And once thou art awake, then shalt thou ever remain awake. It is not
MY custom to awake great-grandmothers out of their sleep that I may bid
Thou stirrest, stretchest thyself, wheezest? Up! Up! Not wheeze, shalt
thou,--but speak unto me! Zarathustra calleth thee, Zarathustra the
I, Zarathustra, the advocate of living, the advocate of suffering, the
advocate of the circuit--thee do I call, my most abysmal thought!
Joy to me! Thou comest,--I hear thee! Mine abyss SPEAKETH, my lowest
depth have I turned over into the light!
Joy to me! Come hither! Give me thy hand--ha! let be! aha!--Disgust,
disgust, disgust--alas to me!
Hardly, however, had Zarathustra spoken these words, when he fell down
as one dead, and remained long as one dead. When however he again came
to himself, then was he pale and trembling, and remained lying; and for
long he would neither eat nor drink. This condition continued for seven
days; his animals, however, did not leave him day nor night, except that
the eagle flew forth to fetch food. And what it fetched and foraged,
it laid on Zarathustra's couch: so that Zarathustra at last lay among
yellow and red berries, grapes, rosy apples, sweet-smelling herbage, and
pine-cones. At his feet, however, two lambs were stretched, which the
eagle had with difficulty carried off from their shepherds.
At last, after seven days, Zarathustra raised himself upon his couch,
took a rosy apple in his hand, smelt it and found its smell pleasant.
Then did his animals think the time had come to speak unto him.
"O Zarathustra," said they, "now hast thou lain thus for seven days with
heavy eyes: wilt thou not set thyself again upon thy feet?
Step out of thy cave: the world waiteth for thee as a garden. The wind
playeth with heavy fragrance which seeketh for thee; and all brooks
would like to run after thee.
All things long for thee, since thou hast remained alone for seven
days--step forth out of thy cave! All things want to be thy physicians!
Did perhaps a new knowledge come to thee, a bitter, grievous knowledge?
Like leavened dough layest thou, thy soul arose and swelled beyond all
--O mine animals, answered Zarathustra, talk on thus and let me listen!
It refresheth me so to hear your talk: where there is talk, there is the
world as a garden unto me.
How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and
tones rainbows and seeming bridges 'twixt the eternally separated?
To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a
(The poets, for example, have always been the valets of some morality or other.Page 25
a man to break down earlier than might be necessary.Page 27
It is a question how a person is accustomed to _season_ his life; it is a matter of taste whether a person would rather have the slow or the sudden to safe or the dangerous and daring increase of power,--he seeks this or that seasoning always according to his temperament.Page 33
Well, let him still make many of them, and withdraw himself as much as possible from the world: and that is doubtless the significance of his well-bred rudeness! A prince, on the other hand, is always of more value than his "verse," even when--but what are we about? We gossip,' and the whole court believes that we have already been at work and racked our brains: there is no light to be seen earlier than that which burns in our window.Page 44
"And how is it with regard to murder and adultery?"-asked the Englishman with astonishment on learning these things.Page 48
What is it that is now "appearance" to me! Verily, not the antithesis of any kind of essence,--what knowledge can I assert of any kind of essence whatsoever, except merely the predicates of its appearance! Verily not a dead mask which one could put upon an unknown X, and which to be sure one could also remove! Appearance is for me the operating and living thing itself; which goes so far in its self-mockery as to make me feel that here there is appearance, and Will o' the Wisp, and spirit-dance, and nothing more,--that among all these dreamers, I also, the "thinker," dance my dance, that the thinker is a means of prolonging further the terrestrial dance, and in so far is one of the masters of ceremony of existence, and that the sublime consistency and connectedness of all branches of knowledge is perhaps, and will perhaps, be the best means for _maintaining_ the universality of the dreaming, the complete, mutual understandability of all those dreamers, and thereby _the duration.Page 69
One knows Chamfort's last words: "_Ah! mon ami,_" he said to SieyÃ¨s, "_je m'en vais enfin de ce monde, oÃ¹ il faut que le cÅur se brise ou se bronze_--.Page 71
We may translate this back into the soul of the poet that composed it.Page 76
I believe that the sound of the German language in the Middle Ages, and especially after the Middle Ages, was extremely rustic and vulgar; it has ennobled itself somewhat during the last centuries, principally because it was found necessary to imitate so many French, Italian, and Spanish sounds, and particularly on the part of the German (and Austrian) nobility, who could not at all content themselves with their mother-tongue.Page 87
_Life no Argument.Page 98
_--"I myself who have made this tragedy of tragedies altogether independently, in.Page 106
But the _ability_ to contradict, the attainment of a _good_ conscience in hostility to the accustomed, the traditional and the hallowed,--that is more than both the above-named abilities, and is the really great, new and astonishing thing in our culture, the step of all steps of the emancipated intellect: who knows that?-- 298.Page 123
Am I made to be headstrong, and to wear the bull's horns? That which constitutes the worth and the sum of life _for me,_ lies somewhere else; I know more of life, because I have been so often on the point of losing it; and just on that account I _have_ more of life than any of you!" 304.Page 136
Or like a blockhead who follows because he has nothing to say to the contrary.Page 141
_Vita femina.Page 173
Our first question concerning the value of a book, a man, or a piece of music is: Can it walk? or still better: Can it dance?.Page 176
No grey old priestly devil, But, young, with cheeks aflame--Who e'en when sick with revel, Can jealous be and blame.