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Zarathustra’s Prologue From, Thus Spake Zarathustra 1. WHEN Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and
the lake of his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his
spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last
his heart changed—and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before
the sun, and spake thus unto it: Thou great star!
What would be thy happiness if thou hadst not those
for whom thou shinest! For ten years hast
thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have wearied of thy light and
of the journey, had it not been for me, mine eagle, and my serpent. But we awaited
thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow,
and blessed thee for it. Lo! I am weary of my
wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands
outstretched to take it. I would fain
bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more become joyous in their
folly, and the poor happy in their riches. Therefore must I
descend into the deep: as thou doest in the evening, when thou goest behind the sea, and givest
light also to the nether-world, thou exuberant star! Like thee must I
go down, as men say, to whom I shall descend. Bless me, then,
thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even the
greatest happiness without envy! Bless the cup that
is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden out of it, and carry
everywhere the reflection of thy bliss! Lo! This cup is
again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is
again going to be a man. Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going. 2. Zarathustra went down the mountain alone,
no one meeting him. When he entered the forest, however, there suddenly stood
before him an old man, who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And thus spake the old man to Zarathustra: “No stranger to me
is this wanderer: many years ago passed he by. Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered. Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the
mountains: wilt thou now carry thy fire into the valleys? Fearest
thou not the incendiary’s doom? Yea, I recognize Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathing lurketh about his mouth. Goeth
he not along like a dancer? Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra
become; an awakened one is Zarathustra: what wilt
thou do in the land of the sleepers? As in the sea hast
thou lived in solitude, and it hath borne thee up. Alas, wilt thou now go
ashore? Alas, wilt thou again drag thy body thyself?” Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.” “Why,” said the
saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it not because I loved
men far too well? Now I love God:
men, I do not love. Man is a thing too imperfect for me. Love to man would be
fatal to me.” Zarathustra answered: “What spake I of love! I am bringing gifts unto men.” “Give them nothing,”
said the saint. “Take rather part of their load, and carry it along with
them—that will be most agreeable unto them: if only it be agreeable unto
thee! If, however, thou
wilt give unto them, give them no more than an alms,
and let them also beg for it!” “No,” replied Zarathustra, “I give no alms. I am not poor enough for
that.” The saint laughed
at Zarathustra, and spake
thus: “Then see to it that they accept thy treasures! They are distrustful of
anchorites, and do not believe that we come with gifts. The fall of our
footsteps ringeth too hollow through their streets.
And just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before
sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us: Where goeth
the thief? Go not to men, but
stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals! Why not be like me—a bear
amongst bears, a bird amongst birds?” “And what doeth
the saint in the forest?” asked Zarathustra. The saint
answered: “I make hymns and sing them; and in making hymns I laugh and weep and
mumble: thus do I praise God. With singing,
weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise the God who is my God. But what dost thou bring us as a gift?” When Zarathustra had heard these words, he bowed to the saint
and said: “What should I have to give thee! Let me rather hurry hence lest I
take aught away from thee!”—And thus they parted from one another, the old
man and Zarathustra, laughing like schoolboys. When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: “Could
it be possible! This old saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that
God is dead!” 3. When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth the forest, he found many people assembled in
the market-place; for it had been announced that a rope-dancer would give a
performance. And Zarathustra spake
thus unto the people: I teach you the
Superman. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to
surpass man? All beings
hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want to be the ebb
of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than surpass man? What is the ape to
man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to
the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame. Ye have made your
way from the worm to man, and much within you is still worm. Once were ye
apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of the apes. Even the wisest
among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and phantom. But do I bid
you become phantoms or plants? Lo, I teach you
the Superman! The Superman is
the meaning of the earth. Let your will say:
The Superman shall he the meaning of the earth! I conjure you, my brethren,
remain true to the earth, and believe not those who speak unto you of superearthly hopes! Poisoners
are they, whether they know it or not. Despisers of life
are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of whom the earth is
weary: so away with them! Once blasphemy
against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and therewith also
those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is now the dreadfulest
sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the
earth! Once the soul
looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was the supreme
thing:—the soul wished the body meager, ghastly, and
famished. Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth. Oh, that soul was
itself meager, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty
