Part 2c. Discourses 33-38
33. The Grave Song
"YONDER is the grave-island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves of my youth. There will I carry an evergreen wreath of life."
Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o'er the sea.-
Oh, you sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all you gleams of love, you divine fleeting gleams! How could you perish so soon for me! I think of you to-day as my dead ones.
From you, my dearest dead ones, comes to me a sweet savor, heart-opening and melting. It convulses and opens the heart of the lone seafarer.
Still am I the richest and most to be envied- I, the most lonesome one! For I have possessed you, and you possess me still. Tell me: to whom has there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen to me?
Still am I your love's heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O you dearest ones!
Ah, we were made to remain near to each other, you kindly strange marvels; and not like timid birds did you come to me and my longing- no, but as trusting ones to a trusting one!
Yes, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities, must I now name you by your faithlessness, you divine glances and fleeting gleams: no other name have I yet learnt.
Too early did you die for me, you fugitives. Yet did you not flee from me, nor did I flee from you: innocent are we to each other in our faithlessness.
To kill me, did they strangle you, you singing birds of my hopes! Yes, at you, you dearest ones, did malice ever shoot its arrows- to hit my heart!
And they hit it! Because you were always my dearest, my possession and my possessedness: on that account had you to die young, and far too early!
At my most vulnerable point did they shoot the arrow- namely, at you, whose skin is like down- or more like the smile that dies at a glance!
But this word will I say to my enemies: What is all manslaughter in comparison with what you have done to me!
Worse evil did you do to me than all manslaughter; the irretrievable did you take from me:- thus do I speak to you, my enemies!
Slew you not my youth's visions and dearest marvels! My playmates took you from me, the blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit this wreath and this curse.
This curse upon you, my enemies! Have you not made my eternal short, as a tone dies away in a cold night! Scarcely, as the twinkle of divine eyes, did it come to me- as a fleeting gleam!
Thus spoke once in a happy hour my purity: "Divine shall everything be to me."
Then did you haunt me with foul phantoms; ah, where has that happy hour now fled!
"All days shall be sacred to me"- so spoke once the wisdom of my youth: verily, the language of a joyous wisdom!
But then did you enemies steal my nights, and sold them to sleepless torture: ah, where has that joyous wisdom now fled?
Once did I long for happy auspices: then did you lead an owl-monster across my path, an adverse sign. Ah, where did my tender longing then flee?
All loathing did I once vow to renounce: then did you change my nigh ones and nearest ones into ulcerations. Ah, where did my noblest vow then flee?
As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways: then did you cast filth on the blind one's course: and now is he disgusted with the old footpath.
And when I performed my hardest task, and celebrated the triumph of my victories, then did you make those who loved me call out that I then grieved them most.
It was always your doing: you embittered to me my best honey, and the diligence of my best bees.
To my charity have you ever sent the most impudent beggars; around my sympathy have you ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus have you wounded the faith of my virtue.
And when I offered my holiest as a sacrifice, immediately did your "piety" put its fatter gifts beside it: so that my holiest suffocated in the fumes of your fat.
And once did I want to dance as I had never yet danced: beyond all heavens did I want to dance. Then did you seduce my favourite minstrel.
And now has he struck up an awful, melancholy air; alas, he tooted as a mournful horn to my ear!
Murderous minstrel, instrument of evil, most innocent instrument! Already did I stand prepared for the best dance: then did you kill my rapture with your tones!
Only in the dance do I know how to speak the parable of the highest things:- and now has my grandest parable remained unspoken in my limbs!
Unspoken and unrealised has my highest hope remained! And there have perished for me all the visions and consolations of my youth!
How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and overcome such wounds? How did my soul rise again out of those sepulchres?
Yes, something invulnerable, unburiable is with me, something that would rend rocks asunder: it is called my Will. Silently does it proceed, and unchanged throughout the years.
Its course will it go upon my feet, my old Will; hard of heart is its nature and invulnerable.
Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever live you there, and are like yourself, you most patient one! Ever have you burst all shackles of the tomb!
In you still lives also the unrealisedness of my youth; and as life and youth sit you here hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves.
Yes, you are still for me the demolisher of all graves: Hail to you, my Will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections.
Thus sang Zarathustra.
"WILL to Truth" do you call it, you wisest ones, that which impels you and makes you ardent?
Will for the thinkableness of all being: thus do I call your will!
