posted January 23, 2008 11:31 AM           

ON REDEMPTION

It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since I have been amongst men, to see one person lacking an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg, and that others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the head.

I see and have seen worse things, and divers things so hideous, that I should neither like to speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about some of them: namely, men who lack everything, except that they have too much of one thing—men who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big mouth, or a big belly, or anything else that is big. Inverse cripples, I call them.

And when I came out of my solitude, and for the first time passed over this bridge, then I could not trust mine eyes, but looked again and again, and said at last: “That is an ear! An ear as big as a man!” I looked still more attentively—and actually there did move under the ear something that was pitifully small and wretched and slender. And in truth this immense ear was perched on a small thin stalk—the stalk, however, was a man! A person putting a glass to his eye, could even make out a small envious face, and also a bloated soul dangling from the stalk. The people told me, however, that the big ear was not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But I never believed in the people when they spake of great men—and I hold to my belief that it was an inversed cripple, who had too little of everything, and too much of one thing.

When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn to his disciples in profound dejection, and said:

Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and limbs of men!

This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battlefield or a butcher-ground.

And when mine eye fleeth from the present to the bygone, it findeth ever the same: fragments and limbs and fearful accidents —but no human beings!

The present and the bygone upon earth—ah! my friends—that is MY most unbearable trouble; and I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer of what is to come.

A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and a bridge to the future —and alas! also, as it were, a cripple on this bridge: all that is Zarathustra.

And ye also asked yourselves often: “Who is Zarathustra to us? What shall he be called by us?” And like me, did ye give yourselves questions for answers.

Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror? Or an inheritor? A harvest? Or a ploughshare? A physician? Or a healed one?

Is he a poet? Or a truth-teller? An liberator? Or a tamer? Good or evil?

I walk amongst men as the fragments of the future: that future which I contemplate.

And it is all my art and aspiration to compose and collect into unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful accident.

And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also the composer, and riddle–reader, and redeemer of accidents!...

XLIII. ON HUMAN PRUDENCE

Not the height, but the precipice is terrible!

The declivity, where the gaze shooteth DOWNWARDS, and the hand graspeth UPWARDS. There doth the heart become giddy through its double will.

Ah, friends, do ye divine also my heart’s double will?

This, this is MY declivity and my danger, that my gaze shooteth towards the summit, and my hand would fain clutch and lean—on the depth!

To man clingeth my will; with chains do I bind myself to man, because I am pulled upwards to the overman: for that way does my other will tend.

And THEREFORE do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not: that my hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness.

I know not you men: this gloom and consolation is often spread around me.

I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wisheth to deceive me?

This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard against deceivers.

Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how could man be an anchor to my ball! Too easily would I be pulled upwards and away!

This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight.

And he who would not languish amongst men, must learn to drink out of all glasses; and he who would keep clean amongst men, must know how to wash himself even with dirty water.

And thus spake I often to myself for consolation: “Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappiness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as thy— happiness!”

This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I am more forbearing to the VAIN than to the proud.

Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded, there groweth up something better than pride.

That life may be fair to behold, its game must be well played; for that purpose, however, it needeth good actors.

Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they play, and wish people to be fond of beholding them—all their spirit is in this wish.

They represent themselves, they invent themselves; in their neighbourhood I like to look upon life—it cures my melancholy.

Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because they are the physicians of my melancholy, and keep me attached to man as to a drama.

And further, who conceiveth the full depth of the modesty of the vain man! I am favourable to him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty.

From you would he learn his belief in himself; he feedeth upon your glances, he eateth praise out of your hands.

Your lies doth he even believe when you lie well of him: for in its depths sigheth his heart: “What am _I_?”

And if the true virtue is unconscious of itself — well, the vain man is unconscious of his modesty!—

This is, however, my third manly prudence: I am not put out of conceit with the WICKED by your timorousness.

I am happy to see the marvels hatched by a hot sun: tigers and palms and rattle–snakes.

Among men too, a hot sun hatches a beautiful breed. And there is much that is marvellous in those who are evil.

In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so very wise, so found I man's evil smaller than its reputation.

And often I asked myself, shaking my head:
Why go on rattling, you rattlesnakes?

Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And the warmest south is still undiscovered by man.

How many things are now called the worst wickedness, which are only twelve feet broad and three months long! Some day, however, will greater dragons come into the world.

For that the overman may not lack his dragon, the overdragon that is worthy of him, much hot sunshine must still glow upon damp virgin jungles!

