Politics Thus Spoke Zarathustra Pdf


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morning with the dawn, he went before the sun, and spoke thus to it: The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and spoke: "Then see to it that they accept your. DOWNLOAD PDF Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for None and All · Read more · Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Cambridge Texts in the History of Philosophy). Aug 29, Download Thus Spoke Zarathustra free in PDF & EPUB format. Download FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE's Thus Spoke Zarathustra for your kindle.

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Title Page. THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA by Friedrich Nietzsche. Based on the Thomas Common Translation. Extensively modified by Bill Chapko. CONTENTS. The Project Gutenberg EBook of Thus Spake Zarathustra, by Friedrich Nietzsche This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no. Sep 13, Thus Spoke Zarathustra by F. Nietzsche ebook cover download free PDF Ebook here Thus spoke Zarathustra is the classic full-text work by.

Skip to main content. Log In Sign Up. Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Nietzsche. Topik M. The series includes texts by familiar names such as Descartes and Kant and also by less well-known authors. Wherever possible, texts are published in complete and unabridged form, and translations are specially commissioned for the series.

Ten times a day you must overcome yourself, that makes for a good weariness and is poppy for the soul. Ten times you must reconcile yourself again with yourself, for over- coming causes bitterness and the unreconciled sleep badly.

Ten truths you must find by day, or else you will still be seeking truth by night and your soul will have remained hungry. Ten times you must laugh by day and be cheerful, or else your stomach will bother you at night, this father of gloom. Few know it but one must have all the virtues in order to sleep well. Shall I bear false witness? Shall I commit adultery? All that would be incompatible with good sleep.

And even when one has all the virtues, one must understand one more thing: So that they do not quarrel with each other, the good little women! And quarrel over you, wretch! At peace with God and neighbor, thus good sleep demands. Otherwise he will be at your house at night. Honor the authorities and practice obedience, even toward the crooked authorities! Thus good sleep demands. What can I do about it that the powers like to walk on crooked legs?

He shall always be the best shepherd in my view who leads his sheep to the greenest pasture; this is compatible with good sleep. I do not want many honors, nor great treasures — that inflames the spleen. But sleep is bad without a good name and a little treasure. A little company is more welcome to me than evil company, but they must go and come at the right time, for this is compatible with good sleep.

Blessed are they, especially when they are always told they are right. Thus passes the day for the virtuous one. Now when night comes I am careful not to summon sleep — the master of virtues does not like to be summoned! Instead I think what I have done and thought throughout the day.

Rumi- nating, I ask myself, patient as a cow; what then were my ten overcomings? And what were the ten reconciliations and the ten truths and the ten laughters to which my heart treated itself?

In this manner reflecting and rocked by forty thoughts, sleep suddenly falls upon me, the unsummoned, the master of virtues.

Sleep knocks at my eyelids, and they become heavy. Sleeps brushes my mouth, and it stays open. Truly, on soft soles it comes to me, the dearest of thieves, and steals my thoughts: But then I am not standing for long, and soon I am lying.

Happy the one who lives even near this wise man! Such a sleep is infectious, and it infects even through a thick wall. In this teacher nothing less than magic resides, and not in vain did youths sit at the feet of this preacher of virtue.

The meaning of his wisdom is: And truly, if life had no meaning and if I had to choose nonsense, then to me too this would be the worthiest nonsense I could choose. Now I understand clearly what was once sought before all else when teachers of virtue were sought. Good sleep was sought and poppy- blossomed virtues to boot! For all these highly praised wise men and teachers wisdom was the sleep without dreams: And still today there are a few like this preacher of virtue, and some not so honest.

Blessed are these sleepy ones, for they shall soon nod off. At that time the world seemed to me the work of a suffering and tortured god. Then the world seemed a dream to me and the fiction of a god; colorful smoke before the eyes of a divine dissatisfied being. Good and evil and joy and suffering and I and you — colorful smoke it seemed to me before creative eyes. The creator wanted to look away from himself and so he created the world.

Drunken joy and losing-oneself the world once seemed to me. This world, the eternally imperfect, the mirror image and imperfect image of an eternal contradiction — a drunken joy to its imperfect creator: So I too once cast my delusion beyond humans, like all hinterworldly.

Beyond humans in truth? Oh my brothers, this god that I created was of human make and mad- ness, like all gods!

