For as the proverb of Zarathustra
saith: "One thing is more necessary than the other." Only that his eyes
remained open:--for they never grew weary of viewing and admiring the
tree and the love of the vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra
spake thus to his heart:
"Hush! Hush! Hath not the world now become perfect? What hath happened
As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon parqueted seas, light,
feather-light, so--danceth sleep upon me.
No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul awake. Light is it,
It persuadeth me, I know not how, it toucheth me inwardly with a
caressing hand, it constraineth me. Yea, it constraineth me, so that my
soul stretcheth itself out:--
--How long and weary it becometh, my strange soul! Hath a seventh-day
evening come to it precisely at noontide? Hath it already wandered too
long, blissfully, among good and ripe things?
It stretcheth itself out, long--longer! it lieth still, my strange
soul. Too many good things hath it already tasted; this golden sadness
oppresseth it, it distorteth its mouth.
--As a ship that putteth into the calmest cove:--it now draweth up to
the land, weary of long voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more
As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the shore:--then it sufficeth
for a spider to spin its thread from the ship to the land. No stronger
ropes are required there.
As such a weary ship in the calmest cove, so do I also now repose, nigh
to the earth, faithful, trusting, waiting, bound to it with the lightest
O happiness! O happiness! Wilt thou perhaps sing, O my soul? Thou liest
in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd
playeth his pipe.
Take care! Hot noontide sleepeth on the fields. Do not sing! Hush! The
world is perfect.
Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul! Do not even whisper! Lo--hush!
The old noontide sleepeth, it moveth its mouth: doth it not just now
drink a drop of happiness--
--An old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine? Something whisketh
over it, its happiness laugheth. Thus--laugheth a God. Hush!--
--'For happiness, how little sufficeth for happiness!' Thus spake I
once and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy: THAT have I now
learned. Wise fools speak better.
The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a
lizard's rustling, a breath, a whisk, an eye-glance--LITTLE maketh up
the BEST happiness. Hush!
--What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time flown away? Do I not fall? Have
I not fallen--hark! into the well of eternity?
--What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth
What do they call it, that which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them from the goatherds.Page 28
Verily, not in backworlds and redeeming blood-drops: but in the body do they also believe most; and their own body is for them the thing-in-itself.Page 39
Its language hath it devised for itself in laws and customs.Page 41
Thou art not stone; but already hast thou become hollow by the numerous drops.Page 48
But one day will the solitude weary thee; one day will thy pride yield, and thy courage quail.Page 52
Only, one must be rich enough to do so.Page 89
" "So have I heard thee say once before," answered the disciple, "and then thou addedst: 'But the poets lie too much.Page 109
And when I again heard such howling, then did it excite my commiseration once more.Page 117
I am Zarathustra the godless! I cook every chance in MY pot.Page 131
Not, to be sure, with the love of the sick and infected, for with them stinketh even self-love! One must learn to love oneself--thus do I teach--with a wholesome and healthy love: that one may endure to be with oneself, and not go roving about.Page 157
For know that when aloft I will make the honey-sacrifice.Page 164
"Here am I at home and in my province.Page 180
What was it drove me to the poorest, O Zarathustra? Was it not my disgust at the richest? --At the culprits of riches, with cold eyes and rank thoughts, who pick up profit out of all kinds of rubbish--at this rabble that stinketh to heaven, --At this gilded, falsified populace, whose fathers were pickpockets, or carrion-crows, or rag-pickers, with wives compliant, lewd and forgetful:--for they are all of them not far different from harlots-- Populace above, populace below! What are 'poor' and 'rich' at present! That distinction did I unlearn,--then did I flee away further and ever further, until I came to those kine.Page 198
In evening's limpid air, What time the dew's soothings Unto the earth downpour, Invisibly and unheard-- For tender shoe-gear wear The soothing dews, like all that's kind-gentle--: Bethinkst thou then, bethinkst thou, burning heart, How once thou thirstedest For heaven's kindly teardrops and dew's down-droppings, All singed and weary thirstedest, What time on yellow grass-pathways Wicked, occidental sunny glances Through sombre trees about thee sported, Blindingly sunny glow-glances, gladly-hurting? "Of TRUTH the wooer? Thou?"--so taunted they-- "Nay!.Page 203
and lo! the good, pious pope there hath tears in his eyes, and hath quite embarked again upon the sea of melancholy.Page 204
May the Lord improve it! Amen! Here do I sit now, In this the smallest oasis, Like a date indeed, Brown, quite sweet, gold-suppurating, For rounded mouth of maiden longing, But yet still more for youthful, maidlike, Ice-cold and snow-white and incisory Front teeth: and for such assuredly, Pine the hearts all of ardent date-fruits.Page 209
There is the wisdom of a God therein.Page 210
" --"And thou," said Zarathustra, "thou bad old magician, what didst thou do! Who ought to believe any longer in thee in this free age, when THOU believest in such divine donkeyism? It was a stupid thing that thou didst; how couldst thou, a shrewd man, do such a stupid thing!" "O Zarathustra," answered the shrewd magician, "thou art right, it was a stupid thing,--it was also repugnant to me.Page 214
Ye have not flown high enough: now do the sepulchres mutter: "Free the dead! Why is it so long night? Doth not the moon make us drunken?" Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why doth the worm still burrow? There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour,-- --There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth still the heart, there burroweth still the wood-worm, the heart-worm.Page 252
The blind Will to Power in nature therefore stands in urgent need of direction by man.