All being would you make thinkable: for you doubt with good reason whether it be already thinkable.
But it shall accommodate and bend itself to you! So wills your will. Smooth shall it become and subject to the spirit, as its mirror and reflection.
That is your entire will, you wisest ones, as a Will to Power; and even when you speak of good and evil, and of estimates of value.
You would still create a world before which you can bow the knee: such is your ultimate hope and ecstasy.
The ignorant, to be sure, the people- they are like a river on which a boat floats along: and in the boat sit the estimates of value, solemn and disguised.
Your will and your valuations have you put on the river of becoming; it betrays to me an old Will to Power, what is believed by the people as good and evil.
It was you, you wisest ones, who put such guests in this boat, and gave them pomp and proud names- you and your ruling Will!
Onward the river now carries your boat: it must carry it. A small matter if the rough wave foams and angrily resists its keel!
It is not the river that is your danger and the end of your good and evil, you wisest ones: but that Will itself, the Will to Power- the unexhausted, procreating life-will.
But that you may understand my gospel of good and evil, for that purpose will I tell you my gospel of life, and of the nature of all living things.
The living thing did I follow; I walked in the broadest and narrowest paths to learn its nature.
With a hundred-faced mirror did I catch its glance when its mouth was shut, so that its eye might speak to me. And its eye spoke to me.
But wherever I found living things, there heard I also the language of obedience. All living things are obeying things.
And this heard I secondly: Whatever cannot obey itself, is commanded. Such is the nature of living things.
This, however, is the third thing which I heard- namely, that commanding is more difficult than obeying. And not only because the commander bears the burden of all obeyers, and because this burden readily crushes him:-
An attempt and a risk seemed all commanding to me; and whenever it commands, the living thing risks itself thereby.
Yes, even when it commands itself, then also must it atone for its commanding. Of its own law must it become the judge and avenger and victim.
How does this happen! So did I ask myself. What persuades the living thing to obey, and command, and even be obedient in commanding?
Hearken now to my word, you wisest ones! Test it seriously, whether I have crept into the heart of life itself, and into the roots of its heart!
Wherever I found a living thing, there found I Will to Power; and even in the will of the servant found I the will to be master.
That to the stronger the weaker shall serve- thereto persuades he his will who would be master over a still weaker one. That delight alone he is unwilling to forego.
And as the lesser surrenders himself to the greater that he may have delight and power over the least of all, so do even the greatest surrender himself, and stakes- life, for the sake of power.
It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and danger, and play dice for death.
And where there is sacrifice and service and love-glances, there also is the will to be master. By by-ways do the weaker then slink into the fortress, and into the heart of the mightier one- and there steals power.
And this secret spoke Life herself to me. "Behold," said she, "I am that which must ever overcome itself.
To be sure, you call it will to procreation, or impulse towards a goal, towards the higher, remoter, more manifold: but all that is one and the same secret.
Rather would I perish than disown this one thing; and verily, where there is perishing and leaf-falling, lo, there does Life sacrifice itself- for power!
That I have to be struggle, and becoming, and purpose, and cross-purpose- ah, he who divines my will, divines well also on what crooked paths it has to tread!
Whatever I create, and however much I love it,- soon must I be adverse to it, and to my love: so wills my will.
And even you, discerning one, are only a path and footstep of my will: verily, my Will to Power walks even on the feet of your Will to Truth!
He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at it the formula: "Will to existence": that will- does not exist!
For what is not, cannot will; that, however, which is in existence- how could it still strive for existence!
Only where there is life, is there also will: not, however, Will to Life, but- so teach I you- Will to Power!
Much is reckoned higher than life itself by the living one; but out of the very reckoning speaks- the Will to Power!"-
Thus did Life once teach me: and thereby, you wisest ones, do I solve you the riddle of your hearts.
I say to you: good and evil which would be everlasting- it does not exist! Of its own accord must it ever overcome itself anew.
With your values and formulae of good and evil, you exercise power, you valuing ones: and that is your secret love, and the sparkling, trembling, and overflowing of your souls.
But a stronger power grows out of your values, and a new overcoming: by it breaks egg and egg-shell.
And he who has to be a creator in good and evil- verily, he has first to be a destroyer, and break values in pieces.
Thus does the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however, is the creating good.-
Let us speak thereof, you wisest ones, even though it be bad. To be silent is worse; all suppressed truths become poisonous.
