Thus Spoke Zarathustra (20 page)

‘Why?’ said Zarathustra. ‘You ask why? I am not one of those who may be questioned about their Why.

‘Do my experiences date from yesterday? It is a long time since I experienced the reasons for my opinions.

‘Should I not have to be a barrel of memory, if I wanted to carry my reasons, too, about with me?

‘It is already too much for me to retain even my opinions; and many a bird has flown away.

‘And now and then I find in my dove-cote an immigrant creature which is strange to me and which trembles when I lay my hand upon it.

‘Yet what did Zarathustra once say to you? That the poets lie too much? – But Zarathustra too is a poet.

‘Do you now believe that he spoke the truth? Why do you believe it?’

The disciple answered: ‘I believe in Zarathustra.’ But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled.

Belief does not make me blessed (he said), least of all belief in myself.

But granted that someone has said in all seriousness that the poets lie too much: he is right –
we
do lie too much.

We know too little and are bad learners: so we have to lie.

And which of us poets has not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous hotch-potch has been produced in our cellars, many an indescribable thing has been done there.

And because we know little, the poor in spirit delight our hearts, especially when they are young women.

And we desire even those things the old women tell one another in the evening. We call that the eternal-womanly in us.

And we believe in the people and its ‘wisdom’ as if there were a special secret entrance to knowledge which is
blocked
to him who has learned anything.

But all poets believe this: that he who, lying in the grass or in lonely bowers, pricks up his ears, catches a little of the things that are between heaven and earth.

And if they experience tender emotions, the poets always think that nature herself is in love with them:

And that she creeps up to their ears, to speak secrets and amorous flattering words into them: of this they boast and pride themselves before all mortals!

Alas, there are so many things between heaven and earth of which only the poets have let themselves dream!

And especially
above
heaven: for all gods are poets’ images, poets’ surreptitiousness!

Truly, it draws us ever upward – that is, to cloudland: we set our motley puppets on the clouds and then call them gods and supermen.

And are they not light enough for these insubstantial seats? – all these gods and supermen.

Alas, how weary I am of all the unattainable that is supposed to be reality. Alas, how weary I am of the poets!

When Zarathustra had spoken thus, his disciple was angry with him, but kept silent. And Zarathustra, too, kept silent; and his eye had turned within him as if it were gazing into the far distance. At length he sighed and drew a breath.

I am of today and of the has-been (he said then); but there is something in me that is of tomorrow and of the day-after-tomorrow and of the shall-be.

I have grown weary of the poets, the old and the new: they all seem to me superficial and shallow seas.

They have not thought deeply enough: therefore their feeling – has not plumbed the depths.

A little voluptuousness and a little tedium: that is all their best ideas have ever amounted to.

All their harp-jangling is to me so much coughing and puffing of phantoms; what have they ever known of the ardour of tones!

They are not clean enough for me, either: they all disturb their waters so that they may seem deep.

And in that way they would like to show themselves reconcilers: but to me they remain mediators and meddlers, and mediocre and unclean men!

Ah, indeed I cast my net into their sea and hoped to catch fine fish; but I always drew out an old god’s head.

Thus the sea gave a stone to the hungry man. And they themselves may well originate from the sea.

To be sure, one finds pearls in them: then they themselves are all the more like hard shell-fish. And instead of the soul I often found in them salty slime.

They learned vanity, too, from the sea: is the sea not the peacock of peacocks?

It unfurls its tail even before the ugliest of buffaloes, it never wearies of its lace-fan of silver and satin.

The buffalo looks on insolently, his soul like the sand, yet more like the thicket, but most like the swamp.

What are beauty and sea and peacock-ornaments to him? I speak this parable to the poets.

Truly, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks and a sea of vanity!

The poet’s spirit wants spectators, even if they are 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 the poets transformed; I have seen them direct their glance upon themselves.

I have seen penitents of the spirit appearing: they grew out of the poets.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Of Great Events

T
HERE
is an island in the sea – not far from the Blissful Islands of Zarathustra – upon which a volcano continually smokes; the people, and especially the old women among the people, say that it is placed like a block of stone before the gate of the underworld, but that the narrow downward path which leads to this gate of the underworld passes through the volcano itself.

Now at the time Zarathustra was living on the Blissful Islands it happened that a ship dropped anchor at the island upon which the smoking mountain stood; and its crew landed in order to shoot rabbits. Towards the hour of noon, however, when the captain and his men were reassembled, they suddenly saw a man coming towards them through the air, and a voice said clearly: ‘It is time! It is high time!’ But as the figure was closest to them – it flew quickly past, however, like a shadow, in the direction of the volcano – they recognized, with the greatest consternation, that it was Zarathustra; for all of them had seen him before, except the captain himself, and they loved him as the people love: that is, with love and awe in equal parts.

‘Just look!’ said the old steersman, ‘there is Zarathustra going to Hell!’

At the same time as these sailors landed on the volcano island, the rumour went around that Zarathustra had disappeared; and when his friends were questioned, they said that he had gone aboard a ship by night without saying where he intended to sail.

Thus there arose a disquiet; after three days, however, there was added to this disquiet the story of the sailors – and then all the people said that the Devil had carried Zarathustra off. Of course, his disciples laughed at this talk; and one of them
even said: ‘I would rather believe that Zarathustra had carried off the Devil.’ But at the bottom of their souls they were all full of apprehension and longing: so great was their joy when, on the fifth day, Zarathustra appeared among them.