Human he was, and only a poor flake of human and ego. From my own ash and ember it came to me, this ghost, and truly! It did not come to me from beyond! What happened, my brothers? I overcame myself, my suffering self, I carried my own ashes to the mountain, I invented a brighter flame for myself and behold!

The ghost shrank from me! Now it would be suffering and torture for the convalesced one to believe in such ghosts. Now it would be suffering and humiliation. Thus I speak to the hinterworldly. It was suffering and incapacity that created all hinterworlds, and that brief madness of happiness that only the most suffering person experi- ences.

Hintermann is a man behind the scenes, a secret advisor; Hintergedanken are secret thoughts or ulterior motives. Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the body — it probed with the fingers of a befooled spirit on the walls of the ultimate.

It was the body that despaired of the earth — then it heard the belly of being speaking to it. And the belly of being does not speak at all to humans, unless as a human.

Indeed, all being is hard to prove and hard to coax to speech. Tell me, my brothers, is not the strangest of all things still proven best? And this most honest being, this ego — it speaks of love and it still wants the body, even when it poetizes and fantasizes and flutters with broken wings.

It learns to speak ever more honestly, this ego. And the more it learns, the more it finds words and honors for the body and the earth. My ego taught me a new pride, I teach it to mankind: I teach mankind a new will: It was the sick and the dying-out who despised the body and the earth and invented the heavenly and its redeeming drops of blood.

But even these sweet and shadowy poisons they took from the body and the earth! They wanted to escape their misery and the stars were too distant for them. But what did they have to thank for the fits and bliss of their detachment?

Their body and this earth. Zarathustra is gentle to the sick. Indeed, he is not angered by their ways of comfort and ingratitude. May they become convalescents and overcomers and create for themselves a higher body!

Nor is he angered by the convalescent when he tenderly gazes upon his delusion and sneaks around the grave of his God at midnight. But to me even his tears remain sickness and sick body.

There were always many sickly people among those who poetize and are addicted to God; with rage they hate the knowing ones and that youngest of virtues which is called honesty. Backward they look always toward darker times, for then, truly, delusion and faith were another matter. Raving of reason was next to godliness, and doubting was sin. All too well I know these next-to-godliness types: All too well I know also what they themselves believe in most.

Indeed, not in hinterworlds and redeeming blood drops, but instead they too believe most in the body, and their own body is to them their thing in itself. But to them it is a sickly thing, and gladly would they jump out of their skin. Hence they listen to the preachers of death and they preach of hinterworlds themselves. Hear my brothers, hear the voice of the healthy body: More honestly and more purely speaks the healthy body, the perfect and perpendicular body, and it speaks of the meaning of the earth.

Thus spoke Zarathustra. On the Despisers of the Body To the despisers of the body I want to say my words. I do not think they should relearn and teach differently, instead they should bid their own bodies farewell — and thus fall silent.

And why should one not speak like children? The body is a great reason, a multiplicity with one sense, a war and a peace, one herd and one shepherd. But what is greater is that in which you do not want to believe — your body and its great reason.

It does not say I, but does I. What the sense feels, what the spirit knows, in itself that will never have an end. But sense and spirit would like to persuade you that they are the end of all things: Work- and plaything are sense and spirit, behind them still lies the self.

The self also seeks with the eyes of the senses, it listens also with the ears of the spirit. Always the self listens and seeks: It rules and is also the ruler of the ego. Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, stands a powerful com- mander, an unknown wise man — he is called self. He lives in your body, he is your body. There is more reason in your body than in your best wisdom.

And who knows then to what end your body requires precisely your best wisdom? Your self laughs at your ego and its proud leaps. I am the leading strings of the ego and the prompter of its concepts. The self says to the ego: To the despisers of the body I want to say a word. That they disrespect is based on their respect. What is it that created respect and disrespect and value and will? The creative body created spirit for itself as the hand of its will. Even in your folly and your contempt, you despisers of the body, you serve your self.

No longer is it capable of that which it wants most: This it wants most of all, this is its entire fervor. But now it is too late for that, and so your self wants to go under, you despisers of the body. Your self wants to go under, and for this reason you became despis- ers of the body!