And let everything break up which- can break up by our truths! Many a house is still to be built!
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
35. The Sublime Ones
CALM is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hides droll monsters!
Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkles with swimming enigmas and laughters.
A sublime one saw I today, a solemn one, a penitent of the spirit: Oh, how my soul laughed at his ugliness!
With upraised breast, and like those who draw in their breath: thus did he stand, the sublime one, and in silence:
Overhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his hunting, and rich in torn raiment; many thorns also hung on him- but I saw no rose. Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty. Gloomy did this hunter return from the forest of knowledge.
From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild beast gazes out of his seriousness- an unconquered wild beast!
As a tiger does he ever stand, on the point of springing; but I do not like those strained souls; ungracious is my taste towards all those self-engrossed ones.
And you tell me, friends, that there is to be no dispute about taste and tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting!
Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas for every living thing that would live without dispute about weight and scales and weigher!
Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this sublime one, then only will his beauty begin- and then only will I taste him and find him savoury.
And only when he turns away from himself will he overleap his own shadow- and verily! Into his sun.
Far too long did he sit in the shade; the cheeks of the penitent of the spirit became pale; he almost starved on his expectations.
Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hides in his mouth. To be sure, he now rests, but he has not yet taken rest in the sunshine.
As the ox ought he to do; and his happiness should smell of the earth, and not of contempt for the earth.
As a white ox would I like to see him, which, snorting and lowing, walks before the plough-share: and his lowing should also laud all that is earthly!
Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand dances upon it. O'ershadowed is still the sense of his eye.
His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscures the doer. Not yet has he overcome his deed.
To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want to see also the eye of the angel.
Also his hero-will has he still to unlearn: an exalted one shall he be, and not only a sublime one:- the ether itself should raise him, the will-less one!
He has subdued monsters, he has solved enigmas. But he should also redeem his monsters and enigmas; into heavenly children should he transform them.
As yet has his knowledge not learned to smile, and to be without jealousy; as yet has his gushing passion not become calm in beauty.
Not in satiety shall his longing cease and disappear, but in beauty! Gracefulness belongs to the munificence of the magnanimous.
His arm across his head: thus should the hero repose; thus should he also overcome his repose.
But precisely to the hero is beauty the hardest thing of all. Unattainable is beauty by all ardent wills.
A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the most here.
To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the hardest for all of you, you sublime ones!
When power becomes gracious and descends into the visible- I call such condescension, beauty.
And from no one do I want beauty so much as from you, you powerful one: let your goodness be your last self-conquest.
All evil do I accredit to you: therefore do I desire of you the good.
I have often laughed at the weaklings, who think themselves good because they have crippled paws!
The virtue of the pillar shall you strive after: more beautiful does it ever become, and more graceful- but internally harder and more sustaining- the higher it rises.
Yes, you sublime one, one day shall you also be beautiful, and hold up the mirror to your own beauty.
Then will your soul thrill with divine desires; and there will be adoration even in your vanity!
For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero has abandoned it, then only approach it in dreams- the super-hero.
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
36. The Land of Culture
TOO far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me.
And when I looked around me, behold, there time was my sole contemporary.
Then did I fly backwards, homewards- and always faster. Thus did I come to you: you present-day people, and into the land of culture.
For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily, with longing in my heart did I come.
But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed- I had yet to laugh! Never did my eye see anything so motley-coloured!
I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as well. "Here , is the home of all the paint-pots," said I.
With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs- so sat you there to my astonishment, you present-day people!
And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colors, and repeated it!
You could wear no better masks, you present-day people, than your own faces! Who could- recognize you!
Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters also pencilled over with new characters- thus have you concealed yourselves well from all decipherers!
And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believes that you have reins! Out of colors you seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps.
All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures.
He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures, would just have enough left to scare the crows.
I myself am the scared crow that once saw you naked, and without paint; and I flew away when the skeleton ogled at me.
Rather would I be a day-labourer in the under-world, and among the shades of the by-gone!- Fatter and fuller than you, are the under-worldlings!
This, yes this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither endure you naked nor clothed, you present-day people!
All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever makes strayed birds shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your "reality."
For thus speak you: "Real are we wholly, and without faith and superstition": thus do you plume yourselves- alas! even without plumes!
Indeed, how would you be able to believe, you divers-coloured ones!- you who are pictures of all that has ever been believed!
