how will I keep my light shining through it? May it not be smothered in this sadness! My light is meant for more distant worlds and for the most distant nights!”

Zarathustra went about with this grief in his heart. For three days, he took no food or drink, had no rest, and forgot how to speak. At last, it happened that he fell into a deep sleep. His followers sat around him during the long night watches. They waited anxiously to see if he would wake up, speak again, and be cured of his suffering.

And this is the speech that Zarathustra gave when he woke up. His voice, however, came to his followers as if from a great distance:

“Listen to the dream I dreamed, friends, and help me to understand its meaning! It is still a riddle to me, this dream. Its meaning is hidden inside it, imprisoned, and does not yet fly freely above it.

I dreamed I had given up all life. I had become a night-watchman and a grave-watchman, way up on the lonely hill-fortress of death. Up there, I guarded death’s coffins. The musty vaults stood full of these symbols of death’s victory. Life that had been overcome looked at me from inside glass coffins. I breathed the smell of dust-covered eternities. My soul lay heavy and dust-covered. And who could have aired out their soul there?

The brightness of midnight was all around me. Solitude crouched beside it. And, as a third companion, there was the harsh silence of death, the worst of my companions. I carried keys, the rustiest of all keys. And I could open the creakiest of all doors with them.

When the wings of this door were opened, the sound ran through the long corridors like an evil croak. This bird cried out in a bad temper; it did not want to be awakened. But it was even more fearful and heart-stopping when it became silent and still all around me again, and I sat alone in that evil silence.

So time passed with me, or crept past, if time still existed there. What did I know of it? But at last, something happened that awakened me. Three blows were struck on the door like thunderbolts. The vault echoed and roared three times again. Then I went to the door.

‘Alpa!’ I cried. ‘Who is carrying his ashes to the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! Who is carrying his ashes to the mountain?’ And I turned the key and tugged at the door and strained myself. But it did not open even a tiny bit.

Then a raging wind tore the door apart. Whistling, shrieking, and piercing, it threw a black coffin at me. And in the roaring, whistling, and shrieking, the coffin burst apart and vomited out a thousand peals of laughter. And from a thousand masks of children, angels, owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies, it laughed and mocked and roared at me.

This terrified me dreadfully. It knocked me to the ground. And I shrieked with horror as I had never shrieked before. But my own shrieking woke me up – and I came back to myself.”

Zarathustra told his dream and then fell silent, for he did not yet know how to interpret his dream. But the follower whom he loved most quickly got up, grasped Zarathustra’s hand, and said:

“Your life itself interprets this dream for us, O Zarathustra! Are you not yourself the wind with a shrill whistling that tears open the doors of the fortress of death? Are you not yourself the coffin full of colorful wickedness and angel-like masks of life?

Truly, Zarathustra, you come into all tombs like a thousand bursts of children’s laughter! You laugh at these night-watchmen and grave-watchmen, and whoever else rattles gloomy keys. You will terrify them and knock them down with your laughter. Fainting and waking up again will show your power over them. And even when the long twilight and the weariness that leads to death appear, you will not set in our heaven, you who speak for life! You have shown us new stars and new glories of the night. Truly, you have spread laughter itself above us like a colorful canopy.

From now on, children’s laughter will always come from coffins. From now on, a strong wind will always come, victorious, to all weariness that leads to death. You yourself are our guarantee and prophet of this! Truly, you dreamed of your enemies themselves: that was your most crushing dream! But just as you woke up from them and came back to yourself, so shall they awaken from themselves – and come to you!”

Thus spoke the follower. And all the others then pressed around Zarathustra. They grasped his hands and tried to persuade him to leave his bed and his sadness and return to them. But Zarathustra sat up straight on his bed with a distant expression. He looked at his followers like someone who has returned home after being in a strange land for a long time. He examined their faces, and he did not recognize them yet. But when they lifted him and set him upon his feet, look, his eye suddenly transformed! He understood everything that had happened. He stroked his beard and said in a firm voice:

“Well now! This has had its time. But see to it, my followers, that we have a good meal, and quickly! This is how I plan to make up for bad dreams! The prophet, however, shall eat and drink beside me. And truly, I will yet show him a sea in which he can drown!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra. Then, however, he gazed for a long time into the face of the follower who had interpreted the dream, and he shook his head.

Of Redemption

One day, as Zarathustra was walking across the great bridge, crippled people and beggars surrounded him. A hunchback spoke to him:

“Look, Zarathustra! The people are also learning from you and starting to believe your teaching. But for them to believe you completely, one more thing is needed. You must first convince us, the crippled! Here you have a fine selection of us. This is truly a great opportunity for you! You can cure the blind and make the lame walk. And from someone like me, who has too much on his back, you could well take a little away. That, I think, would be the right way to make the crippled believe in Zarathustra!”

But Zarathustra replied this way to the one who had spoken: “If you take the hump away from the hunchback, you take away his spirit – that is what the people teach. And if you give eyes to a blind man, he sees too many bad things on earth. Then he curses the one who cured him. But whoever makes a lame man walk does him the greatest harm. As soon as he can walk, his bad habits run away with him – that is what the people teach about crippled people. And why shouldn’t Zarathustra learn from the people, if the people learn from Zarathustra?

But it is the least serious thing to me, since I have been among humans, to see that one person lacks an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg. There are others who have lost their tongue, their nose, or their head. I see and have seen worse things. Many of them are so monstrous that I would not want to speak of all of them. But about some of them, I should not wish to be silent. These are men who lack everything except one thing, of which they have too much. These are men who are no more than a great eye, or a great mouth, or a great belly, or something else great. I call such men inverse cripples.

And when I came out of my solitude and crossed over this bridge for the first time, I did not believe my eyes. I looked and looked again and finally said: ‘That is an ear! An ear as big as a man!’ I looked even more closely. And in fact, under the ear, something moved that was pitifully small, meager, and slender. And truly, the monstrous ear sat upon a little, thin stalk – and the stalk was a man! If you used a magnifying glass, you could even see a little, envious face. You could also see that a swollen, unhealthy little soul was dangling from the stalk. However, the people told me that the great ear was not just a man, but a great man, a genius. But I have never believed the people when they talked about great men. I held to my belief that it was an inverse cripple, who had too little of everything and too much of one thing.”

When Zarathustra had spoken this way to the hunchback and to those for whom the hunchback spoke, he turned to his followers with deep annoyance and said:

“Truly, my friends, I walk among humans as if I am among the fragments and limbs of humans! The most terrible thing for my eyes is to find humans shattered in pieces and scattered, as if on a battlefield after a slaughter. And when my eye flees from the present to the past, it always discovers the same thing: fragments and limbs and dreadful accidents – but no whole men!