Your wildcats must turn into tigers, and out of your poison–toads, crocodiles: for the good hunter shall have good hunting!

And verily, ye good and just! In you there is much to be laughed at, and especially your fear of what hath hitherto been called “the devil!”

So alien are ye in your souls to what is great, that to you the overman would be awesome to you in his kindness!

And ye wise and knowing ones, ye would flee from the solar–glow of the wisdom in which the overman joyfully baths his nakedness!

Ye highest men who have come within my sight! this is my doubt concerning you, and my secret laughter: I suspect ye would call my overman— Devil!

Ah, I became tired of those highest and best ones: from their “height” did I long to get up, out, and away to the overman!

A horror came over me when I saw those best ones naked: then there grew for me the pinions to soar away into distant futures.

posted January 23, 2008 11:32 AM           

Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously this time doth the bear go back to his cave!

What hath happened unto me? Who ordereth this?—Ah, mine angry mistress wisheth it so; she spake unto me. Have I ever named her name to you?

Yesterday towards evening there spake unto me MY STILLEST HOUR: that is the name of my terrible mistress.

And thus did it happen—for everything must I tell you, that your heart may not harden against the suddenly departing one!

Do ye know the terror of him who falleth asleep?—

To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground giveth way under him, and the dream beginneth.

This do I speak unto you in parable. Yesterday at the stillest hour did the ground give way under me: the dream began.

The hour–hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath—never did I hear such stillness around me, so that my heart was terrified.

Then was there spoken unto me without voice: “THOU KNOWEST IT, ZARATHUSTRA?”—

And I cried in terror at this whispering, and the blood left my face: but I was silent.

Then was there once more spoken unto me without voice: “Thou knowest it, Zarathustra, but thou dost not speak it!”—

And at last I answered, like one defiant: “Yea, I know it, but I will not speak it!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou WILT not, Zarathustra? Is this true? Conceal thyself not behind thy defiance!”—

And I wept and trembled like a child, and said: “Ah, I would indeed, but how can I do it! Exempt me only from this! It is beyond my power!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about thyself, Zarathustra! Speak thy word, and succumb!”

And I answered: “Ah, is it MY word? Who am _I_? I await the worthier one; I am not worthy even to succumb by it.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about thyself? Thou art not yet humble enough for me. Humility hath the hardest skin.”—

And I answered: “What hath not the skin of my humility endured! At the foot of my height do I dwell: how high are my summits, no one hath yet told me. But well do I know my valleys.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “O Zarathustra, he who hath to remove mountains removeth also valleys and plains.”—

And I answered: “As yet hath my word not removed mountains, and what I have spoken hath not reached man. I went, indeed, unto men, but not yet have I attained unto them.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What knowest thou THEREOF! The dew falleth on the grass when the night is most silent.”—

And I answered: “They mocked me when I found and walked in mine own path; and certainly did my feet then tremble.

And thus did they speak unto me: Thou forgottest the path before, now dost thou also forget how to walk!”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about their mockery! Thou art one who hast unlearned to obey: now shalt thou command!

Knowest thou not who is most needed by all? He who commandeth great things.

To execute great things is difficult: but the more difficult task is to command great things.

This is thy most unpardonable obstinacy: thou hast the power, and thou wilt not rule.”—

And I answered: “I lack the lion’s voice for all commanding.”

Then was there again spoken unto me as a whispering: “It is the stillest words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps guide the world.

O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus wilt thou command, and in commanding go foremost.”—

And I answered: “I am ashamed.”

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou must yet become a child, and be without shame.

The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast thou become young: but he who would become a child must surmount even his youth.”—

And I considered a long while, and trembled. At last, however, did I say what I had said at first. “I will not.”

Then did a laughing take place all around me. Alas, how that laughing lacerated my bowels and cut into my heart!

And there was spoken unto me for the last time: “O Zarathustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not ripe for thy fruits!

So must thou go again into solitude: for thou shalt yet become mellow.”—

And again was there a laughing, and it fled: then did it become still around me, as with a double stillness. I lay, however, on the ground, and the sweat flowed from my limbs.

—Now have ye heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends.

But even this have ye heard from me, WHO is still the most reserved of men —and will be so!