And this is the tale 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’: men have told many lies and been told many lies about
him
.

To fathom this secret I fared across the sea: and I have seen truth naked, truly! barefoot to the neck.

Now I know all about the fire-dog; and also about all the revolutionary and subversive devils which not only old women fear.

‘Up with you, fire-dog, up from your depth!’ I cried, ‘and confess how deep that depth is! Where does it come from, that which you snort up?

‘You drink deeply from the sea: your bitter eloquence betrays that! Truly, for a dog of the depths you take your food too much from the surface!

‘At the best, I hold you to be the earth’s ventriloquist: and when I have heard subversive and revolutionary devils speak, I have always found them like you: bitter, lying, and superficial.

‘You understand how to bellow and how to darken the air with ashes! You are the greatest braggart and have sufficiently learned the art of making mud boil.

‘Where you are there must always be mud around and much that is spongy, hollow, and compressed: it wants to be freed.

‘“Freedom”, you all most like to bellow: but I have unlearned belief in “great events” whenever there is much bellowing and smoke about them.

‘And believe me, friend Infernal-racket! The greatest events – they are not our noisiest but our stillest hours.

‘The world revolves, not around the inventors of new
noises, but around the inventors of new values; it revolves
inaudibly
.

‘And just confess! Little was ever found to have happened when your noise and smoke dispersed. What did it matter that a town had been mummified and a statue lay in the mud!

‘And I say this to the overthrowers of statues: To throw salt into the sea and statues into the mud are perhaps the greatest of follies.

‘The statue lay in the mud of your contempt: but this precisely is its law, that its life and living beauty grow again out of contempt!

‘And now it arises again, with diviner features and sorrowfully-seductive; and in truth! it will even thank you for overthrowing it, you overthrowers!

‘I tender, however, this advice to kings and churches and to all that is weak with age and virtue – only let yourselves be overthrown! That you may return to life, and that virtue – may return to you!’

Thus I spoke before the fire-dog: then he interrupted me sullenly and asked: ‘The church? What is that then?’

‘The church?’ I answered. ‘The church is kind of state, and indeed the most mendacious 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 bellowing – to make believe, like you, that it speaks out of the belly of things.

‘For the state wants to be absolutely the most important beast on earth; and it is believed to be so, too!’

When I said that, the fire-dog acted as if he were mad with envy. ‘What?’ he cried, ‘the most important beast on earth? And it is believed to be so, too?’ And so much steam and hideous shrieking came from his throat I thought he would choke with vexation and envy.

At length he grew quieter and his panting ceased; as soon as he was quiet, however, I said laughing;

‘You are vexed, fire-dog: therefore I am right about you!

‘And that I may press my point, let me speak of another fire-dog, which really speaks from the heart of the earth.

‘His breath exhales gold and golden rain: so his heart will have it. What are ashes and smoke and hot mud to him now!

‘Laughter flutters from him like a motley cloud; he is ill-disposed towards your gurgling and spitting and griping of the bowels!

‘Gold and laughter, however, he takes from the heart of the earth: for, that you may know it –
the heart of the earth is of gold
. ’

When the fire-dog heard this he could no longer bear to listen to me. Abashed, he drew in his tail, said ‘Bow-wow’ in a small voice and crawled down into his cave.

Thus narrated Zarathustra. But his disciples hardly listened to him, so great was their desire 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 will have been my shadow. Surely you have heard something of the Wanderer and his Shadow?
²⁰

‘This, however, is certain: I must keep it 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 mankind. The best grew weary of their works.

A teaching went forth, a belief ran beside it: Everything is empty, everything is one, everything is past!

And from every hill it resounded: Everything is empty, everything is one, everything is past!

We have harvested, it is true: but why did all our fruits turn
rotten and brown? What fell from the wicked moon last night?

All our work has been in vain, our wine has become poison, an evil eye has scorched our fields and our hearts.

We have all become dry; and if fire fell upon us we should scatter like ashes – yes, we have made weary fire itself.

All our wells have dried up, even the sea has receded. The earth wants to break open, but the depths will not devour us!

Alas, where is there still a sea in which one could drown: thus our lament resounds – across shallow swamps.

Truly, we have grown too weary even to die; now we are still awake and we live on – in sepulchres!’

Thus did Zarathustra hear a prophet speak;
²¹
and his prophecy went to Zarathustra’s heart and transformed him. He went about sad and weary; and he became like those of whom the prophet had spoken.

‘Truly,’ he said to his disciples, ‘this long twilight is very nearly upon us. Alas, how shall I preserve my light through it?

‘May it not be smothered in this sadness! It is meant to be a light to more distant worlds and to the most distant nights!’

Zarathustra went about grieving thus in his heart; and for three days he took no food or drink, had no rest and forgot speech. At length it happened that he fell into a deep sleep. And his disciples sat around him in the long watches of the night and waited anxiously to see if he would awaken and speak again and be cured of his affliction.

And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spoke when he awoke; his voice, however, came to his disciples as if from a great distance:

Listen to the dream which I dreamed, friends, and help me to read its meaning!

It is still a riddle to me, this dream; its meaning is hidden within it and imprisoned and does not yet fly above it with unconfined wings.