The present and the past upon the earth – alas, my friends – that is my most unbearable burden. I would not know how to live if I were not someone who sees what must come. A seer, a willer, a creator, a future itself, and a bridge to the future – and alas, also like a cripple on this bridge: Zarathustra is all this. And even you have often asked yourselves: Who is Zarathustra to us? What shall we call him? And, like me, you answer your own questions with more questions. Is he someone who makes promises? Or someone who fulfills them? A conqueror? Or an inheritor? A harvest? Or a ploughshare? A physician? Or someone recovering from illness? Is he a poet? Or a genuine man? A liberator? Or someone who subdues? A good man? Or an evil man?

I walk among humans as among fragments of the future: that future which I see. And it is all my art and my goal to put together into one piece what is a fragment, a riddle, and a dreadful accident. And how could I endure to be a man if man were not also a poet, a reader of riddles, and the redeemer of chance!

To redeem the past and to transform every ‘It was’ into an ‘I wanted it thus!’ – that alone is what I call redemption!

Will – that is what the liberator and bringer of joy is called. This is what I have taught you, my friends! But now learn this as well: The will itself is still a prisoner. Willing liberates. But what is it that puts chains even on the liberator? ‘It was’: that is what the will’s grinding of teeth and most lonely suffering is called. Powerless against what has already been done, the will is an angry observer of all things past. The will cannot will backwards. That it cannot break time and time’s desire – that is the will’s most lonely suffering.

Willing liberates. What does willing itself invent to free itself from its suffering and to laugh at its prison? Alas, every prisoner becomes a fool! The imprisoned will, too, frees itself in a foolish way. It is angrily resentful that time does not run backward. ‘That which was’ – that is the name of the stone which it cannot roll away. And so, out of anger and bad temper, the will rolls stones around. It takes revenge on anyone who does not, like it, feel anger and bad temper. Thus the will, the liberator, becomes a wrongdoer. And it takes revenge on all that can suffer because it is unable to go backward.

This, yes, this alone is revenge itself: the will’s strong dislike for time and time’s ‘It was.’ Truly, a great foolishness lives in our will. And it has become a curse to all humankind that this foolishness gained a spirit.

The spirit of revenge: my friends, that has been mankind’s main concern up to now. And where there was suffering, there was always supposed to be punishment. ‘Punishment’ is what revenge calls itself. It fakes a good conscience for itself with a lie. And because there is suffering in the willer himself (since he cannot will backwards), therefore willing itself and all life was supposed to be – punishment!

And then cloud after cloud rolled over the spirit, until at last, madness preached: ‘Everything passes away, therefore everything deserves to pass away! And that law of time, that time must devour her children, is justice itself!’ Thus madness preached. ‘Things are ordered morally according to justice and punishment. Oh, where is redemption from the stream of things and from the punishment of “existence”?’ Thus madness preached. ‘Can there be redemption when there is eternal justice? Alas, the stone “It was” cannot be rolled away. All punishments, too, must be eternal!’ Thus madness preached. ‘No deed can be destroyed. How could a deed be undone through punishment? That existence itself must be an eternally-repeating deed and guilt, this, this is what is eternal in the punishment called “existence”!’ ‘Unless the will at last redeems itself, and willing becomes not-willing –’: but you, my brothers, know this fairytale song of madness!

I led you away from these fairytale songs when I taught you: ‘The will is a creator.’ All ‘It was’ is a fragment, a riddle, a dreadful accident – until the creative will says to it: ‘But I willed it thus!’ Until the creative will says to it: ‘But I will it thus! Thus shall I will it!’

But has the will ever spoken this way? And when will this happen? Has the will been unchained from its own foolishness yet? Has the will become its own redeemer and bringer of joy? Has it unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-grinding? And who has taught it to be reconciled with time, and with higher things than reconciliation? The will that is the will to power must will something higher than any reconciliation – but how will that happen? Who has taught it to will backwards, too?”

But at this point in his speech, Zarathustra suddenly broke off. He looked exactly like a man seized by extreme terror. With terrified eyes, he gazed at his followers. His eyes pierced their thoughts and their unspoken doubts as if with arrows. But after a short time, he laughed again and said in a calm voice: “It is difficult to live among men because keeping silent is so difficult. Especially for someone who talks a lot.”

Thus spoke Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the conversation and had covered his face the whole time. But when he heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity and said slowly: “But why does Zarathustra speak to us differently than to his followers?”

Zarathustra answered: “What is surprising about that? One may well speak in a hunchbacked way to a hunchback!” (Meaning: one might speak carefully or indirectly to someone with a particular sensitivity or perspective.)

“Very good,” said the hunchback. “And with students, one may well share secrets or speak more freely. But why does Zarathustra speak to his students differently – than he speaks to himself?”

Of Manly Prudence

It is not the height that is terrible; it is the deep pit, the abyss! The abyss is where your gaze plunges downward while your hand tries to grasp upward. There, the heart grows dizzy because it wants two opposite things at once.

Ah, friends, have you also sensed my heart’s two desires? My gaze looks up to the heights, but my hand wants to hold on to the depths and lean there – that, that is my abyss and my danger.

My will clings to humankind. I tie myself to people with chains because I am drawn upward to the Superman. My other will, the one focused on the heights, wants to pull me up to the Superman.

I live among people as if I am blind, as if I do not truly recognize them. I do this so my hand does not completely lose its belief in something firm to hold onto. I do not recognize you as individuals. This darkness and comfort of not knowing has often surrounded me. I sit at the city gate and wait for any trickster. I ask: Who wants to deceive me?

This is my first manly prudence (wise way of acting): I let myself be deceived so I do not have to be on guard against deceivers. Ah, if I were on guard against people, how could they be an anchor for my balloon (my aspirations)? It would be torn upward and away too easily! This guiding principle is part of my destiny: I have to live without trying to see too far ahead or be too suspicious.

And anyone who does not want to die of thirst among people must learn to drink out of all kinds of glasses. Anyone who wants to stay clean among people must know how to wash himself even with dirty water. And to comfort myself, I often said: “Well then! Come on, old heart! A misfortune failed to harm you. Enjoy that as your good fortune!”

This, however, is my second manly prudence: I am more considerate to vain people than to proud people. Isn’t wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? But where pride is wounded, something better than pride surely grows up. If life is to be pleasant to watch, its play must be well acted. For that, however, good actors are needed.

I found all vain people to be good actors. They act, and they want others to want to watch them – their whole spirit is in this desire. They act out roles; they invent themselves. I like to watch life in their presence – it cures sadness. I am considerate to vain people because they are like doctors for my sadness. They keep me connected to humankind as if it were a play.

And furthermore, who can truly measure the full depth of a vain person’s modesty! I love and pity him because of his modesty. He wants to learn to believe in himself from you. He feeds on your glances. He eats praise from your hands. He even believes your lies when you lie favorably to him. This is because, deep in his heart, he sighs: “What am I?” And if true virtue is the kind that is unaware of itself, well, the vain man is unaware of his modesty!

