Ecce Homo Complete Works, Volume Seventeen

By Friedrich Nietzsche

Page 70

than taking.

"Wretched am I that my hand may never rest from giving: an envious fate
is mine that I see expectant eyes and nights made bright with longing.

"Oh, the wretchedness of all them that give! Oh, the clouds that cover
the face of my sun! That craving for desire! that burning hunger at the
end of the feast!

"They take what I give them; but do I touch their soul? A gulf is there
'twixt giving and taking; and the smallest gulf is the last to be
bridged.

"An appetite is born from out my beauty: would that I might do harm to
them that I fill with light; would that I might rob them of the gifts I
have given:--thus do I thirst for wickedness.

"To withdraw my hand when their hand is ready stretched forth like the
waterfall that wavers, wavers even in its fall:--thus do I thirst for
wickedness.

"For such vengeance doth my fulness yearn: to such tricks doth my
loneliness give birth.

"My joy in giving died with the deed. By its very fulness did my virtue
grow weary of itself.

"He who giveth risketh to lose his shame; he that is ever distributing
groweth callous in hand and heart therefrom.

"Mine eyes no longer melt into tears at the sight of the suppliant's
shame; my hand hath become too hard to feel the quivering of laden
hands.

"Whither have ye fled, the tears of mine eyes and the bloom of my
heart? Oh, the solitude of all givers! Oh, the silence of all beacons!

"Many are the suns that circle in barren space; to all that is dark do
they speak with their light--to me alone are they silent.

"Alas, this is the hatred of light for that which shineth: pitiless it
runneth its course.

"Unfair in its inmost heart to that which shineth; cold toward
suns,--thus doth every sun go its way.

"Like a tempest do the suns fly over their course: for such is their
way. Their own unswerving will do they follow: that is their coldness.

"Alas, it is ye alone, ye creatures of gloom, ye spirits of the night,
that take your warmth from that which shineth. Ye alone suck your milk
and comfort from the udders of light.

"Alas, about me there is ice, my hand burneth itself against ice!

"Alas, within me is a thirst that thirsteth for your thirst!

"It is night: woe is me, that I must needs be light! And thirst after
darkness! And loneliness!

"It is night: now doth my longing burst forth like a spring,--for
speech do I long.

"It is night: now do

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