Ah, my friends! I should have something more to say unto you! I should have something more to give unto you! Why do I not give it? Am I then a niggard?—

When, however, Zarathustra had spoken these words, the violence of his pain, and a sense of the nearness of his departure from his friends came over him, so that he wept aloud; and no one knew how to console him. In the night, however, he went away alone and left his friends.

posted January 23, 2008 11:33 AM           

The Wanderer

Then, when it was about midnight, Zarathustra went his way over the ridge of the isle, that he might arrive early in the morning at the other coast; because there he meant to embark. For there was a good roadstead there, in which foreign ships also liked to anchor: those ships took many people with them, who wished to cross over from the Happy Isles. So when Zarathustra thus ascended the mountain, he thought on the way of his many solitary wanderings from youth onwards, and how many mountains and ridges and summits he had already climbed.

I am a wanderer and mountain–climber, said he to his heart, I love not the plains, and it seemeth I cannot long sit still.

And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience—a wandering will be therein, and a mountain–climbing: in the end one experienceth only oneself.

The time is now past when accidents could befall me; and what COULD now fall to my lot which would not already be mine own!

It returneth only, it cometh home to me at last—mine own Self, and such of it as hath been long abroad, and scattered among things and accidents.

And one thing more do I know: I stand now before my last summit, and before that which hath been longest reserved for me. Ah, my hardest path must I ascend! Ah, I have begun my lonesomest wandering!

He, however, who is of my nature doth not avoid such an hour: the hour that saith unto him: Now only dost thou go the way to thy greatness! Summit and abyss—these are now comprised together!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now hath it become thy last refuge, what was hitherto thy last danger!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: it must now be thy best courage that there is no longer any path behind thee!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: here shall no one steal after thee! Thy foot itself hath effaced the path behind thee, and over it standeth written: Impossibility.

And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must thou learn to mount upon thine own head: how couldst thou mount upward otherwise?

Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest in thee become the hardest.

He who hath always much–indulged himself, sickeneth at last by his much– indulgence. Praises on what maketh hardy! I do not praise the land where butter and honey—flow!

To learn TO LOOK AWAY FROM oneself, is necessary in order to see MANY THINGS:—this hardiness is needed by every mountain–climber.

He, however, who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he ever see more of anything than its foreground!

But thou, O Zarathustra, wouldst view the ground of everything, and its background: thus must thou mount even above thyself—up, upwards, until thou hast even thy stars UNDER thee!

Yea! To look down upon myself, and even upon my stars: that only would I call my SUMMIT, that hath remained for me as my LAST summit!—

Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while ascending, comforting his heart with harsh maxims: for he was sore at heart as he had never been before. And when he had reached the top of the mountain–ridge, behold, there lay the other sea spread out before him: and he stood still and was long silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and starry.

I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Now hath my last lonesomeness begun.

Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation! Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now GO DOWN!

Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wandering: therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended:

—Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest flood! So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready.

Whence come the highest mountains? so did I once ask. Then did I learn that they come out of the sea.

That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their summits. Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.—

Thus spake Zarathustra on the ridge of the mountain where it was cold: when, however, he came into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stood alone amongst the cliffs, then had he become weary on his way, and eagerer than ever before.

Everything as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and strangely doth its eye gaze upon me.

But it breatheth warmly—I feel it. And I feel also that it dreameth. It tosseth about dreamily on hard pillows.

Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evil expectations?

Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myself even for thy sake.

Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed, would I free thee from evil dreams!—

And while Zarathustra thus spake, he laughed at himself with melancholy and bitterness. What! Zarathustra, said he, wilt thou even sing consolation to the sea?

Ah, thou amiable fool, Zarathustra, thou too–blindly confiding one! But thus hast thou ever been: ever hast thou approached confidently all that is terrible.

Every monster wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on its paw—: and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it.

LOVE is the danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, IF IT ONLY LIVE! Laughable, verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!—

Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed thereby a second time. Then, however, he thought of his abandoned friends—and as if he had done them a wrong with his thoughts, he upbraided himself because of his thoughts. And forthwith it came to pass that the laugher wept—with anger and longing wept Zarathustra bitterly.

posted January 23, 2008 11:34 AM           

1.
When it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board the ship—for a man who came from the Happy Isles had gone on board along with him,—there was great curiosity and expectation. But Zarathustra kept silent for two days, and was cold and deaf with sadness; so that he neither answered looks nor questions. On the evening of the second day, however, he again opened his ears, though he still kept silent: for there were many curious and dangerous things to be heard on board the ship, which came from afar, and was to go still further. Zarathustra, however, was fond of all those who make distant voyages, and dislike to live without danger. And behold! when listening, his own tongue was at last loosened, and the ice of his heart broke. Then did he begin to speak thus:

To you, the daring venturers and adventurers, and whoever hath embarked with cunning sails upon frightful seas,—

To you the enigma–intoxicated, glad of the twighlight, whose souls are allured by flutes to every whirlpool:

—For ye dislike to grope at a thread with cowardly hand; and where ye can GUESS, there do ye hate to CALCULATE—

To you only do I tell the enigma that I SAW—the vision of the loneliest.—

Gloomily walked I lately in corpse–coloured twilight— gloomily and sternly, with compressed lips. Not only one sun had set for me.

A path which ascended daringly among boulders, an evil, lonesome path, which neither herb nor shrub any longer cheered, a mountain–path, crunched under the daring of my foot.

Mutely marching over the scornful clinking of pebbles, trampling the stone that let it slip: thus did my foot force its way upwards.

Upwards:—in spite of the spirit that drew it downwards, towards the abyss, the spirit of gravity, my devil and arch–enemy.

Upwards:—although it sat upon me, half–dwarf, half–mole; paralysed, paralysing; dripping lead in mine ear, and thoughts like drops of lead into my brain.

“O Zarathustra,” it whispered scornfully, syllable by syllable, “thou stone of wisdom! Thou threwest thyself high, but every thrown stone must—fall!

O Zarathustra, thou stone of wisdom, thou sling–stone, thou star–destroyer! Thyself threwest thou so high,—but every thrown stone—must fall!

Condemned of thyself, and to thine own stoning: O Zarathustra, far indeed threwest thou thy stone—but upon THYSELF will it recoil!”

Then was the dwarf silent; and it lasted long. The silence, however, oppressed me; and to be thus in pairs, one is verily lonesomer than when alone!

I ascended, I ascended, I dreamt, I thought,—but everything oppressed me. A sick one did I resemble, whom bad torture wearieth, and a worse dream reawakeneth out of his first sleep.—

But there is something in me which I call courage: it hath hitherto slain for me every dejection. This courage at last bade me stand still and say: “Dwarf! Thou! Or I!”—

For courage is the best slayer,—courage which ATTACKETH: for in every attack there is sound of triumph.

Man, however, is the most courageous animal: thereby hath he overcome every animal. With sound of triumph hath he overcome every pain; human pain, however, is the sorest pain.

Courage slayeth also giddiness at abysses: and where doth man not stand at abysses! Is not seeing itself—seeing abysses?

Courage is the best slayer: courage slayeth also fellow–suffering. Fellow–suffering, however, is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man looketh into life, so deeply also doth he look into suffering.

Courage, however, is the best slayer, courage which attacketh: it slayeth even death itself; for it saith: “WAS THAT life? Well! Once more!”

In such speech, however, there is much sound of triumph. He who hath ears to hear, let him hear.—

2.
“Halt, dwarf!” said I. “Either I—or thou! I, however, am the stronger of the two:—thou knowest not mine abysmal thought! IT—couldst thou not endure!”

Then happened that which made me lighter: for the dwarf sprang from my shoulder, the prying sprite! And it squatted on a stone in front of me. There was however a gateway just where we halted.

“Look at this gateway! Dwarf!” I continued, “it hath two faces. Two roads come together here: these hath no one yet gone to the end of.

This long lane backwards: it continueth for an eternity. And that long lane forward—that is another eternity.

They are antithetical to one another, these roads; they directly abut on one another:—and it is here, at this gateway, that they come together. The name of the gateway is inscribed above: ‘This Moment.’

But should one follow them further—and ever further and further on, thinkest thou, dwarf, that these roads would be eternally antithetical?”—

“Everything straight lieth,” murmured the dwarf, contemptuously. “All truth is crooked; time itself is a circle.”

“Thou spirit of gravity!” said I wrathfully, “do not take it too lightly! Or I shall let thee squat where thou squattest, Haltfoot,—and I carried thee HIGH!”

“Observe,” continued I, “This Moment! From the gateway, This Moment, there runneth a long eternal lane BACKWARDS: behind us lieth an eternity.

Must not whatever CAN run its course of all things, have already run along that lane? Must not whatever CAN happen of all things have already happened, resulted, and gone by?

And if everything have already existed, what thinkest thou, dwarf, of This Moment? Must not this gateway also—have already existed?