This, however, is my third manly prudence: I do not let your fearfulness spoil my pleasure at the sight of wicked people. I am happy to see the marvels the hot sun creates: tigers, palm trees, and rattlesnakes. Among humans, too, there is a fine group created by the hot sun, and much that is marvelous in wicked people.

Indeed, just as your wisest man did not seem so very wise to me, I also found that human wickedness did not live up to its reputation. And I often shook my head and asked: Why bother rattling, you rattlesnakes? (Meaning: why keep up the show of evil?)

Truly, there is still a future, even for evil! And the hottest South (the greatest intensity) has not yet been discovered for mankind. How many things are now called the worst wickedness which are only twelve feet wide and three months long (meaning: they are small and temporary)! One day, however, greater dragons will come into the world.

For, so that the Superman may not lack his dragon – the super-dragon worthy of him – much hot sunshine must yet burn upon damp, ancient forests! Your wild cats must first become tigers, and your poison-toads crocodiles. For a good huntsman must have a good hunt!

And truly, you good and just people! There is much in you that is laughable, especially your fear of him who used to be called the “Devil”! Your souls are so unfamiliar with what is great that the Superman, in his goodness, would seem frightening to you! And you wise and enlightened men, you would flee from the burning sun of wisdom in which the Superman joyfully bathes his nakedness!

You highest men my eyes have met! This is my doubt about you and my secret laughter: I think you would call my Superman – a devil! Alas, I grew tired of these highest and best men. From their “heights,” I longed to go up, out, and away to the Superman! A feeling of horror overcame me when I saw these best men naked. Then wings grew for me, to soar away into distant futures. Into the most distant futures, into more southern Souths (places of greater intensity) than any artist ever dreamed of: to a place where gods are ashamed of all clothes!

But I want to see you disguised, you neighbors and fellow men, well-dressed, vain, and worthy, appearing as “the good and just.” And I myself will sit among you disguised, so that I may misunderstand you and myself. That, in fact, is my last manly prudence.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

The Stillest Hour

“What has happened to me, my friends? You see me troubled, forced to go, obeying unwillingly, ready to leave – alas, to go away from you! Yes, Zarathustra must go into his quiet place of solitude once again. But this time, the bear goes unhappily back into his cave! What has happened to me? Who has ordered this? Alas, my powerful inner guide wants it this way, she told me so. Have I ever told you her name?

Yesterday, towards evening, my stillest hour spoke to me. That is the name of my terrible, powerful guide. And this is how it happened – for I must tell you everything, so your hearts don’t become hard against me for leaving so suddenly!

Do you know the terror a person feels when they are falling asleep? They are terrified down to their toes because the ground seems to disappear, and the dream begins. I tell you this as a comparison. Yesterday, at the stillest hour, the ground seemed to disappear beneath me: my dream began.

The clock hand moved; the clock of my life held its breath. I had never heard such stillness around me. My heart was terrified. Then, without a voice, something said to me: ‘You know, Zarathustra?’ And I cried out in terror at this whisper, and the blood drained from my face. But I kept silent.

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘You know, Zarathustra, but you do not speak!’ And I finally answered with defiance: ‘Yes, I know, but I will not speak!’

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘You will not, Zarathustra? Is this true? Do not hide in your defiance!’ And I wept and trembled like a child and said: ‘Alas, I want to, but how can I? Release me from this one thing! It is beyond my strength!’

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘What does it matter what happens to you, Zarathustra? Speak your teaching and then break!’ (Meaning: deliver your message, even if it costs you everything.) And I answered: ‘Ah, is it my teaching? Who am I? I am waiting for someone more worthy. I am not worthy enough even to be broken by it.’

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘What does it matter what happens to you? You are not yet humble enough. Humility has the toughest skin.’ And I answered: ‘What has the skin of my humility not already endured? I live at the foot of my own heights. How high are my peaks? No one has told me yet. But I know my valleys well.’

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘O Zarathustra, whoever has to move mountains also moves valleys and low-lying lands.’ And I answered: ‘My words have not yet moved any mountains, and what I have spoken has not reached people. Indeed, I went to people, but I have not yet truly reached them.’

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘How do you know that? The dew falls on the grass when the night is at its most silent.’ (Meaning: your influence may be quiet and subtle.) And I answered: ‘They mocked me when I found and walked my own way. And in truth, my feet trembled then. And they said to me: You have forgotten the way, now you will also forget how to walk!’

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘What does their mockery matter? You are someone who has unlearned how to obey. Now you shall command! Do you know what all people most need? Someone who commands great things. To do great things is difficult. But it is more difficult to command great things. This is the most unforgivable thing about you: You have the power, and you will not rule.’ And I answered: ‘I lack the lion’s voice needed for commanding.’

Then again, something said to me, as if in a whisper: ‘It is the quietest words that bring the storm. Thoughts that arrive gently, like doves’ feet, guide the world. O Zarathustra, you shall go as a shadow of what must come. In this way, you will command, and by commanding, lead the way.’ And I answered: ‘I am ashamed.’

Then again, something said to me voicelessly: ‘You must still become like a child, without shame. The pride of youth is still in you; you have become young late in life. But whoever wants to become a child must overcome even their youth.’ And I thought for a long time and trembled. At last, however, I said what I had said at first: ‘I will not.’

Then laughter broke out all around me. Alas, how this laughing tore at my body and ripped open my heart! And for the last time, something said to me: ‘O Zarathustra, your fruits are ripe, but you are not ripe for your fruits! So you must go back into solitude, for you still need to grow mellow.’ And again, something laughed and fled. Then it grew still around me, as if with a double stillness. I, however, lay on the ground, and sweat poured from my limbs.

Now you have heard everything, and why I must return to my solitude. I have kept nothing back from you, my friends. And you have also heard who is the most silent of all beings – and intends to remain so! Ah, my friends! I should have something more to tell you; I should have something more to give you! Why do I not give it? Am I then selfish?”

When Zarathustra had said these words, however, the force of his grief and the nearness of his departure from his friends overwhelmed him, so that he wept aloud. And no one knew how to comfort him. But that night, he went away alone and left his friends.

PART THREE

“You look up when you want to feel uplifted. But I look down, because I am uplifted.

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

A person who climbs the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, whether they are real or imagined.”

ZARATHUSTRA: ‘Of Reading and Writing’

The Wanderer

It was midnight when Zarathustra made his way over the ridge of the island. He wanted to reach the other shore by early dawn because he planned to board a ship there. At that shore, there was a good harbor where foreign ships also liked to dock. These ships took on board many people who wanted to leave the Blissful Islands and cross the sea.

Now, as Zarathustra was climbing the mountain, he thought about the many lonely journeys he had made since he was young. He remembered how many mountains, ridges, and summits he had already climbed.

“I am a wanderer and a mountain-climber,” he said to his heart. “I do not like flat plains, and it seems I cannot sit still for long. And whatever fate and experience may still come to me, wandering and mountain-climbing will be part of it. In the end, a person only truly experiences themselves.

