Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None

By Friedrich Nietzsche

Page 158

time: it hath forgotten me perhaps? Or doth it sit
behind a big stone and catch flies?

And verily, I am well-disposed to mine eternal fate, because it doth not
hound and hurry me, but leaveth me time for merriment and mischief; so
that I have to-day ascended this high mountain to catch fish.

Did ever any one catch fish upon high mountains? And though it be a
folly what I here seek and do, it is better so than that down below I
should become solemn with waiting, and green and yellow--

--A posturing wrath-snorter with waiting, a holy howl-storm from
the mountains, an impatient one that shouteth down into the valleys:
"Hearken, else I will scourge you with the scourge of God!"

Not that I would have a grudge against such wrathful ones on that
account: they are well enough for laughter to me! Impatient must they
now be, those big alarm-drums, which find a voice now or never!

Myself, however, and my fate--we do not talk to the Present, neither
do we talk to the Never: for talking we have patience and time and more
than time. For one day must it yet come, and may not pass by.

What must one day come and may not pass by? Our great Hazar, that is
to say, our great, remote human-kingdom, the Zarathustra-kingdom of a
thousand years--

How remote may such "remoteness" be? What doth it concern me? But on
that account it is none the less sure unto me--, with both feet stand I
secure on this ground;

--On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on this highest, hardest,
primary mountain-ridge, unto which all winds come, as unto the
storm-parting, asking Where? and Whence? and Whither?

Here laugh, laugh, my hearty, healthy wickedness! From high mountains
cast down thy glittering scorn-laughter! Allure for me with thy
glittering the finest human fish!

And whatever belongeth unto ME in all seas, my in-and-for-me in all
things--fish THAT out for me, bring THAT up to me: for that do I wait,
the wickedest of all fish-catchers.

Out! out! my fishing-hook! In and down, thou bait of my happiness! Drip
thy sweetest dew, thou honey of my heart! Bite, my fishing-hook, into
the belly of all black affliction!

Look out, look out, mine eye! Oh, how many seas round about me, what
dawning human futures! And above me--what rosy red stillness! What
unclouded silence!




LXII. THE CRY OF DISTRESS.

The next day sat Zarathustra again on the stone in front of his cave,
whilst his animals roved about in the world outside to bring home new
food,--also new honey: for Zarathustra

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