And are not all things closely bound together in such wise that This Moment draweth all coming things after it? CONSEQUENTLY—itself also?

For whatever CAN run its course of all things, also in this long lane OUTWARD—MUST it once more run!—

And this slow spider which creepeth in the moonlight, and this moonlight itself, and thou and I in this gateway whispering together, whispering of eternal things—must we not all have already existed?

—And must we not return and run in that other lane out before us, that long weird lane—must we not eternally return?”—

Thus did I speak, and always more softly: for I was afraid of mine own thoughts, and arrear–thoughts. Then, suddenly did I hear a dog HOWL near me.

Had I ever heard a dog howl thus? My thoughts ran back. Yes! When I was a child, in my most distant childhood:

—Then did I hear a dog howl thus. And saw it also, with hair bristling, its head upwards, trembling in the stillest midnight, when even dogs believe in ghosts:

—So that it excited my commiseration. For just then went the full moon, silent as death, over the house; just then did it stand still, a glowing globe—at rest on the flat roof, as if on some one’s property:—

Thereby had the dog been terrified: for dogs believe in thieves and ghosts. And when I again heard such howling, then did it excite my commiseration once more.

Where was now the dwarf? And the gateway? And the spider? And all the whispering? Had I dreamt? Had I awakened? ‘Twixt rugged rocks did I suddenly stand alone, dreary in the dreariest moonlight.

BUT THERE LAY A MAN! And there! The dog leaping, bristling, whining—now did it see me coming—then did it howl again, then did it CRY:—had I ever heard a dog cry so for help?

And verily, what I saw, the like had I never seen. A young shepherd did I see, writhing, choking, quivering, with distorted countenance, and with a heavy black serpent hanging out of his mouth.

Had I ever seen so much loathing and pale horror on one countenance? He had perhaps gone to sleep? Then had the serpent crawled into his throat— there had it bitten itself fast.

My hand pulled at the serpent, and pulled:—in vain! I failed to pull the serpent out of his throat. Then there cried out of me: “Bite! Bite!

Its head off! Bite!”—so cried it out of me; my horror, my hatred, my loathing, my pity, all my good and my bad cried with one voice out of me.—

Ye daring ones around me! Ye venturers and adventurers, and whoever of you have embarked with cunning sails on unexplored seas! Ye enigma–enjoyers!

Solve unto me the enigma that I then beheld, interpret unto me the vision of the lonesomest one!

For it was a vision and a foresight:—WHAT did I then behold in parable? And WHO is it that must come some day?

WHO is the shepherd into whose throat the serpent thus crawled? WHO is the man into whose throat all the heaviest and blackest will thus crawl?

—The shepherd however bit as my cry had admonished him; he bit with a strong bite! Far away did he spit the head of the serpent—: and sprang up.—

No longer shepherd, no longer man—a transfigured being, a light–surrounded being, that LAUGHED! Never on earth laughed a man as HE laughed!

O my brethren, I heard a laughter which was no human laughter,—and now gnaweth a thirst at me, a longing that is never allayed.

My longing for that laughter gnaweth at me: oh, how can I still endure to live! And how could I endure to die at present!—

Thus spake Zarathustra.

posted January 23, 2008 11:34 AM           

With such enigmas and bitterness in his heart did Zarathustra sail o’er the sea. When, however, he was four day–journeys from the Happy Isles and from his friends, then had he surmounted all his pain—: triumphantly and with firm foot did he again accept his fate. And then talked Zarathustra in this wise to his exulting conscience:

Alone am I again, and like to be so, alone with the pure heaven, and the open sea; and again is the afternoon around me.

On an afternoon did I find my friends for the first time; on an afternoon, also, did I find them a second time:—at the hour when all light becometh stiller.

For whatever happiness is still on its way ‘twixt heaven and earth, now seeketh for lodging a luminous soul: WITH HAPPINESS hath all light now become stiller.

O afternoon of my life! Once did my happiness also descend to the valley that it might seek a lodging: then did it find those open hospitable souls.

O afternoon of my life! What did I not surrender that I might have one thing: this living plantation of my thoughts, and this dawn of my highest hope!

Companions did the creating one once seek, and children of HIS hope: and lo, it turned out that he could not find them, except he himself should first create them.

Thus am I in the midst of my work, to my children going, and from them returning: for the sake of his children must Zarathustra perfect himself.