The time when random accidents could happen to me has passed. And what could still happen to me that isn’t already a part of me? My own Self is returning. At last, it is coming home to me – my Self and those parts of it that have been away for a long time, scattered among all things and events.

And I know one thing more: I now stand before my last summit and before the task that I have put off the longest. Alas, I have to climb my most difficult path! Alas, I have started my loneliest journey! But a man like me does not avoid such an hour. This is the hour that says to him: ‘Only now are you walking your path of greatness! Summit and abyss – the highest peak and the deepest pit – they are now joined as one!

You are walking your path of greatness. Now, what used to be your greatest danger has become your ultimate refuge! You are walking your path of greatness. Now, you must gather all your courage because there is no longer a path behind you! You are walking your path of greatness. No one can sneak up behind you here! Your own foot has erased the path behind you, and above that path is written: Impossibility.

And when all places to put your foot disappear, you must know how to climb upon your own head. How else could you climb upward? Upon your own head and beyond your own heart! Now, the gentlest part of you must become the hardest. A person who has always been too easy on himself eventually gets sick from his own indulgence. Praise be to what makes us hard! I do not praise the land where life is easy, like a land flowing with butter and honey!

To see much, one must learn to look away from oneself. Every mountain-climber needs this kind of toughness. But a person who is too eager with his eyes while seeking enlightenment, how could he see more of a thing than just its surface! You, however, O Zarathustra, have wanted to see the foundation of things and what lies behind them. So you must climb above yourself – up and beyond, until you have even your stars beneath you!’”

“Yes! To look down upon myself and even upon my stars: that alone would I call my summit. That has remained for me as my ultimate summit!”

Zarathustra spoke these things to himself as he climbed. He consoled his heart with these hard truths, for his heart was wounded as never before. And when he reached the top of the mountain ridge, look, the other sea lay spread out before him. He stood there and was silent for a long time. But the night at this height was cold and clear and bright with stars.

“I know my fate,” he said at last with sadness. “Well then! I am ready. My last period of solitude has just begun. Ah, this sorrowful, black sea beneath me! Ah, this hesitant, brooding feeling! Ah, destiny and sea! Now I have to go down to you! I stand before my highest mountain and my longest journey. Therefore, I must first go down deeper than I have ever gone down. I must go deeper into pain than I have ever gone, down to its blackest stream! My destiny will have it so. Well then! I am ready.

Where do the highest mountains come from? I once asked. Then I learned that they come from the sea. This truth is written into their stones and into the sides of their summits. The highest must rise to its height from the deepest depth.”

Zarathustra spoke these words on the mountain summit, where it was cold. When he drew near to the sea, however, and at last stood alone beneath the cliffs, he had grown weary from the journey and felt more longing than before.

“Everything is still asleep,” he said. “Even the sea is asleep. Its eye looks at me drowsily and strangely. But it breathes warmly; I feel it. And I also feel that it is dreaming. Dreaming, it twists and turns on a hard pillow. Listen! Listen! How it groans with bad memories! Or with bad expectations? Ah, I am sad with you, dark monster, and angry even with myself for your sake. Alas, my hand does not have enough strength! In truth, I would dearly like to free you from your bad dreams!”

And as Zarathustra spoke this way, he laughed at himself with sadness and bitterness. “What, Zarathustra!” he said. “Do you want to sing comfort even to the sea? Ah, you loving fool, Zarathustra, too quick to trust! But that is what you have always been. You have always approached everything frightening with trust. You have always wanted to gently touch every monster. A bit of warm breath, a little soft fur on its paw – and at once you have been ready to love it and draw it to you.

Love is the danger for the most solitary man, love of anything, if only it is alive! Indeed, my foolishness and modesty in love are laughable!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra and laughed again. But then he thought of the friends he had left. He was angry with himself because of his thoughts, as if he had hurt his friends with them. And immediately, the laughing man wept – Zarathustra wept bitterly from anger and longing.

Of the Vision and the Riddle

1. The Journey and the Dwarf

When the sailors heard that Zarathustra was on their ship, they became very curious and expectant. A man from the Blissful Islands had boarded at the same time as him. But Zarathustra was silent for two days. He was cold and deaf with sorrow and did not respond to any looks or questions. On the evening of the second day, he started listening again, though he still remained silent. There were many strange and dangerous things to hear on this ship. It had come from far away and had even further to go. Zarathustra, however, was a friend to everyone who takes long journeys and does not want to live without danger. And listen! As he listened, his tongue loosened, and the ice around his heart broke. Then he started to speak like this:

“To you, the bold explorers and adventurers, and whoever has set out with clever sails upon terrifying seas; To you who are thrilled by riddles, who enjoy the twilight, whose soul is lured by flutes to every treacherous, deep pit – For you do not want to feel for a safety rope with a cowardly hand. And where you can guess, you hate to make careful calculations – To you alone, I tell this riddle that I saw – the vision of the most solitary man.

Lately, I walked gloomily through a twilight as grey as death. I was gloomy and stern, with my lips pressed tightly together. More than one sun had set for me. (Meaning: I had lost more than one great hope or belief).

A path climbed stubbornly through boulders and rubble. It was a wicked, lonely path that no bush or plant made cheerful anymore. This mountain path crunched under the defiance of my foot. Walking silently over the mocking clatter of pebbles, trampling the stones that made it slip, my foot forced itself upward with effort. Upward – despite the spirit that pulled it downward, pulled it towards the abyss. This was the Spirit of Gravity, my devil and greatest enemy. Upward – although he sat on me. He was half dwarf, half mole; crippled himself and crippling others. He poured drops of lead into my ear and leaden thoughts into my brain.

‘O Zarathustra,’ he said mockingly, syllable by syllable, ‘you stone of wisdom! You have thrown yourself high, but every stone that is thrown must fall! O Zarathustra, you stone of wisdom, you thrown stone, you destroyer of stars! You have thrown yourself so high, but every stone that is thrown must fall! You are condemned by yourself and to your own stone-throwing. O Zarathustra, you have indeed thrown your stone far, but it will fall back upon you!’

After that, the dwarf fell silent, and he stayed silent for a long time. But his silence oppressed me. To be in company like that is truly lonelier than to be alone! I climbed, I climbed, I dreamed, I thought, but everything weighed me down. I was like a sick man, tired out by his painful suffering, who is reawakened from sleep by an even worse dream.

But there is something in me that I call courage. It has always destroyed every feeling of discouragement in me. This courage finally told me to stop and say: ‘Dwarf! It’s either you or me!’ For courage is the best destroyer – courage that attacks. In every attack, there is a shout of triumph. Humankind, however, is the most courageous animal. With courage, humans have overcome every other animal. With a triumphant shout, they have even overcome every pain. Human pain, however, is the deepest pain. Courage also destroys dizziness at the edge of abysses. And where does a person not stand at an abyss? Isn’t seeing itself like seeing into abysses? Courage is the best destroyer. Courage also destroys pity. Pity, however, is the deepest abyss. As deeply as a person looks into life, that is how deeply they also look into suffering. Courage, however, is the best destroyer, courage that attacks. It destroys even death, because it says: ‘Was that life? Well then! Once more!’ But there is a great triumphant shout in such a saying. Let anyone who has ears to hear, listen.”