Perambulating refutations are you, of belief itself, and a dislocation of all thought. Untrustworthy ones: thus do I call you, you real ones!
All periods prate against one another in your spirits; and the dreams and pratings of all periods were even realer than your awakeness!
Unfruitful are you: therefore do you lack belief. But he who had to create, had always his presaging dreams and astral premonitions- and believed in believing!-
Half-open doors are you, at which grave-diggers wait. And this is your reality: "Everything deserves to perish."
Alas, how you stand there before me, you unfruitful ones; how lean your ribs! And many of you surely have had knowledge thereof.
Many a one has said: "There has surely a God filched something from me secretly whilst I slept? enough to make a girl for himself therefrom!
"Amazing is the poverty of my ribs!" thus has spoken many a present-day person.
Yes, you are laughable to me, you present-day people! And especially when you marvel at yourselves!
And woe to me if I could not laugh at your marvelling, and had to swallow all that is repugnant in your platters!
As it is, however, I will make lighter of you, since I have to carry what is heavy; and what matter if beetles and May-bugs also alight on my load!
It shall not on that account become heavier to me! And not from you, you present-day people, shall my great weariness arise.-
Ah, where shall I now ascend with my longing! From all mountains do I look out for fatherlands and motherlands.
But a home have I found nowhere: unsettled am I in all cities, and decamping at all gates.
Alien to me, and a mockery, are the present-day people, to whom of late my heart impelled me; and exiled am I from fatherlands and motherlands.
Thus do I love only my children's land, the undiscovered in the remotest sea: for it do I bid my sails search and search.
To my children will I make amends for being the child of my fathers: and to all the future- for this present-day!
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
37. Immaculate Perception
WHEN yester-eve the moon arose, then did I fancy it about to bear a sun: so broad and teeming did it lie on the horizon.
But it was a liar with its pregnancy; and sooner will I believe in the man in the moon than in the woman.
To be sure, little of a person is he also, that timid night-reveller. With a bad conscience does he stalk over the roofs.
For he is covetous and jealous, the monk in the moon; covetous of the earth, and all the joys of lovers.
No, I like him not, that tom-cat on the roofs! Hateful to me are all that slink around half-closed windows!
Piously and silently does he stalk along on the star-carpets:- but I like no light-treading human feet, on which not even a spur jingles.
Every honest one's step speaks; the cat however, steals along over the ground. Behold, cat-like does the moon come along, and dishonestly.-
This parable speak I to you sentimental dissemblers, to you, the "pure discerners!" You do I call- covetous ones!
Also you love the earth, and the earthly: I have divined you well!- but shame is in your love, and a bad conscience- you are like the moon!
To despise the earthly has your spirit been persuaded, but not your bowels: these, however, are the strongest in you!
And now is your spirit ashamed to be at the service of your bowels, and goes in by-ways and lying ways to escape its own shame.
"That would be the highest thing for me"- so says your lying spirit to itself- "to gaze upon life without desire, and not like the dog, with hanging-out tongue:
To be happy in gazing: with dead will, free from the grip and greed of selfishness- cold and ashy-grey all over, but with intoxicated moon-eyes!
That would be the dearest thing to me"- thus do the seduced one seduce himself,- "to love the earth as the moon loves it, and with the eye only to feel its beauty.
And this do I call immaculate perception of all things: to want nothing else from them, but to be allowed to lie before them as a mirror with a hundred facets."-
Oh, you sentimental dissemblers, you covetous ones! You lack innocence in your desire: and now do you defame desiring on that account!
Not as creators, as procreators, or as jubilators do you love the earth!
Where is innocence? Where there is will to procreation. And he who seeks to create beyond himself, has for me the purest will.
Where is beauty? Where I must will with my whole Will; where I will love and perish, that an image may not remain merely an image.
Loving and perishing: these have rhymed from eternity. Will to love: that is to be ready also for death. Thus do I speak to you cowards!
But now does your emasculated ogling profess to be "contemplation!" And that which can be examined with cowardly eyes is to be christened "beautiful!" Oh, you violators of noble names!
But it shall be your curse, you immaculate ones, you pure discerners, that you shall never bring forth, even though you lie broad and teeming on the horizon!
You fill your mouth with noble words: and we are to believe that your heart overflows, you cozeners?
But my words are poor, contemptible, stammering words: gladly do I pick up what falls from the table at your repasts.