For in one’s heart one loveth only one’s child and one’s work; and where there is great love to oneself, then is it the sign of pregnancy: so have I found it.

Still are my children verdant in their first spring, standing nigh one another, and shaken in common by the winds, the trees of my garden and of my best soil.

And verily, where such trees stand beside one another, there ARE Happy Isles!

But one day will I take them up, and put each by itself alone: that it may learn lonesomeness and defiance and prudence.

Gnarled and crooked and with flexible hardness shall it then stand by the sea, a living lighthouse of unconquerable life.

Yonder where the storms rush down into the sea, and the snout of the mountain drinketh water, shall each on a time have his day and night watches, for HIS testing and recognition.

Recognised and tested shall each be, to see if he be of my type and lineage:—if he be master of a long will, silent even when he speaketh, and giving in such wise that he TAKETH in giving:—

—So that he may one day become my companion, a fellow–creator and fellow– enjoyer with Zarathustra:—such a one as writeth my will on my tables, for the fuller perfection of all things.

And for his sake and for those like him, must I perfect MYSELF: therefore do I now avoid my happiness, and present myself to every misfortune—for MY final testing and recognition.

And verily, it were time that I went away; and the wanderer’s shadow and the longest tedium and the stillest hour—have all said unto me: “It is the highest time!”

The word blew to me through the keyhole and said “Come!” The door sprang subtlely open unto me, and said “Go!”

But I lay enchained to my love for my children: desire spread this snare for me—the desire for love—that I should become the prey of my children, and lose myself in them.

Desiring—that is now for me to have lost myself. I POSSESS YOU, MY CHILDREN! In this possessing shall everything be assurance and nothing desire.

But brooding lay the sun of my love upon me, in his own juice stewed Zarathustra,—then did shadows and doubts fly past me.

For frost and winter I now longed: “Oh, that frost and winter would again make me crack and crunch!” sighed I:—then arose icy mist out of me.

My past burst its tomb, many pains buried alive woke up—: fully slept had they merely, concealed in corpse–clothes.

So called everything unto me in signs: “It is time!” But I—heard not, until at last mine abyss moved, and my thought bit me.

Ah, abysmal thought, which art MY thought! When shall I find strength to hear thee burrowing, and no longer tremble?

To my very throat throbbeth my heart when I hear thee burrowing! Thy muteness even is like to strangle me, thou abysmal mute one!

As yet have I never ventured to call thee UP; it hath been enough that I— have carried thee about with me! As yet have I not been strong enough for my final lion–wantonness and playfulness.

Sufficiently formidable unto me hath thy weight ever been: but one day shall I yet find the strength and the lion’s voice which will call thee up!

When I shall have surmounted myself therein, then will I surmount myself also in that which is greater; and a VICTORY shall be the seal of my perfection!—

Meanwhile do I sail along on uncertain seas; chance flattereth me, smooth– tongued chance; forward and backward do I gaze—, still see I no end.

As yet hath the hour of my final struggle not come to me—or doth it come to me perhaps just now? Verily, with insidious beauty do sea and life gaze upon me round about:

O afternoon of my life! O happiness before eventide! O haven upon high seas! O peace in uncertainty! How I distrust all of you!

Verily, distrustful am I of your insidious beauty! Like the lover am I, who distrusteth too sleek smiling.

As he pusheth the best–beloved before him—tender even in severity, the jealous one—, so do I push this blissful hour before me.

Away with thee, thou blissful hour! With thee hath there come to me an involuntary bliss! Ready for my severest pain do I here stand:—at the wrong time hast thou come!

Away with thee, thou blissful hour! Rather harbour there—with my children! Hasten! and bless them before eventide with MY happiness!

There, already approacheth eventide: the sun sinketh. Away—my happiness!—

posted January 23, 2008 06:38 PM           

Thus Spoke Zarathustra: Fourth Part--
(edited and translated by Walter Kaufmann)

The Drunken Song~

6

Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love your sound,
your drunken ranunculus' croaking. From how
long ago, from how far away your sound comes
to me, from the distant ponds of love!
You old bell, you sweet lyre! Every pain
has torn into your heart, father-pain,
father's pain, fore-fathers' pain;
your speech grew ripe-- ripe as golden autumn and afternoon, as my hermit's heart;
now you say; the world itself has grown
ripe, the grape is turning brown, now it would die, die of happiness. You higher men, do you not smell it? A smell is
secretly welling up, a fragrance and smell of eternity, a rose-blessed, brown gold-wine fragrance of old happiness, of the drunken happiness of dying at midnight,
that sings: the world is deep, deeper than day had been aware.

posted January 23, 2008 06:50 PM           

Leave me! Leave me! I am too pure for you.
Do not touch me! Did not my world become perfect just now?
My skin is too pure for your hands. Leave
me, you stupid, boorish, dumb day! Is not the midnight brighter? The purest shall be the lords of the earth--the most unknown,
the strongest, the midnight souls who are brighter and deeper than any day.