2. The Gateway and the Shepherd

“‘Stop, dwarf!’ I said. ‘It is me or you! But I am the stronger of us two – you do not know my deepest thought! That thought – you could not bear it!’ Then something happened that made me feel lighter. The dwarf jumped from my shoulder, the curious dwarf! And he squatted down on a stone in front of me. But there was a gateway right where we had stopped.

‘Look at this gateway, dwarf!’ I continued. ‘It has two faces. Two paths come together here. No one has ever reached the end of these paths. This long lane behind us stretches back for an eternity. And that long lane ahead of us – that is another eternity. These paths are opposite to each other; they meet directly here. And it is here at this gateway that they come together. The name of the gateway is written above it: “Moment.”

But if one were to follow them further, and ever further and further, do you think, dwarf, that these paths would remain eternally opposite?’ ‘Everything straight lies,’ murmured the dwarf disdainfully. ‘All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle.’

‘Spirit of Gravity!’ I said angrily. ‘Do not treat this so lightly! Or I will leave you squatting where you are, Lame-foot – and I have carried you high! Look at this moment!’ I went on. ‘From this gateway called Moment, a long, eternal lane runs back. An eternity lies behind us. Must not all things that can run have already run along this lane? Must not all things that can happen have already happened, been done, run past? And if all things have been here before, what do you think of this moment, dwarf? Must not this gateway, too, have been here before? And are not all things tied together so strongly that this moment pulls all future things after it? Therefore – it pulls itself too? For all things that can run must also run forward once again along this long lane.

And this slow spider that creeps along in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself, and I and you at this gateway whispering together, whispering of eternal things – must we not all have been here before? And must we not return and run down that other lane out before us, down that long, terrible lane – must we not return eternally?’

I spoke this way, and my voice grew softer and softer, because I was afraid of my own thoughts and unspoken fears. Then, suddenly, I heard a dog howling nearby. Had I ever heard a dog howling like that? My thoughts ran back. Yes! When I was a child, in my most distant childhood, then I heard a dog howling like that. And I saw it too, its fur bristling, its head raised, trembling in the stillest midnight, when even dogs believe in ghosts. It made me feel pity. For the full moon had just passed over the house, silent as death. It had just stopped still, a round glow, still upon the flat roof as if it were on a forbidden place. That was what had terrified the dog, because dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And when I heard such howling again, it made me feel pity again.

Where had the dwarf gone now? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the whispering? Had I been dreaming? Had I woken up? All at once, I was standing between wild cliffs, alone, abandoned in the most desolate moonlight.

But there, a man was lying! And there! The dog, leaping, its fur bristling, whining. Then it saw me coming – then it howled again, then it cried out – had I ever heard a dog cry so for help? And truly, I had never seen anything like what I then saw. I saw a young shepherd twisting, choking, shaking, his face distorted. And a heavy, black snake was hanging out of his mouth. Had I ever seen so much disgust and pale horror on a face? Had he, perhaps, been asleep? Then the snake had crawled into his throat – and there it had bitten itself fast.

My hands tugged and tugged at the snake – for nothing! They could not pull the snake out of the shepherd’s throat. Then a voice cried from me: ‘Bite! Bite! Its head off! Bite!’ – this way a voice cried from me. My horror, my hate, my disgust, my pity, all my good and evil cried out of me with a single cry.

You bold men around me! You explorers, adventurers, and those of you who have set out with clever sails upon undiscovered seas! You who take pleasure in riddles! Solve for me the riddle that I saw. Interpret for me the vision of the most solitary man! For it was a vision and a forewarning. What did I see in this symbolic story? And who is it that must come one day?

Who is the shepherd into whose mouth the snake crawled like this? Who is the man into whose throat all that is heaviest and blackest will crawl in this way? The shepherd, however, bit as my cry had advised him. He bit with a good bite! He spat the snake’s head far away – and sprang up. No longer a shepherd, no longer a man – he was a transformed being, surrounded with light, laughing! Never before on earth had any man laughed as he laughed!

O my brothers, I heard a laughter that was not human laughter – and now a thirst consumes me, a longing that is never satisfied. My longing for this laughter consumes me. Oh, how do I endure still to live! And how could I endure to die now!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Involuntary Bliss

Zarathustra traveled across the sea with such riddles and bitterness in his heart. However, when he was four days’ journey from the Blissful Islands and from his friends, he had overcome all his pain. Triumphantly and with firm steps, he once again accepted his destiny. And then Zarathustra spoke this way to his rejoicing conscience:

I am alone again, and I choose to be. I am alone with the pure sky and the open sea. And again, it is afternoon around me. It was afternoon when I first found my friends. It was also afternoon when I found them a second time – at the hour when all light grows quieter. For whatever happiness is still traveling between heaven and earth now looks for shelter in a shining soul. With happiness, all light has now grown quieter.

O afternoon of my life! Once my happiness, too, came down into the valley to look for shelter. There it found these open, welcoming souls. O afternoon of my life! What have I not given away so that I might have one thing: this living garden of my thoughts and this dawn of my highest hope!

Once, the creator looked for companions and children of his hope. And look, it turned out that he could not find them, unless he first created them himself. So, I am in the middle of my work, going to my children and also turning away from them. For the sake of his children, Zarathustra must make himself perfect. For a person loves from the very heart only their child and their work. And where there is great love of oneself, then it is a sign of being pregnant with ideas. This is what I have found.

My children are still young and new, like plants in their first spring. They stand close together and are shaken together by the winds. They are the trees of my garden and my best soil. And truly! Where such trees stand together, there are blissful islands! But one day I will pull them up from the ground and set each one by itself. Each must learn solitude, defiance, and how to see into the future. Then each one will stand by the sea, gnarled and twisted, but flexible and strong. Each will be a living lighthouse of life that cannot be conquered.

Over there, where storms plunge down into the sea and the mountain’s peak drinks water, there each of them will one day keep its day and night watch. This will be for its testing and recognition. It must be tested and recognized, to see if it is of my kind and my family – whether it is master of a long-lasting will, silent even when it speaks, and giving in such a way that in giving, it also takes. So that it may one day be my companion and a fellow-creator and fellow-rejoicer with me, Zarathustra. It must be someone who writes my will upon my stone tablets, for the greater perfection of all things.

And for its sake, and for those like it, I must make myself perfect. Therefore, I now avoid my happiness and offer myself to all unhappiness. This is for my final testing and recognition.

