2
But when this happened to the ugliest man, Zarathustra stood there like a drunkard: his eyes grew dim, his tongue failed, his feet stumbled. And who could guess what thoughts were then running over Zarathustra’s soul? But his spirit fled visibly and flew ahead and was in remote distances and, as it were, “on a high ridge,” as it is written, “between two seas, wandering like a heavy cloud between past and future.” But as the higher men held him in their arms, he gradually recovered his senses to some extent and with his hands warded off the throng of the revering and worried; yet he did not speak. All at once, however, he turned his head quickly, for he seemed to be hearing something. Then he put one finger to his mouth and said, “Come!”
And presently it became quiet and secret around; but from the depth the sound of a bell came up slowly. Zarathustra and the higher men listened for it; but then he put one finger to his mouth another time and said again, “Come! Come! Midnight approaches.” And his voice had changed. But still he did not stir from his place. Then it grew still more quiet and secret, and everything listened, even the ass and Zarathustra’s animals of honor, the eagle and the serpent, as well as Zarathustra’s cave and the big cool moon and the night itself. But Zarathustra, put his hand to his mouth, for the third time and said, “Come! Come! Let us wander now! The hour has come: let us wander into the night!”
3
You higher men, midnight approaches: I want to whisper something to you as that old bell whispers it into my ears—as secretly, as terribly, as cordially as that midnight bell, which has experienced more than any man, says it to me. It has counted the beats even of your fathers’ hearts and smarts. Alas! Alas! How it sighs! How it laughs in a dream! Old deep, deep midnight!
Still! Still! Here things are heard that by day may not become loud; but now in the cool air, when all the noise of your hearts too has become still—now it speaks, now it is heard, now it steals into nocturnal, overawake souls. Alas! Alas! How it sighs! How it laughs in a dream! Do you not hear how it speaks secretly, terribly, cordially to you—the old deep, deep midnight?
O man, take care!
4
Woe unto me! Where is time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The world sleeps. Alas! Alas! The dog howls, the moon shines. Sooner would I die, die rather than tell you what my midnight heart thinks now.
Now I have died. It is gone. Spider, what do you spin around me? Do you want blood? Alas! Alas! The dew falls, the hour approaches—the hour when I shiver and freeze, which asks and asks and asks, “Who has heart enough for it? Who shall be the lord of the earth? Who will say: thus shall you run, you big and little rivers!” The hour approaches: O man, you higher man, take care! This speech is for delicate ears, for your ears: What does the deep midnight declare?
5
I am carried away, my soul dances. Day’s work! Day’s work! Who shall be the lord of the earth?
The moon is cool, the wind is silent. Alas! Alas! Have you flown high enough yet? You have danced: but a leg is no wing. You good dancers, now all pleasure is gone: wine has become lees, every cup has become brittle, the tombs stammer. You did not fly high enough: now the tombs stammer, “Redeem the dead! Why does the night last so long? Does not the moon make us drunken?”
You higher men, redeem the tombs, awaken the corpses! Alas, why does the worm still burrow? The hour approaches, approaches; the bell hums, the heart still rattles, the deathwatch, the heart-worm still burrows. Alas! Alas! The world is deep.
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, fathers’ pain, forefathers’ 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 roseblessed, 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.
7
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.
9
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—wants to die”—thus you speak. Blessed, blessed be the vintager’s knife! But all that is unripe wants 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 too 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.
11
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.”
THE SIGN
In the morning after this night, Zarathustra jumped up from his resting place, girded his loins, and came out of his cave glowing and strong as a morning sun that comes out of dark mountains.
“You great star,” he said as he had said once before, “you deep eye of happiness, what would your happiness be had you not those for whom you shine? And if they stayed in their chambers even after you had awakened and come and given and distributed, how angry would your proud shame be!
“Well then, they still sleep, these higher men, while I am awake: these are not my proper companions. It is not for them that I wait here in my mountains. I want to go to my work, to my day: but they do not understand the signs of my morning; my stride is for them no summons to awaken. They still sleep in my cave, their dream still drinks of my drunken songs. The ear that listens for me, the heedful ear is lacking in their limbs.”
Thus had Zarathustra spoken to his heart when the sun rose; then he looked questioning into the height, for he heard the sharp cry of his eagle above him. “Well then!” he cried back; “thus it pleases and suits me. My animals are awake, for I am awake. My eagle is awake and honors the sun as I do. With eagle talons he grasps for the new light. You are the right animals for me; I love you. But I still lack the right men.”
Thus spoke Zarathustra. But then it happened that he suddenly heard himself surrounded as by innumerable swarming and fluttering birds: but the whirring of so many wings and the thronging about his head were so great that he closed his eyes. And verily, like a cloud it came over him, like a cloud of arrows that empties itself over a new enemy. But behold, here it was a cloud of love, and over a new friend.
“What is happening to me?” thought Zarathustra in his surprised heart, and slowly he sat down on the big stone that lay near the exit of his cave. But as he reached out with his hands around and over and under himself, warding off the affectionate birds, behold, something stranger yet happened to him: for unwittingly he reached into a thick warm mane; and at the same time he heard a roar in front of him—a soft, long lion roar.