was the delight of that soul! But ye, also, my
brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about your soul? Is your soul not
poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency? Verily, a polluted
stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted stream without
becoming impure. Lo, I teach you
the Superman: he is that sea; in him can your great contempt be submerged. What is the
greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour
in which even your happiness becometh loathsome
unto you, and so also your reason and virtue. The hour when ye
say: “What good is my happiness! It is poverty and
pollution and wretched self-complacency. But my happiness should justify
existence itself!” The hour when ye
say: “What good is my reason! Doth it long for
knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched
self-complacency!” The hour when ye
say: “What good is my virtue! As yet it hath not
made me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty
and pollution and wretched self-complacency!” The hour when ye
say: “What good is my justice! I do not see that I
am fervor and fuel. The just, however, are fervor and fuel!” The hour when we
say: “What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on
which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is
not a crucifixion.” Have ye ever
spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! would that
I had heard you crying thus! It is not your
sin—it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto
heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven! Where is the
lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy with which ye
should be inoculated? Lo, I teach you
the Superman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!— When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called
out: “We have now heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is time now for us to. see him!” And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the rope-dancer, who thought the words
applied to him, began his performance. 4. Zarathustra, however, looked at the
people and wondered. Then he spake thus: Man is a rope
stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss. A dangerous
crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous
trembling and halting. What is great in
man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what is lovable in man is that he
is an over-going and a down-going. I love those that
know not how to live except as down-goers, for they are the over-goers. I love the great
despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows of longing for the
other shore. I love those who
do not first seek a reason beyond the stars for going down and being
sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to the earth, that
the earth of the Superman may hereafter arrive. I love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh
to know in order that the Superman may hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his own down-going. I love him who laboreth and inventeth, that he
may build the house for the Superman, and prepare for him earth, animal, and
plant: for thus seeketh he his own down-going. I love him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will to down-going,
and an arrow of longing. I love him who reserveth no share of spirit for himself, but wanteth to be wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus walketh he as spirit over the bridge. I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny: thus, for
the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on, or live no more. I love him who desireth not too many virtues. One virtue is more of a
virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one’s destiny to cling to. I love him whose
soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and doth not
give back: for he always bestoweth, and desireth not to keep for himself. I love him who is
ashamed when the dice fall in his favor, and who
then asketh: “Am I a dishonest player?” for he is
willing to succumb. I love him who scattereth golden words in advance of his deeds, and
always doeth more than he promiseth: for he seeketh his own down-going. I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth
the past ones: for he is willing to succumb through the present ones. I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth
his God: for he must succumb through the wrath of his God. I love him whose
soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb through a small matter:
thus goeth he willingly over the bridge. I love him whose
soul is so overfull that he forgetteth himself, and
all things are in him: thus all things become his down-going. I love him who is
of a free spirit and a free heart: thus is his head only the bowels of his
heart; his heart, however, causeth his down-going. I love all who are
like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming of the
lightning, and succumb as heralds. Lo, I am a herald
of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: the lightning, however,
is the Superman.— 5. When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at
the people, and was silent. “There they stand,” said he to his heart; “there
they laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears. Must one first
batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with
their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or
do they only believe the stammerer? They have
something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them from the goatherds. They dislike,
therefore, to hear of ‘contempt’ of themselves. So I
will appeal to their pride. I will speak unto
them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is the last man!” And thus spake Zarathustra unto the
people: It is time for man
to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope. Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day
be poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow
thereon. Alas! there cometh
the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond
man—and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whiz! I tell you: one
must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: ye
have still chaos in you. Alas! There cometh
the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh
the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself. Lo! I show you the
last man. “What is love?