For you no longer are capable of creating beyond yourselves. And that is why you are angry now at life and earth. There is an unknown envy in the looking askance of your contempt. I will not go your way, you despisers of the body!

You are not my bridges to the overman! On the Passions of Pleasure and Pain My brother, if you have one virtue, and it is your virtue, then you have it in common with no one. To be sure, you want to call her by name and caress her; you want to tug at her ear and have fun with her.

Now you have her name in common with the people and have become the people and the herd with your virtue! You would do better to say: Then speak and stammer: I do not want it as a divine law, I do not want is as a human statute and requirement.

It shall be no signpost for me to overearths and paradises. But this bird built its nest in my house, therefore I love and caress it, now it sits next to me on its golden eggs. Once you had passions and named them evil. But now you have only your virtues: You set your highest goal at the heart of these passions, and then they became your virtues and passions of pleasure. And whether you stemmed from the clan of the irascible or the lasciv- ious or the fanatic or the vengeful: Ultimately all your passions became virtues and all your devils became angels.

Once you had wild dogs in your cellar, but ultimately they transformed into birds and lovely singers. Out of your poisons you brewed your balsam; your cow, melancholy, you milked — now you drink the sweet milk of its udder.

And now nothing evil grows anymore out of you, unless it is the evil that grows from the struggle among your virtues. My brother, if you are lucky then you have one virtue and no more: It is distinguishing to have many virtues, but it is a hard lot.

And many went into the desert and killed themselves because they were weary of being the battle and battlefield of virtues. My brother, are war and battle evil? But this evil is necessary, envy and mistrust and slander among your virtues are necessary. Look, how each of your virtues is greedy for the highest. It wants your entire spirit, to be its herald; it wants your entire strength in rage, hatred and love. Each virtue is jealous of the other, and jealousy is a terrible thing.

Even virtues can perish of jealousy. Whoever is ringed by the flame of jealousy in the end will turn his poisonous stinger upon himself, like the scorpion.

Oh my brother, have you never seen a virtue slander and stab itself? Human being is something that must be overcome, and therefore you should love your virtues — for of them you will perish.

Behold, the pale criminal has nodded: That he condemned himself was his highest moment: There is no redemption for one who suffers so from himself, unless it were the quick death. Your killing, you judges, should be pity and not revenge. And insofar as you kill, see to it that you yourselves justify life!

It is not enough that you reconcile yourself with the one you kill. Let your sadness be love for the overman — thus you justify that you still live! The wheel of motive does not roll between them. An image made this pale human pale. He was equal to his deed when he committed it, but he could not bear its image once he had done it. From then on he always saw himself as the doer of one deed. I call this madness: A streak in the dirt stops a hen cold; the stroke he executed stopped his poor reason cold — madness after the deed I call this.

Listen, you judges! There is still another madness, and it is before the deed. Oh, you did not crawl deeply enough into this soul! Thus speaks the red judge: He wanted to rob. He thirsted for the bliss of the knife!

But his poor reason did not comprehend this madness and it persuaded him. Take revenge? He did not want to be ashamed of his madness. And now the lead of his guilt lies on him again, and again his poor reason is so stiff, so paralyzed, so heavy.

If only he could shake his head, then his burden would roll off — but who could shake this head? What is this human being? A pile of illnesses that reach out into the world through his spirit: A ball of wild snakes that seldom have peace from each other — so they go forth for themselves and seek prey in the world.

Behold this poor body! What it suffered and craved this poor soul interpreted for itself — it interpreted it as murderous lust and greed for the bliss of the knife. Whoever grows ill now is befallen by the evil that is evil now; he wants to hurt with that which makes him hurt. But there have been other ages and another evil and good. Once doubt was evil and the will to self. Back then sick people became heretics and witches: But this does not want to get to your ears: But what matter your good people to me!

There is much about your good people that makes me disgusted, and verily not their evil. I wish they had a madness from which they would perish, like this pale criminal!

Indeed, I wish their madness were called truth or loyalty or justice — but they have their virtue in order to live long and in pitiful contentment. I am a railing by the torrent: But your crutch I am not. On Reading and Writing Of all that is written I love only that which one writes with his blood.

Write with blood, and you will experience that blood is spirit. It is not easily possible to understand the blood of another: I hate the reading idlers. One more century of readers — and the spirit itself will stink.