“The sign is at hand,” said Zarathustra, and a change came over his heart. And indeed, as it became light before him, a mighty yellow animal lay at his feet and pressed its head against his knees and out of love did not want to let go of him, and acted like a dog that finds its old master again. But the doves were no less eager in their love than the lion; and whenever a dove slipped over the lion’s nose, the lion shook its head and was amazed and laughed.
About all this Zarathustra spoke but a single sentence: “My children are near, my children.” Then he became entirely silent. But his heart was loosed, and tears dropped from his eyes and fell on his hands. And he no longer heeded anything and sat there motionless, without warding off the animals any more. Then the doves flew about and sat on his shoulders and caressed his white hair and did not weary of tenderness and jubilation. But the strong lion kept licking up the tears that fell on Zarathustra’s hands and roared and growled bashfully. Thus acted these animals.
All this lasted a long time, or a short time: for properly speaking, there is no time on earth for such things. But meanwhile the higher men in Zarathustra’s cave had awakened and arranged themselves in a procession to meet Zarathustra and bid him good morning; for they had found when they awakened that he was no longer among them. But when they reached the door of the cave and the sound of their steps ran ahead of them, the lion started violently, turned away from Zarathustra suddenly, and jumped toward the cave, roaring savagely. But when the higher men heard it roar, they all cried out as with a single mouth, and they fled back and disappeared in a flash.
Zarathustra himself, however, dazed and strange, rose from his seat, looked around, stood there amazed, questioned his heart, reflected, and was alone. “What did I hear?” he finally said slowly; “what happened to me just now?” And presently memory came to him and with a single glance he grasped everything that had happened between yesterday and today. “Here is the stone,” he said, stroking his beard, “where I sat yesterday morning; and here the soothsayer came to me, and here I first heard the cry which I heard just now, the great cry of distress.
“O you higher men, it was your distress that this old soothsayer prophesied to me yesterday morning; to your distress he wanted to seduce and tempt me. O Zarathustra, he said to me, I come to seduce you to your final sin.
“To my final sin?” shouted Zarathustra, and he laughed angrily at his own words; “what was it that was saved up for me as my final sin?”
And once more Zarathustra became absorbed in himself, and he sat down again on the big stone and reflected. Suddenly he jumped up. “Pity! Pity for the higher man!” he cried out, and his face changed to bronze. “Well then, that has had its time! My suffering and my pity for suffering—what does it matter? Am I concerned with happiness? I am concerned with my work.
“Well then! The lion came, my children are near, Zarathustra has ripened, my hour has come: this is my morning, my day is breaking: rise now, rise, thou great noon!”
Thus spoke Zarathustra, and he left his cave, glowing and strong as a morning sun that comes out of dark mountains.
NOTE (1884)9
. . . The degeneration of rulers and of the ruling classes has made for the greatest mischief in history. Without the Roman Caesars and Roman society, the insanity of Christianity would never have come to rule.
When the lesser men begin to doubt whether there are higher men, then the danger is great. . . . When Nero and Caracalla sat up there, the paradox originated that “the lowest man is worth more than that man up there.” And an image of God was spread which was as far removed as possible from the image of the most powerful—the god on the cross. . . .
LETTERS
TO OVERBECK
Sils Maria, September 14, 1884
. . . This is the mistake which I seem to make eternally, that I imagine the sufferings of others as far greater than they really are. Ever since my childhood, the proposition “my greatest dangers lie in pity” has been confirmed again and again. . . .
Nizza, December 22, 1884
. . . I am having translated into German for me (in writing) a longish essay by Emerson, which gives some clarity about his development. If you want it, it is at your disposal and your wife’s. I do not know how much I would give if only I could bring it about, ex post facto, that such a glorious, great nature, rich in soul and spirit, might have gone through some strict discipline, a really scientific education. As it is, in Emerson we have lost a philosopher. . . .
TO HIS SISTER
Nizza, March 1885
. . . It seems to me that a human being with the very best of intentions can do immeasurable harm, if he is immodest enough to wish to profit those whose spirit and will are concealed from him. . . .
TO OVERBECK
Sils Maria, July 2, 1885
. . . I hold up before myself the images of Dante and Spinoza, who were better at accepting the lot of solitude. O
f course, their way of thinking, compared to mine, was one which made solitude bearable; and in the end, for all those who somehow still had a “God” for company, what I experience as “solitude” really did not yet exist. My life now consists in the wish that it might be otherwise with all things than I comprehend, and that somebody might make my “truths” appear incredible to me. . . .
NOTES
Rule? Press my type on others? Dreadful. Is not my happiness precisely the sight of many who are different? Problem. (xiv, 126)
The will to a system: in a philosopher, morally speaking, a subtle corruption, a disease of the character; amorally speaking, his will to pose as more stupid than he is—more stupid, that means: stronger, simpler, more commanding, less educated, more masterful, more tyrannical.
(XlV, 313)
Being nationalistic in the sense in which it is now demanded by public opinion would, it seems to me, be for us who are more spiritual not mere insipidity but dishonesty, a deliberate deadening of our better will and conscience.