What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”—so asketh
the last man and blinketh. The earth hath
then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last
man who maketh everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest. “We have discovered
happiness”—say the last men, and blink thereby. They have left the
regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth. One still loveth one’s neighbor and rubbeth against him; for one needeth
warmth. Turning ill and
being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. He is a fool who
still stumbleth over stones or men! A little poison
now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much
poison at last for a pleasant death. One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the
pastime should hurt one. One no longer becometh poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still
wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth
to obey? Both are too burdensome. No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wanteth
the same; everyone is equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth
voluntarily into the madhouse. “Formerly all the world was insane,”—say the subtlest of them, and
blink thereby. They are clever
and know all that hath happened: so there is no end to their raillery. People
still fall out, but are soon reconciled—otherwise it spoileth
their stomachs. They have their
little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but
they have a regard for health. “We have
discovered happiness,”—say the last men, and blink thereby.— And here ended the
first discourse of Zarathustra, which is also
called “The Prologue”, for at this point the shouting and mirth of the multitude interrupted him. “Give us this last man, O Zarathustra,”—they called out—”make us into these last
men! Then will we make thee a present of the Superman!” And all the people
exulted and smacked their lips. Zarathustra,
however, turned sad, and said to his heart: “They understand
me not: I am not the mouth for these ears. Too long, perhaps,
have I lived in the mountains; too much have I hearkened unto the brooks and
trees: now do I speak unto them as unto the goatherds. Calm is my soul,
and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they think me cold, and a
mocker with terrible jests. And now do they
look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me too. There is ice in
their laughter.” 6. Then, however,
something happened which made every mouth mute and
every eye fixed. In the meantime, of course, the rope-dancer had commenced
his performance: he had come out at a little door, and was going along the
rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the
market-place and the people. When he was just midway across, the little door
opened once more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon sprang out, and
went rapidly after the first one. “Go on, halt-foot,” cried his frightful
voice, “go on, lazy-bones, interloper, sallow-face!—lest I tickle thee with
my heel! What dost thou here between the towers? In the tower is the place
for thee, thou shouldst be locked up; to one better
than thyself thou blockest the way!”—And with every
word he came nearer and nearer the first one. When, however, he was but a
step behind, there happened the frightful thing which made every mouth mute
and every eye fixed—he uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped over the other
who was in his way. The latter, however, when he thus saw his rival triumph,
lost at the same time his head and his footing on the rope; he threw his pole
away, and shot downward faster than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into
the depth. The market-place and the people were like the sea when the storm
cometh on: they all flew apart and in disorder, especially where the body was
about to fall. Zarathustra, however, remained standing,
and just beside him fell the body, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet
dead. After a while consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What art thou doing
there?” said he at last, “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me up.
Now he draggeth me to hell: wilt thou prevent him?” “On mine honor, my friend,” answered Zarathustra,
“there is nothing of all that whereof thou speakest:
there is no devil and no hell. Thy soul will be dead even sooner than thy
body; fear, therefore, nothing any more!” The man looked up
distrustfully. “If thou speakest the truth,” said
he, “I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal
which hath been taught to dance by blows and scanty fare.” “Not at all,” said
Zarathustra, “thou hast made danger thy calling;
therein there is nothing contemptible. Now thou perishest
by thy calling: therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands.” When Zarathustra had said this the
dying one did not reply further; but he moved his hand as if he sought the
hand of Zarathustra in gratitude. 7. Meanwhile the
evening came on, and the market-place veiled itself in gloom. Then the people
dispersed, for even curiosity and terror become fatigued. Zarathustra,
however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground, absorbed in thought: so
he forgot the time. But at last it became night, and a cold wind blew upon
the lonely one. Then arose Zarathustra and said to
his heart: Verily, a fine
catch of fish hath Zarathustra made today! It is
not a man he hath caught, but a corpse. Somber is human life, and as yet without meaning: a
buffoon may be fateful to it. I want to teach
men the sense of their existence, which is the Superman, the lightning out of
the dark cloud- man. But still am I far
from them, and my sense speaketh
not unto their sense. To men I am still something between a fool and a
corpse. Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways of Zarathustra.
Come, thou cold and stiff companion! I carry thee to the place where I shall
bury thee with mine own hands. 8. When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he put the corpse
upon his shoulders and set out on his way. Yet had he not gone a hundred
steps, when there stole a man up to him and whispered in his ear—and lo! he that spake was the buffoon
from the tower. “Leave this town, O Zarathustra,”
said he, “there are too many here who hate thee. The good and just hate thee,
and call thee their enemy and despiser; the believers in the orthodox belief
hate thee, and call thee a danger to the multitude. It was thy good fortune
to be laughed at: and verily thou spakest like a
buffoon. It was thy good fortune to associate with the dead dog; by so
humiliating thyself thou hast saved thy life today. Depart, however, from
this town,—or tomorrow I shall jump over thee, a living man over a dead one.”