And truly, it was time I went. The wanderer’s shadow, the longest period of staying in one place, and the stillest hour – all told me: “It is high time!” The wind blew to me through the keyhole and said: “Come!” The door cleverly sprang open and said: “Go!” But I lay chained to the love of my children. Desire set this trap for me – the desire for love – so that I might become my children’s victim and lose myself because of them. To desire – that now means to me: to have lost myself. I possess you, my children! In this possession, everything should be certain, and there should be no desire.

But the sun of my love lay heavily upon me. Zarathustra stewed in his own intensity. Then shadows and doubts flew past me. I longed for frost and winter. “Oh, that frost and winter would again make me crackle and crunch!” I sighed. Then an icy mist arose from me. My past broke open its graves. Many pains that had been buried alive woke up. They had only been sleeping, hidden in burial cloths.

So, in symbols, everything called to me: “It is time!” But I did not hear. Finally, my deepest part stirred, and my own thought bit me. Alas, deep thought that is my thought! When will I find the strength to hear you digging deep inside me and no longer tremble? My heart rises to my throat when I hear you digging! Even your silence threatens to choke me, you deep, silent thought! I have never yet dared to call you up. It has been enough that I carried you with me! I have not yet been strong enough for the ultimate lion’s arrogance and wildness. (Meaning: the courage to face his deepest thoughts). Your heaviness has always been frightening enough for me. But one day I will find the strength and the lion’s voice to call you up! When I have overcome myself in that, I will overcome myself in something even greater. And a victory will be the seal of my perfection!

In the meantime, I travel on uncertain seas. Smooth-talking chance flatters me. I look forward and backward, but I still see no end. The hour of my last struggle has not yet arrived – or has it perhaps just arrived? Truly, the sea and life around me look at me with a dangerous kind of beauty! O afternoon of my life! O happiness before evening! O harbor in the middle of the sea! O peace in uncertainty! How I mistrust all of you! Truly, I am suspicious of your dangerous beauty! I am like a lover who mistrusts smiles that are too smooth and sweet. Just as a jealous man pushes his most beloved away from him, tender even in his harshness – in the same way, I push this blissful hour away from me.

Away with you, blissful hour! With you, an unwanted happiness came to me! I stand here ready for my deepest pain – you came at the wrong time! Away with you, blissful hour! Instead, take shelter over there – with my children! Hurry, and bless them before evening with my happiness! Evening is already approaching there: the sun is sinking. Away – my happiness!

Thus spoke Zarathustra. And he waited all night for his unhappiness. But he waited in vain. The night remained clear and still, and happiness itself drew nearer and nearer to him. Towards morning, however, Zarathustra laughed to his heart and said with irony: “Happiness runs after me. That is because I do not run after women. Happiness, however, is a woman.”

Before Sunrise

O sky above me! O pure, deep sky! You are like an abyss of light! Looking into you, I tremble with divine desires. To throw myself into your height – that is my own kind of depth! To hide myself in your purity – that is my innocence!

A god is hidden by his own beauty; in the same way, you hide your stars. You do not speak; in this way, you announce your wisdom to me. You have risen for me today, silent over the raging sea. Your love and your modesty speak like a revelation to my raging soul. You have come to me, beautiful, hidden in your beauty. You have spoken to me silently, clearly showing your wisdom.

Oh, how could I not guess all that is modest in your soul! You came to me before the sun, to me, the most solitary man. We have been friends from the beginning. We share grief, terror, and our understanding of the world; we even share the sun. We do not speak to one another because we know too much. We are silent together; we smile our shared knowledge to one another.

Are you not the light for my fire? Don’t you have a sister-soul to my own insight? Together we learned everything. Together we learned to rise above ourselves, to reach our true selves, and to smile without clouds. We learned to smile clearly down from bright eyes and from miles away, while below us, force, fixed purposes, and guilt stream like rain.

And when I wandered alone, what did my soul hunger for at night and on dangerous paths? And when I climbed mountains, whom did I always seek on those mountains, if not you? And all my wandering and mountain-climbing was just a necessary action, a clumsy way of trying to do one thing: my whole will desires only to fly, to fly into you!

And what have I hated more than passing clouds and anything that makes you unclean? I have even hated my own hatred because it made you unclean! I dislike the passing clouds, these sneaky cats of prey. They take from you and from me what we have in common – the vast and endless declaration of “Yes” and “Amen” to life. We dislike these in-between things, these meddlers and mixers, the passing clouds. They are half-and-half, unable to truly bless or truly curse from the heart.

I would rather sit in a barrel under a closed sky, or in a deep pit without a sky, than see you, shining sky, made unclean by passing clouds! And often I longed to tie them up tightly with jagged golden wires of lightning. I wanted to drum upon their hollow bellies like thunder. I wanted to be an angry drummer because they rob me of your “Yes!” and “Amen!” O sky above me, you pure sky! You shining sky! You abyss of light! They rob me of my “Yes!” and “Amen!” For I would rather have noise, thunder, and angry storms than this careful, uncertain cat-like quietness. And among people too, I most hate all soft-walkers, half-and-halfers, and uncertain, hesitating, passing clouds.

And “Whoever cannot bless should learn to curse!” – this clear teaching fell to me from the dear sky. This star stands in my sky even on dark nights. I, however, am someone who blesses and says “Yes,” if only you are around me, you pure, shining sky! You abyss of light! Then, into all deep abysses, I carry my sacred declaration of “Yes.” I have become someone who blesses and someone who says “Yes.” For that, I wrestled for a long time and was a wrestler, so that one day I might have my hands free for blessing.

This, however, is my blessing: To stand over everything as its own sky, as its round roof, its blue bell, and eternal certainty. And happy is the one who blesses in this way! For all things are baptized at the fountain of eternity and are beyond good and evil. Good and evil themselves, however, are only shadows in between, damp sorrows, and passing clouds.

Truly, it is a blessing and not a blasphemy when I teach: “Above all things stands the heaven of chance, the heaven of innocence, the heaven of accident, the heaven of playfulness.” “Lord Chance” – he is the world’s oldest nobility, which I have given back to all things. I have freed them from being slaves to a fixed purpose. I set this freedom and heavenly cheerfulness over all things like a blue bell when I taught that no “eternal will” acts over them and through them. I put this playfulness and this foolishness in place of that will when I taught: “With all things, one thing is impossible – complete rationality!”

A little reason, to be sure, a seed of wisdom scattered from star to star – this yeast is mixed with all things. For the sake of foolishness, wisdom is mixed with all things! A little wisdom is certainly possible. But I have found this happy certainty in all things: that they prefer to dance on the feet of chance.

O sky above me, you pure, lofty sky! This is now your purity to me: that there is no eternal “reason-spider” or its web in you. You are to me a dance floor for divine chances. You are to me a table for gods, for divine dice and dice-players!

