at a little door, and was going along the
rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the
market-place and the people. When he was just midway across, the little
door opened once more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon
sprang out, and went rapidly after the first one. "Go on, halt-foot,"
cried his frightful voice, "go on, lazy-bones, interloper,
sallow-face!--lest I tickle thee with my heel! What dost thou here
between the towers? In the tower is the place for thee, thou shouldst be
locked up; to one better than thyself thou blockest the way!"--And with
every word he came nearer and nearer the first one. When, however, he
was but a step behind, there happened the frightful thing which made
every mouth mute and every eye fixed--he uttered a yell like a devil,
and jumped over the other who was in his way. The latter, however, when
he thus saw his rival triumph, lost at the same time his head and his
footing on the rope; he threw his pole away, and shot downwards faster
than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The market-place
and the people were like the sea when the storm cometh on: they all flew
apart and in disorder, especially where the body was about to fall.
Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and just beside him fell the
body, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while
consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra
kneeling beside him. "What art thou doing there?" said he at last, "I
knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he draggeth me to
hell: wilt thou prevent him?"
"On mine honour, my friend," answered Zarathustra, "there is nothing of
all that whereof thou speakest: there is no devil and no hell. Thy soul
will be dead even sooner than thy body: fear, therefore, nothing any
The man looked up distrustfully. "If thou speakest the truth," said he,
"I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal
which hath been taught to dance by blows and scanty fare."
"Not at all," said Zarathustra, "thou hast made danger thy calling;
therein there is nothing contemptible. Now thou perishest by thy
calling: therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands."
When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but
he moved his hand as if he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude.
Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market-place veiled itself in
gloom. Then the
FOULIS 13 & 15 FREDERICK STREET EDINBURGH: & LONDON 1910 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Printed at THE DARIEN PRESS, _Edinburgh_.Page 4
By the side of such masterpieces as "To the Mistral" are several verses of comparatively little value.Page 22
But in vain! Thy looks betray thee And proclaim thy holiness.Page 33
_ The pen is scratching: hang the pen! To scratching I'm condemned to sink! I grasp the inkstand fiercely then .Page 46
_âI like best to think of the rare men of an age as suddenly emerging aftershoots of past cultures, and of their persistent strength: like the atavism of a people and its civilisation:âthere is thus still something in them to _think of_! They now seem strange, rare, and extraordinary: and he who feels these forces in himself has to foster them in face of a different, opposing world; he has to defend them, honour them, and rear them to maturity: and he either becomes a great man thereby, or a deranged and eccentric person, unless he should altogether break down betimes.Page 52
This pride is also unfamiliar to us, and impossible; the word "slave" has not its full force for us even in simile.Page 72
Their satisfactions are so rapid and violent that satiety, aversion, and flight into the antithetical taste, immediately follow upon them: in this contrast the convulsion of feeling liberates itself, in one person by sudden coldness, in another by laughter, and in a third by tears and self-sacrifice.Page 82
There is no paternal love among them, but there is such a thing as love of the children of a beloved, and habituation to them.Page 109
Now, however, our honesty has a counterpoise which helps us to escape such consequences;ânamely, Art, as the _good-will_ to illusion.Page 111
âLet us be on our guard against thinking that the world eternally creates the new.Page 126
As in accordance with this privilege they raised themselves to the elevation of the court, and from that elevation saw everything under them,âsaw everything contemptible,âthey got beyond all uneasiness of conscience.Page 127
They thus elevated intentionally the tower of the royal power more and more into the clouds, and set the final coping-stone of their own power thereon.Page 138
_And yet_ the former is superior to the other in virtue and intellect.Page 144
_âThose moral teachers who first and foremost order man to get himself into his own power, induce thereby a curious infirmity in him,ânamely, a constant sensitiveness with reference to all natural strivings and inclinations, and as it were, a sort of itching.Page 182
For life in the hunt for gain continually compels a person to consume his intellect, even to exhaustion, in constant dissimulation, overreaching, or forestalling: the real virtue nowadays is to do something in a shorter time than another person.Page 190
Footnote 14: Title of the well-known poem of Uhland.Page 252
"good day," And with the fresh defaulting I wash the old away! Praise be this man-God's guerdon, Who loves all maidens fair, And his own heart can pardon The sin he planted there.Page 257
From thy moist lips, O Time, thou witch, beslavering me, Hour upon hour too slowly drips In vainâI cry, in frenzy's fit, "A curse upon that yawning pit, A curse upon Eternity!" The world's of brass, A fiery bullock, deaf to wail: Pain's dagger pierces my cuirass, WingÃ©d, and writes upon my bone: "Bowels and heart the world hath none, .