O day, you grope for me? You seek my
happiness? I seem rich to you, lonely,
a treasure pit, a gold-chamber?
O world, you want me?
Am I worldly to you?
Am I spiritual to you?
Am I godlike to you?
But day and world, you are too ponderous;
have cleverer hands,
reach for deeper happiness, for
deeper unhappiness, reach for
any god, do not reach for me:
my unhappiness, my happiness
is deep, you strange day, but
I am yet no god,
no god's hell; deep is its woe.

8

God's woe is deeper, you strange world!
Reach for God's woe, not for me!
What am I? a drunken sweet lyre--
a midnight lyre, an ominous bell-frog
that nobody understands but that must speak, before the deaf, you higher men. For you do not understand me!

Gone! Gone! O youth! O noon! O afternoon! Now evening has come and night
and midnight--the dog howls, the wind:
is not the wind a dog? It whines, it yelps, it howls. Alas! Alas! How the midnight sighs!
How it laughs, how it rattles and wheezes!

How she speaks soberly now, this drunken poetess! Perhaps she overdrank her
drunkenness? She became overawake?
She ruminates? Her woe she ruminates in
a dream, the old deep midnight, and even more her joy.
For joy, even if woe is deep, joy is deeper yet than agony.

posted January 23, 2008 07:01 PM           

You vine! Why do you praise me?
Did I not cut you? I am cruel,
you bleed; what does your praise of
my drunken cruelty mean?

"What has become perfect, all that is
ripe--wnats to die"--thus you speak.
Blessed, blessed be the vintager's knife!
But all that is unripe want to live: woe!

Woe entreats: Go! Away, woe! But
all that suffers wants to live, that
it may become ripe and joyous and longing--longing for what is farther, higher, brighter.
"I want heirs"--thus speaks all that suffers;
"I want children, I do not want myself."

Joy, however, does not want heirs, or
children--joy wants itself, wants eternity,
wants recurrence, wants everything
eternally the same.

Woe says, "Break, bleed, heart! Wander
leg! Wing, fly! Get on! Up! Pain!"
Well then, old heart:
Woe implores, "Go!"

10

You higher men, what do you think?
Am I a soothsayer? A dreamer? A drunkard?
An interpreter of dreams? A midnight
bell? A drop of dew? A haze and fragrance of eternity? Do you not hear it? Do you not smell it? Just now my world became perfect; midnight too is noon;
pain too is a joy; curses too are a
blessing; night too is a sun--go away or you will learn: a sage too is a fool.

Have you ever said Yes to a single joy?
O my friends, then you said Yes to all woe. All things are entangled, ensnared, enamored; if ever you wanted one thing twice, if ever you said, "You please me, happiness! Abide, moment!" then you wanted all back. All anew,
all eternally, all entangled, ensnared, enamored--oh, then you loved the world. Eternal ones, love it eternally and evermore; and to woe too, you say: go, but return!
For all joy wants---eternity.

posted January 23, 2008 07:13 PM           

All joy wants the eternity of all things,
wants honey, wants lees, wants drunken midnight, wants tombs, wants tomb-tears'
comfort, wants gilded evening glow.

What does joy not want? It is thirstier,
more cordial, hungrier, more terrible, more secret than all woe; it wants itself, it bites into itself, the ring's will strives in it; it wants love, it wants hatred, it is overrich, gives throws away, begs that one might take it, thanks the taker, it would like to be hated; so rich is joy that it thirsts for woe, for hell, for hatred, for disgrace, for the cripple, for world--this world, oh, you know it!

You higher men, for you it longs, joy, the intractable blessed one--for your woe, you failures. All eternal joy longs for failures. For all joy wants itself, hence it also wants agony. O happiness, O pain!
Oh, break, heart!
You higher men, do learn this, joy wants
eternity. Joy wants the eternity of all things, wants deep, wants deep eternity.

