had spent and wasted the old
honey to the very last particle. When he thus sat, however, with a
stick in his hand, tracing the shadow of his figure on the earth, and
reflecting--verily! not upon himself and his shadow,--all at once he
startled and shrank back: for he saw another shadow beside his own.
And when he hastily looked around and stood up, behold, there stood the
soothsayer beside him, the same whom he had once given to eat and drink
at his table, the proclaimer of the great weariness, who taught: "All is
alike, nothing is worth while, the world is without meaning, knowledge
strangleth." But his face had changed since then; and when Zarathustra
looked into his eyes, his heart was startled once more: so much evil
announcement and ashy-grey lightnings passed over that countenance.
The soothsayer, who had perceived what went on in Zarathustra's soul,
wiped his face with his hand, as if he would wipe out the impression;
the same did also Zarathustra. And when both of them had thus silently
composed and strengthened themselves, they gave each other the hand, as
a token that they wanted once more to recognise each other.
"Welcome hither," said Zarathustra, "thou soothsayer of the great
weariness, not in vain shalt thou once have been my messmate and guest.
Eat and drink also with me to-day, and forgive it that a cheerful old
man sitteth with thee at table!"--"A cheerful old man?" answered the
soothsayer, shaking his head, "but whoever thou art, or wouldst be, O
Zarathustra, thou hast been here aloft the longest time,--in a little
while thy bark shall no longer rest on dry land!"--"Do I then rest
on dry land?"--asked Zarathustra, laughing.--"The waves around thy
mountain," answered the soothsayer, "rise and rise, the waves of great
distress and affliction: they will soon raise thy bark also and carry
thee away."--Thereupon was Zarathustra silent and wondered.--"Dost thou
still hear nothing?" continued the soothsayer: "doth it not rush and
roar out of the depth?"--Zarathustra was silent once more and listened:
then heard he a long, long cry, which the abysses threw to one another
and passed on; for none of them wished to retain it: so evil did it
"Thou ill announcer," said Zarathustra at last, "that is a cry of
distress, and the cry of a man; it may come perhaps out of a black sea.
But what doth human distress matter to me! My last sin which hath been
reserved for me,--knowest thou what it is called?"
--"PITY!" answered the soothsayer from an overflowing heart, and raised
both his hands aloft--"O Zarathustra, I
_ Many drops I waste and spill, So my scornful mood you curse: Who to brim his cup doth fill, Many drops _must_ waste and spillâ Yet he thinks the wine no worse.Page 34
How broad, how full the stream's career! What luck my labours doth requite! 'Tis true, the writing's none too clearâ What then? Who reads the stuff I write? 60.Page 36
I mean to say that _the greater number of people_ do not find it contemptible to believe this or that, and live according to it, _without_ having been previously aware of the ultimate and surest reasons for and against it, and without even giving themselves any trouble about such reasons afterwards,âthe most gifted men and the noblest women still belong to this "greater number.Page 52
His pride was puffed up when he considered that even the mightiest of the earth were thus to be looked upon as slaves.Page 61
Now this sacrificing, this casting away, is the very thing which becomes visible in him: on that account one calls him the self-renouncer, and as such he stands before us, enveloped in his cowl, and as the soul of a hair-shirt.Page 74
_âWhat then makes a person "noble"? Certainly not that he makes sacrifices; even the frantic libertine makes sacrifices.Page 79
_âLove pardons even the passion of the beloved.Page 87
One rightly objects to the dramatic poet when he does not transform everything into reason and speech, but always retains a remnant of _silence_:âjust as one is dissatisfied with an operatic musician who cannot find a melody for the highest emotion, but only an emotional, "natural" stammering and crying.Page 93
He who is something like Faust and Manfred, what does it matter to him about the Fausts and Manfreds of the theatre!âwhile it certainly gives him something to think about _that_ such figures are brought into the theatre at all.Page 97
Perhaps the modern, European discontentedness is to be looked upon as caused by the fact that the world of our forefathers, the whole Middle Ages, was given to drink, owing to the influence of German tastes in Europe: the Middle Ages, that means the alcoholic poisoning of Europe.Page 150
_âHigher men are distinguished from lower, by seeing and hearing immensely more, and in a thoughtful mannerâand it is precisely this that distinguishes man from the animal, and the higher animal from the lower.Page 172
Thy new life, and not thy reason, has slain that opinion for thee: _thou dost not require it any longer_, and now it breaks down of its own accord, and the irrationality crawls out of it as a worm into the light.Page 182
Indeed, it might soon go so far that one could not yield to the desire for the _vita contemplativa_ (that is to say, excursions with thoughts and friends), without self-contempt and a bad conscience.Page 220
_âMoralityâwhere do you think it has its most dangerous and rancorous advocates?âThere, for example, is an ill-constituted man, who does not possess enough of intellect to be able to take pleasure in it, and just enough of culture to be aware of the fact; bored, satiated, and a self-despiser; besides being cheated unfortunately by some hereditary property out of the last consolation, the "blessing of labour," the self-forgetfulness in the "day's work"; one who is thoroughly ashamed of his existenceâperhaps also harbouring some vices,âand who on the other hand (by means of books to which he has no right, or more intellectual society than he can digest), cannot help vitiating himself more and more, and making himself vain and irritable: such a thoroughly poisoned manâfor intellect becomes poison, culture becomes poison, possession becomes poison, solitude becomes poison, to such ill-constituted beingsâgets at last into a habitual state of vengeance and inclination to vengeance.Page 228
_âMy objections to Wagner's music are physiological objections.Page 236
The world, on the contrary, has once more become "infinite" to us: in so far we cannot dismiss the possibility that it _contains infinite interpretations_.Page 262
Saw you rushing over Heaven, With your steeds so wildly driven, Saw the car in which you flew; Saw the lash that wheeled and quivered, While the hand that held it shivered, Urging on the steeds anew.