But are you blushing? Did I say something that should not be said? Did I insult you when I meant to bless you? Or is it the shame of us being together that makes you blush? Are you telling me to go and be silent because now – day is coming? The world is deep, and deeper than day has ever understood. Not everything may be spoken in the presence of day. But day is coming, so let us part! O sky above me, you modest, glowing sky! O you, my happiness before sunrise! Day is coming, so let us part!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of the Virtue that Makes Small

1. Observations of Smallness

When Zarathustra was on firm land again, he did not go straight to his mountains and his cave. Instead, he made many journeys, asked many questions, and looked into this and that. He joked about himself, saying: “Look, a river that winds and turns as it flows back to its source!” He wanted to learn what had been happening to people while he had been away: whether they had become bigger or smaller.

One day, he saw a row of new houses. He marveled and said: “What do these houses mean? Truly, no great soul built them as a reflection of itself! Did a silly child perhaps take them out of its toy-box? If only another child would put them back into the box! And these living rooms and bedrooms: can people even go in and out of them? They seem to have been made for dolls, or for delicate people who nibble at their food and perhaps let others nibble with them.”

Zarathustra stopped and thought. Finally, he said sadly: “Everything has become smaller! Everywhere I see lower doors. Someone like me can still pass through them, but he has to stoop! Oh, when will I return to my home, where I will no longer have to stoop – no longer have to stoop before these small people!” And Zarathustra sighed and gazed into the distance. That same day, however, he gave his speech about the virtue that makes people small.

2. Among the Small People

“I go among these people and keep my eyes open. They do not forgive me for not being envious of their virtues. They peck at me because I tell them: ‘Small people need small virtues’ – and because it is hard for me to understand why small people are necessary at all! Here I am still like a rooster in a strange farmyard, pecked at even by the hens. But I am not unfriendly to these hens because of it. I am polite towards them, as I am towards every small annoyance. To be prickly towards small things seems to me like the wisdom of a hedgehog.

They all talk about me when they sit around the fire in the evening. They talk about me, but no one really thinks – about me! This is the new silence I have learned: their noise about me spreads like a cloak over my thoughts, hiding them. They bluster among themselves: ‘What does this gloomy cloud want with us? Let us make sure it does not bring us a plague!’ And recently, a woman pulled her child back when it was coming towards me. ‘Take the children away!’ she cried. ‘Eyes like that scorch children’s souls.’

They cough when I speak. They think coughing is an objection to strong winds – they know nothing of the raging power of my happiness! ‘We don’t have time for Zarathustra yet’ – that is how they object. But what does a time that ‘has no time’ for Zarathustra even matter? And even if they praise me, how could I rest on their praise? Their praise is like a barbed belt to me; it scratches me even when I take it off. And I have also learned this among them: whoever praises seems to be giving something back, but in truth, they want to be given more!

Ask my foot if it likes their songs of praise and their attempts to entice me! Truly, my foot likes neither to dance nor to stand still to such a rhythm and tick-tock beat. They would like to lure me and recommend small virtue to me. They would like to persuade my foot to follow the tick-tock rhythm of a small happiness.

I go among these people and keep my eyes open. They have become smaller and are becoming even smaller. Their idea of happiness and virtue is the cause of this. For they are modest even in their virtue – because they want comfort and ease. But only a modest virtue goes along with ease. To be sure, even they learn in their own way how to walk and to walk forward. I call that their limping. With it, they become an obstacle to anyone who is in a hurry. And some of them go forward and at the same time look backward with a stiff neck. I like to bump into them.

Foot and eye should not lie, nor should they contradict each other. But there is much lying among the small people. Some of them have a will, but most of them are only pushed by will. Some of them are genuine, but most of them are bad actors. There are unconscious actors among them and involuntary actors. Genuine people are always rare, especially genuine actors. There is little true manliness here. Therefore, their women try to make themselves manly. For only a man who is sufficiently a man can redeem what is truly woman in a woman.

And I have found this hypocrisy to be the worst among them: even those who command pretend to have the virtues of those who obey. ‘I serve, you serve, we serve’ – this is the hypocritical song even of the rulers. And alas, if the first ruler is only the first servant! Ah, my eyes’ curiosity has even wandered into their hypocrisies. I have well understood all their fly-like happiness and their humming around sunny window-panes. I see as much weakness as I see goodness. I see as much weakness as I see justice and pity. They are frank, honest, and kind to one another, just as grains of sand are frank, honest, and kind to other grains of sand. To modestly hold onto a little happiness – that they call ‘submission’! And at the same time, they are always looking out for a new little happiness. Basically, they want one thing most of all: that nobody should harm them. So they try to get ahead of everyone by doing good to everyone. This, however, is cowardice, even if it is called ‘virtue.’

And when these little people speak harshly, I hear in it only their hoarseness – every draft of air, in fact, makes them hoarse. They are clever; their virtues have clever fingers. But they lack fists; their fingers do not know how to fold into fists. To them, virtue is what makes someone modest and tame. With it, they make the wolf into a dog, and man himself into man’s best domestic animal. ‘We have set our chairs down in the middle’ – that is what their smirking tells me – ‘and as far away from dying warriors as from contented pigs.’ This, however, is mediocrity, even if it is called moderation.”

3. Zarathustra the Godless

“I go among these people and let fall many a word. But they know neither how to take my words nor how to keep them. They are surprised that I have not come to criticize their desires and bad habits. And truly, I have not come to warn against pickpockets either! They are surprised that I am not prepared to improve and sharpen their cleverness, as if they did not already have enough know-it-alls, whose voices grate on my ears like slate-pencils!

And when I cry: ‘Curse all the cowardly devils within you who would like to whimper and clasp their hands and worship,’ then they cry: ‘Zarathustra is godless.’ And this is especially the cry of their teachers of submission. But it is precisely into their ears that I love to shout: Yes! I am Zarathustra the Godless! These teachers of submission! Wherever there is anything small, sick, and scabby, they crawl like lice. Only my disgust stops me from crushing them.

Well then! This is my sermon for their ears: I am Zarathustra the Godless, who says, ‘Who is more godless than I, so that I may rejoice in his teaching?’ I am Zarathustra the Godless. Where will I find my equal? All those who give themselves their own will and reject all submission – they are my equals. I am Zarathustra the Godless. I cook every chance event in my pot. And only when it is completely cooked do I welcome it as my food. And truly, many a chance came forcefully to me. But my will spoke to it even more forcefully. Then the chance went down on its knees, begging. It begged for shelter and love with me, and urged in a sweet-talking tone: ‘Just see, O Zarathustra, how a friend comes to a friend!’

But why do I speak where no one has my kind of ears? And so I will shout it out to all the winds: You will become smaller and smaller, you small people! You will crumble away, you comfortable people! You will eventually perish – Because of your many small virtues, because of your many small failures to act, because of your many small submissions! Too indulgent, too yielding: that is the state of your soil! But in order to grow big, a tree wants to strike hard roots into hard rocks! Even what you fail to do weaves the web of mankind’s future. Even your nothingness is a spider’s web and a spider that lives on the future’s blood. And when you take something, it is like stealing, you small virtuous people. But even among thieves, honor says: ‘One should steal only where one cannot plunder.’ ‘It is given’ – that is also a teaching of submission. But I tell you, you comfortable people: it is taken, and more and more will be taken from you!