12

Have you now learned my song?
Have you guessed its intent?
Well then, you higher men, sing me
now my round. Now you yourselves
sing me the song whose name is
"Once More" and whose meaning is
"into all eternity"---sing, you
higher men, Zarathustra's round!

O man, take care!
What does the deep midnight declare?
"I was asleep---
From a deep dream I woke and swear:
The world is deep,
Deeper than day had been aware.
Deep is its woe;
Joy---deeper yet than agony:
Woe implores: Go!
But all joy wants eternity---
Wants deep, wants deep eternity."

posted January 24, 2008 08:20 AM           

You are ahead of me.

To read or not to read,
that is the question.

From what I've heard,
part 4 is different from the first 3 parts,
in that, Zarathustra has triumphed over the will,
and his songs are full of joy and praise;
even the joy and praise of suffering.

Knee-chuh?
or
Neat-chuh?

There's nobody like him.

He stands with Jesus, Rumi, and Shakespeare,
and perhaps one or two others,
in the height of his genius.

posted January 24, 2008 08:39 AM           

I love it.

Thank you for posting, Lisa.

We should all love and remember this man.

posted January 24, 2008 01:19 PM           

Great writer. Awesome excerpts. Thanks for the read HSC.

posted January 24, 2008 05:10 PM         

All I can say is,
use protection
don't expect him to change
and if something is born from the relationship
be prepared to nurture and protect it with your life and your very soul
because he eats himself, his mates, and his young.

posted January 25, 2008 01:36 AM         

But, anyway... watched the video this morning (before I was possessed) and loved it. Twas pietzsche. Thanks for posting it, HSC.

Pietzsche
Nietzche
H.
S.
C.
chee

posted March 31, 2008 11:17 PM           

quote:

---

Such a tortured soul this man was. Seeker after truth..sad spirit flown through this gloomy time in history.

---

Such a proud, cheerful, and triumphant soul was his, too.

Nietzsche would have despised nothing so much as your pity.

quote:

---

The forming of firm beliefs in the depths of such confusion has rarely proven prudent. (Ooooh the stories history could tell..)

---

Indeed.
But Nietzsche was not in the habit of forming firm beliefs.
He was the first philosopher to pride himself on being a historian as well,
and, according to him, "every philosophy is a philisophy of the moment".

For all his fevered intensity and seriousness, he was a dancer.
He played with ideas as a dancer plays with choreography.
He forced himself to see from all sides of a matter,
and to speak his momentary truth with irony and playfulness.
He was emphatic, and yet, endlessly fickle.
His soul was too vast to cling to any one perspective.
The philosophy widely attributed to Nietzsche is "Perspectivism".

Wikipedia has this to say:

Perspectivism is the philosophical view developed by Friedrich Nietzsche that all ideations take place from a particular perspective. This means that there are many possible conceptual schemes, or perspectives which determine any possible judgment of truth or value that we may make; this implies that no way of seeing the world can be taken as definitively "true", but does not necessarily propose that all perspectives are equally valid.

Perspectivism rejects objectivism as impossible, and claims that there are no objective evaluations which transcend cultural formations or subjective designations. This means that there are no objective facts, and that there can be no knowledge of a thing in itself. This separates truth from a particular (or single) vantage point, and means that there are no ethical or epistemological absolutes. [1] This leads to constant reassessment of rules (i.e., those of philosophy, the scientific method, etc.) according to the circumstances of individual perspectives.[2]. “Truth” is thus formalized as a whole that is created by integrating different vantage points together.

We always adopt perspectives by default, whether we are aware of it or not, and the individual concepts of existence are defined by the circumstances surrounding that individual. Truth is made by and for individuals and peoples.[3] This view differs from many types of relativism which consider the truth of a particular proposition as something that altogether cannot be evaluated with respect to an "absolute truth", without taking into consideration culture and context.

This view is outlined in an aphorism from Nietzsche's posthumously-assembled collection Will to Power:

In so far as the word “knowledge” has any meaning, the world is knowable; but it is interpretable otherwise, it has no meaning behind it, but countless meanings.—“Perspectivism.”

It is our needs that interpret the world; our drives and their For and Against.[emphasis added] Every drive is a kind of lust to rule; each one has its perspective that it would like to compel all the other drives to accept as a norm.

– Friedrich Nietzsche; trans. Walter Kaufmann , The Will to Power, §481 (1883-1888)