That everyone is allowed to learn to read ruins not only writing in the long run, but thinking too. Once the spirit was God, then it became human and now it is even becoming rabble. Whoever writes in blood and proverbs does not want to be read, but to be learned by heart. In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that one must have long legs. Proverbs should be peaks, and those who are addressed should be great and tall.

The air thin and pure, danger near and the spirit full of cheerful spite: I want to have goblins around me, for I am courageous. Courage that scares off ghosts creates its own goblins — courage wants to laugh. I no longer sympathize with you; this cloud beneath me, this black and heavy thing at which I laugh — precisely this is your thundercloud.

You look upward when you long for elevation. And I look down because I am elevated. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? Whoever climbs the highest mountain laughs at all tragic plays and tragic realities. Courageous, unconcerned, sarcastic, violent — thus wisdom wants us: You say to me: Life is hard to bear: We are all of us handsome, load bearing jack- and jillasses. What have we in common with the rosebud that trembles because a drop of dew lies on its body?

It is true: There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. And even to me, one who likes life, it seems butterflies and soap bubbles and whatever is of their kind among human beings know most about happiness.

I would only believe in a god who knew how to dance. And when I saw my devil, there I found him earnest, thorough, deep, somber: Not by wrath does one kill, but by laughing. Up, let us kill the spirit of gravity! I learned to walk, since then I let myself run. I learned to fly, since then I do not wait to be pushed to move from the spot.

Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath me, now a god dances through me. As he walked one evening alone through the mountains surrounding the town, which is called The Motley Cow, behold, there while walking he found this young man leaning against a tree, gazing wearily into the valley.

Zarathustra grasped the tree at which the young man sat, and spoke thus: But the wind that we do not see torments and bends it wherever it wants. We are bent and tormented worst by invisible hands. The more they aspire to the heights and the light, the more strongly their roots strive earthward, downward, into darkness, depths — into evil.

I no longer trust myself since aspir- ing to the heights, and no one trusts me anymore — how did this happen? My today contradicts my yesterday.

I often skip steps when I climb — no step forgives me that. If I am at the top then I always find myself alone. No one speaks with me, the frost of loneliness makes me shiver. What do I want in the heights? How ashamed I am of my climbing and stumbling! How I mock my violent panting! How I hate the flying one! How weary I am in the heights! And Zarathustra regarded the tree at which they stood and spoke thus: And if it wanted to speak, it would have no one who understood it: Now it waits and waits — but for what does it wait?

I longed for my destruc- tion when I aspired to the heights, and you are the lightning for which I waited! Look, what am I anymore, now that you have appeared among us!

It is my envy of you that has destroyed me! But Zarathustra put his arm around him and led him away. And after they had walked together for a while Zarathustra started speaking thus: Better than your words can say, your eyes tell me all your danger.

You are still not free, you seek freedom. Your seeking made you sleep- deprived and over-awake. You aspire to the free heights, your soul thirsts for the stars. But your wicked instincts also thirst for freedom.

Thus spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche free PDF

Your wild dogs want to get free; they bark with joy in their cellar when your spirit contrives to liberate all prisons. To me you are still a prisoner who plots his freedom. Alas, the soul of such prisoners grows clever, but also deceptive and rotten. The one who is free of spirit must still purify himself. Much prison and mold is left in him: Yes, I know your danger. But by my love and hope I beseech you: A noble person also stands in the way of the good: The noble person wants to create new things and a new virtue.

The good person wants old things, and for old things to be preserved. But it is not the danger of the noble one that he will become a good person, but a churl, a mocker, an annihilator. Oh, I knew noble people who lost their highest hope. And then they slandered all high hopes.

Then they lived churlishly in brief pleasures, scarcely casting their goals beyond the day. Then the wings of their spirit broke, and now it crawls around and soils what it gnaws. Once they thought of becoming heroes: To them the hero is grief and ghastliness. Hold holy your highest hope!

On the Preachers of Death There are preachers of death, and the earth is full of people to whom departure from life must be preached.

The earth is full of the superfluous, life is spoiled by the all too many. There are the terrible ones, who carry the predator about in themselves and have no choice but lust or self-laceration. And even their lusting is self-laceration. They have not even become human beings, these terrible ones: There are the consumptive of the soul: They would like to be dead and we shall honor their will!