And when he had said this, the buffoon vanished; Zarathustra,
however, went on through the dark streets. At the gate of the
town the grave-diggers met him: they shone their torch on his face, and,
recognizing Zarathustra, they sorely derided him. “Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog: a fine thing
that Zarathustra hath turned a grave-digger! For
our hands are too cleanly for that roast. Will Zarathustra
steal the bite from the devil? Well then, good luck to the repast! If only
the devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra!—he
will steal them both, he will eat them both!” And they laughed among
themselves, and put their heads together. Zarathustra made no answer thereto, but
went on his way. When he had gone on for two hours, past forests and swamps,
he had heard too much of the hungry howling of the wolves, and he himself
became hungry. So he halted at a lonely house in which a light was burning. “Hunger attacketh me,” said Zarathustra,
“like a robber. Among forests and swamps my hunger attacketh
me, and late in the night. “Strange humors hath my hunger. Often it cometh to me only after a
repast, and all day it hath failed to come: where hath it been?” And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. An old man
appeared, who carried a light, and asked: “Who cometh unto me and my bad
sleep?” “A living man and
a dead one,” said Zarathustra. “Give me something
to eat and drink, I forgot it during the day. He that feedeth
the hungry refresheth his own soul, saith wisdom.” The old man
withdrew, but came back immediately and offered Zarathustra
bread and wine. “A bad country for the hungry,” said he; “that is why I live
here. Animal and man come unto me, the anchorite. But bid thy companion eat
and drink also, he is wearier than thou.” Zarathustra
answered: “My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him to
eat.” “That doth not concern me,” said the old man sullenly; “he that knocketh at my door must take what I offer him. Eat, and
fare ye well!”— Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for two hours, trusting to the
path and the light of the stars: for he was an experienced night-walker, and
liked to look into the face of all that slept. When the morning dawned,
however, Zarathustra found himself in a thick
forest, and no path was any longer visible. He then put the dead man in a
hollow tree at his head—for he wanted to protect him from the wolves—and laid
himself down on the ground and moss. And immediately he fell asleep, tired in
body, but with a tranquil soul. 9. Long slept Zarathustra; and not only the rosy dawn passed over his
head, but also the morning. At last, however, his eyes opened, and amazedly
he gazed into the forest and the stillness, amazedly he gazed into himself.
Then he arose quickly, like a seafarer who all at once seeth
the land; and he shouted for joy: for he saw a new truth. And he spake thus to his heart: A light hath
dawned upon me: I need companions—living ones; not dead companions and
corpses, which I carry with me where I will. But I need living
companions, who will follow me because they want to follow themselves—and to
the place where I will. A light hath dawned upon me. Not to the people is Zarathustra to speak, but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be the herd’s herdsman and hound! To allure many
from the herd—for that purpose have I come. The people and the herd must be
angry with me: a robber shall Zarathustra be called by the herdsmen. Herdsmen, I say,
but they call themselves the good and just. Herdsmen, I say, but they call
themselves the believers in the orthodox belief. Behold the good
and just! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh
up their tables of values, the breaker, the
lawbreaker:—he, however, is the creator. Behold the
believers of all beliefs! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh
up their tables of values, the breaker, the
law-breaker:—he, however, is the creator. Companions, the
creator seeketh, not corpses—and not herds or
believers either. Fellow-creators the creator seeketh—those
who grave new values on new tables. Companions, the
creator seeketh, and fellow-reapers: for everything
is ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacketh
the hundred sickles: so he plucketh the ears of
corn and is vexed. Companions, the
creator seeketh, and such as know how to whet their
sickles. Destroyers, will they be called, and despisers of good and evil. But
they are the reapers and rejoicers. Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh;
fellow-reapers and fellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh: what hath
he to do with herds and herdsmen and corpses! And thou, my first
companion, rest in peace! Well have I buried thee in thy hollow tree; well
have I hid thee from the wolves. But I part from
thee; the time hath arrived. ‘Twixt rosy dawn and rosy dawn there came unto
me a new truth. I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to be a grave-digger. Not any more will
I discourse unto the people; for the last time have I spoken unto the dead. With the creators,
the reapers, and the rejoicers will I associate:
the rainbow will I show them, and all the stairs to
the Superman. To the
lone-dwellers will I sing my song, and to the twain-dwellers; and unto him
who hath still ears for the unheard, will I make the heart heavy with my
happiness. I make for my
goal, I follow my course; over the loitering and tardy will I leap. Thus let
my on-going be their down-going! 10. This had Zarathustra said to his heart when the sun stood at
noon-tide. Then he looked inquiringly aloft,—for he heard above him the sharp
call of a bird. And behold! An eagle swept through the air in wide circles,
and on it hung a serpent, not like a prey, but like a friend: for it kept
itself coiled round the eagle’s neck. “They are mine
animals,” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his
heart. “The proudest
animal under the sun, and the wisest animal under the sun,—they have come out
to reconnoiter. They want to know
whether Zarathustra still liveth.
Verily, do I still live? More dangerous
have I found it among men than among animals; in dangerous paths goeth Zarathustra. Let mine
animals lead me! When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered the words of the
saint in the forest. Then he sighed and spake thus
to his heart: “Would that I were wiser! Would that I were
wise from the very heart, like my serpent! But I am asking the
impossible. Therefore do I ask my pride to go always with my wisdom! And if my wisdom
should some day forsake me:—alas! it loveth to fly away!—may my pride then fly with my folly!” Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going. |
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