Yet still can I say therewith the truth- to dissemblers! Yes, my fish-bones, shells, and prickly leaves shall- tickle the noses of dissemblers!
Bad air is always about you and your repasts: your lascivious thoughts, your lies, and secrets are indeed in the air!
Dare only to believe in yourselves- in yourselves and in your inward parts! He who does not believe in himself always lies.
A God's mask have you hung in front of you, you "pure ones": into a God's mask has your execrable coiling snake crawled.
Verily you deceive, you "contemplative ones!" Even Zarathustra was once the dupe of your godlike exterior; he did not divine the serpent's coil with which it was stuffed.
A God's soul, I once thought I saw playing in your games, you pure discerners! No better arts did I once dream of than your arts!
Serpents' filth and evil odour, the distance concealed from me: and that a lizard's craft prowled thereabouts lasciviously.
But I came near to you: then came to me the day,- and now comes it to you,- at an end is the moon's love affair!
See there! Surprised and pale does it stand- before the rosy dawn!
For already she comes, the glowing one,- her love to the earth comes! Innocence, and creative desire, is all solar love!
See there, how she comes impatiently over the sea! Do you not feel the thirst and the hot breath of her love?
At the sea would she suck, and drink its depths to her height: now rises the desire of the sea with its thousand breasts.
Kissed and sucked would it be by the thirst of the sun; vapor would it become, and height, and path of light, and light itself!
Like the sun do I love life, and all deep seas.
And this means to me knowledge: all that is deep shall ascend- to my height!-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
WHEN I lay asleep, then did a sheep eat at the ivy-wreath on my head,- it ate, and said thereby: "Zarathustra is no longer a scholar."
It said this, and went away clumsily and proudly. A child told it to me.
I like to lie here where the children play, beside the ruined wall, among thistles and red poppies.
A scholar am I still to the children, and also to the thistles and red poppies. Innocent are they, even in their wickedness.
But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar: so wills my lot-blessings upon it!
For this is the truth: I have departed from the house of the scholars, and the door have I also slammed behind me.
Too long did my soul sit hungry at their table: not like them have I got the knack of investigating, as the knack of nut-cracking.
Freedom do I love, and the air over fresh soil; rather would I sleep on ox-skins than on their honours and dignities.
I am too hot and scorched with my own thought: often is it ready to take away my breath. Then have I to go into the open air, and away from all dusty rooms.
But they sit cool in the cool shade: they want in everything to be merely spectators, and they avoid sitting where the sun burns on the steps.
Like those who stand in the street and gape at the passers-by: thus do they also wait, and gape at the thoughts which others have thought.
Should one lay hold of them, then do they raise a dust like flour-sacks, and involuntarily: but who would divine that their dust came from corn, and from the yellow delight of the summer fields?
When they give themselves out as wise, then do their petty sayings and truths chill me: in their wisdom there is often an odour as if it came from the swamp; and verily, I have even heard the frog croak in it!
Clever are they- they have dexterous fingers: what does my simplicity pretend to beside their multiplicity! All threading and knitting and weaving do their fingers understand: thus do they make the hose of the spirit!
Good clockworks are they: only be careful to wind them up properly! Then do they indicate the hour without mistake, and make a modest noise thereby.
Like millstones do they work, and like pestles: throw only seed-corn to them!- they know well how to grind corn small, and make white dust out of it.
They keep a sharp eye on one another, and do not trust each other the best. Ingenious in little artifices, they wait for those whose knowledge walks on lame feet,- like spiders do they wait.
I saw them always prepare their poison with precaution; and always did they put glass gloves on their fingers in doing so.
They also know how to play with false dice; and so eagerly did I find them playing, that they perspired thereby.
We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more repugnant to my taste than their falsehoods and false dice.
And when I lived with them, then did I live above them. Therefore did they take a dislike to me.
They want to hear nothing of any one walking above their heads; and so they put wood and earth and rubbish between me and their heads.
Thus did they deafen the sound of my tread: and least have I hereto been heard by the most learned.
All mankind's faults and weaknesses did they put between themselves and me:- they call it "false ceiling" in their houses.
But nevertheless I walk with my thoughts above their heads; and even should I walk on my own errors, still would I be above them and their heads.
For people are not equal: so speaks justice. And what I will, they may not will!
Thus spoke Zarathustra.