Oh, that you would get rid of all half-hearted willingness, and decide on inaction with the same conviction as you decide on action! Oh, that you understood my saying: ‘Always do what you will – but first be the kind of person who can will! Always love your neighbor as yourselves – but first be the kind of people who love themselves – who love with a great love, who love with a great contempt!’ Thus speaks Zarathustra the Godless.

But why do I speak where no one has my kind of ears? Here, it is still an hour too early for me. Among these people, I am my own forerunner, my own rooster crowing through dark lanes. But their hour is coming! And mine too is coming! Hourly they will become smaller, poorer, more barren – poor weeds! poor soil! And soon they will stand before me like dry grass and desert, and truly! tired of themselves – and longing for fire rather than for water! O blessed hour of the lightning! O mystery before noontide! One day I will turn them into running fire and messengers with tongues of flame. One day they will proclaim with tongues of flame: It is coming, it is near, the great noontide!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

PART FOUR

Alas, where in the world have there been greater foolish acts than those done by compassionate people? And what in the world has caused more suffering than the foolish acts of compassionate people?

Woe to all lovers who cannot overcome pity!

The Devil once spoke to me this way: “Even God has his Hell: it is his love for humans.”

And lately, I heard him say these words: “God is dead; God has died of his pity for humans.”

ZARATHUSTRA: ‘Of the Compassionate’

The Honey Offering

Again, months and years passed over Zarathustra’s soul, and he paid no attention to it. His hair, however, grew white. One day, as he was sitting on a stone in front of his cave and looking out silently – but the view there is of the sea and winding, deep abysses – his animals walked thoughtfully around him. At last, they stood in front of him.

“O Zarathustra,” they said, “are you perhaps looking out for your happiness?” “What does happiness matter?” he answered. “For a long time, I have not aimed for happiness. I aim for my work.” “O Zarathustra,” the animals said then, “you say that like someone who has too many good things. Aren’t you lying in a sky-blue lake of happiness?” “You jesters,” answered Zarathustra and smiled, “how well you chose that image! But you also know that my happiness is heavy and not like a flowing wave. It presses down on me and will not leave me, and it acts like melted pitch.” (Pitch is thick, black, sticky tar).

Then his animals again walked thoughtfully around him and once more stood in front of him. “O Zarathustra,” they said, “is that why you yourself are growing ever darker and more pale, even though your hair looks white and like flax? Look, you are sitting in your pitch!” “What are you saying, my animals?” said Zarathustra, laughing. “Truly, I spoke badly when I talked about pitch. What is happening to me happens to all fruits that grow ripe. It is the honey in my veins that makes my blood thicker, and my soul quieter.” “That must be it, O Zarathustra,” answered the animals and pressed close to him. “But wouldn’t you like to climb a high mountain today? The air is clear, and today one can see more of the world than ever.” “Yes, my animals,” he answered, “your advice is wonderful and just what I want to do. Today I will climb a high mountain! But make sure that I have honey ready there – yellow, white, fine, ice-cool golden honey in the comb. For I plan to make the honey offering.”

But when Zarathustra reached the summit, he sent home the animals that had come with him. He found that he was now alone. Then he laughed with his whole heart, looked around him, and spoke this way:

“That I spoke of offerings and honey offerings was just a trick and, truly, a useful bit of foolishness! Up here I can speak more freely than in front of hermits’ caves and hermits’ pets. Offer what? I give away freely what is given to me. I am a giver with a thousand hands. How could I call that an offering! And when I wanted honey, I only wanted bait and sweet syrup and sticky stuff, which even grumbling bears and strange, gloomy, wicked birds are greedy for. It is the finest bait, the kind that hunters and fishermen need. For although the world is like a dark animal-jungle and a playground for all wild huntsmen, it seems to me to be more like a deep, rich sea. It is a sea full of many-colored fishes and crabs, for which even the gods might long. They might want to become fishers and casters of nets, so rich is the world in strange things, great and small! Especially the human world, the human sea. Now I cast my golden fishing-rod into it and say: Open up, human abyss! Open up and throw me your fishes and glistening crabs! With my finest bait, I will bait the strangest human fish today! I will cast my happiness itself far and wide – between sunrise, noon, and sunset. I will see if many human fishes will not learn to kick and tug at my happiness. They will bite on my sharp, hidden hooks, until they have to come up to my height. The most multicolored bottom-dwellers of the deep will come to the most wicked of all fishers of men.

For I am that person, from my heart and from the beginning. I am drawing, drawing towards me, drawing up to me, raising up. I am a drawer, a trainer, and a task-setter who once told himself, and not for nothing: ‘Become what you are!’ So, men may now come up to me. For I am still waiting for the signs that it is time for me to go down. I do not yet go down myself, as I must, among men. Therefore I wait here, cunning and scornful on high mountains. I am not impatient, not patient. On the contrary, I am someone who has even unlearned patience, because he no longer ‘suffers in patience.’

For my destiny is allowing me time. Has it forgotten me? Or is it sitting in the shadows behind a great stone, catching flies? And truly, I am grateful to my eternal destiny for not hunting and rushing me, and for allowing me time for jokes and mischief. That is why today I have climbed this high mountain to catch fish. Has a man ever caught fish on a high mountain? And if what I want and do up here is foolish, it is better to do it than to become serious, green, and pale by waiting down there. It is better than becoming a pompous shouter of anger by waiting, a holy howling storm from the mountains, an impatient man crying down into the valleys: ‘Listen, or I will whip you with the scourge of God!’ Not that I would be angry with such wrathful men for that reason! They are good enough for a laugh! How impatient they must be, these great alarm-drums that must make a sound today or never!

But I and my destiny – we do not speak to Today, nor do we speak to Never. We have patience and time and more than time. For it must come one day and cannot pass by. What must come one day and cannot pass by? Our great Hazar, our great, far-off empire of man, the thousand-year empire of Zarathustra. How far off may that ‘far off’ be? What do I care! But I am no less certain of it because of that. I stand securely with both feet upon this foundation. I stand upon this eternal foundation, upon hard, ancient rock, upon this highest, hardest ancient hill. All the winds come to it as to a place where storms divide, asking Where? and From where? and To where?

Here, laugh! Laugh, my bright and wholesome wickedness! Down from high mountains, cast your glistening, mocking laughter. With your glistening, bait for me the most beautiful human fish! And what belongs to me in all seas, my very own essence in all things – fish it out for me, bring it here to me. I wait for it, I, the wickedest of all fishermen. Away, away my hook! In, down, bait made of my happiness! Drop down your sweetest dew, honey of my heart! Bite, my hook, into the belly of all black suffering!”

“Look out, look out, my eye! Oh, how many seas are around me! What dawning human futures! And above me – what rosy stillness! What cloudless silence!”