Let us beware of waking these dead and disturbing these living coffins! Cloaked in thick melancholy and greedy for the small accidents that bring death, thus they wait and clench their teeth.

Or again: Their wisdom says: And precisely that is the most foolish thing about life! Then see to it that the life that is only suffering ceases! And let the doctrine of your virtue speak thus: Thou shalt steal thyself away!

One bears only the unhappy! Take what I am! All the less does life bind me! Being evil — that would be their proper goodness. But they want to get free of life; what do they care that they bind others still tighter with their chains and gifts!

And you too, for whom life is hectic work and unrest: Are you not very ripe for the sermon of death? All of you who are in love with hectic work and whatever is fast, new, strange — you find it hard to bear yourselves, your diligence is escape and the will to forget yourself.

If you believed more in life, you would hurl yourself less into the moment. But you do not have enough content in yourselves for waiting — not even for laziness!

Everywhere sounds the voice of those who preach death: So let me tell you the truth now! My brothers in war! I love you thoroughly, I am and I was like you. And I am also your best enemy. I know of the hate and envy of your heart. You are not great enough to not know hate and envy.

So at least be great enough to not be ashamed of them! And if you cannot be saints of knowledge, then at least be its warriors. They are the companions and forerunners of such saintliness.

I see many soldiers: You should be the kind of men whose eyes always seek an enemy — your enemy. And with some of you there is a hate at first sight. You should seek your enemy, wage your war and for your thoughts!

And when your thought is defeated, then your honesty should cry out in triumph even for that! You should love peace as the means to new wars. And the short peace more than the long one. I do not recommend work to you, but struggle instead. I do not rec- ommend peace to you, but victory instead. Your work shall be a struggle, your peace shall be a victory! One can be silent and sit still only when one has a bow and arrow; otherwise there is blabbering and quarreling.

Your peace shall be a victory! You say it is the good cause that hallows even war? Not your pity but your bravery has rescued the casualties so far. What is good? Being brave is good. Let little girls say: You are ashamed of your flood, and others are ashamed of their ebb.

You are ugly? Well so be it, my brothers! Then don the sublime, the mantle of the ugly! And when your soul grows big it becomes mischievous, and there is sarcasm in your sublimity. I know you. But they mis- understand one another. You may have only those enemies whom you can hate, but not enemies to despise. You must be proud of your enemy: Rebellion — that is the nobility of slaves. Let your nobility be obedience! Your commanding itself shall be obeying! Let your love for life be love for your highest hope, and let your highest hope be the highest thought of life!

But you shall have your highest thought commanded by me — and it says: So live your life of obedience and war! What matters living long! Which warrior wants to be spared! I spare you not, I love you thoroughly, my brothers in war! On the New Idol Somewhere still there are peoples and herds, but not where we live, my brothers: What is that? Well then, lend me your ears now, for I shall say my words about the death of peoples. State is the name of the coldest of all cold monsters. It even lies coldly, and this lie crawls out of its mouth: The ones who created the peoples were the creators, they hung a faith and a love over them, and thus they served life.

Where there are still peoples the state is not understood, and it is hated as the evil eye and the sin against customs and rights. This sign I give you: It invented its own lan- guage through customs and rights. But the state lies in all the tongues of good and evil, and whatever it may tell you, it lies — and whatever it has, it has stolen.

Even its entrails are false. Language confusion of good and evil: Indeed, this sign signifies the will to death! Indeed, it beckons the preachers of death! Far too many are born: Just look at how it lures them, the far-too-many! How it gulps and chews and ruminates them! And not only the long-eared and the shortsighted sink to their knees! Oh, even to you, you great souls, it whispers its dark lies! Unfortunately it detects the rich hearts who gladly squander themselves!

Yes, it also detects you, you vanquishers of the old God! You grew weary in battle and now your weariness still serves the new idol! It wants to gather heroes and honorable men around itself, this new idol!

Gladly it suns itself in the sunshine of your good consciences — the cold monster! It wants to give you everything, if you worship it, the new idol.

Thus it buys the shining of your virtue and the look in your proud eyes. It wants to use you as bait for the far-too-many! Indeed, a hellish piece of work was thus invented, a death-horse clattering in the regalia of divine honors!

Indeed, a dying for the many was invented here, one that touts itself as living; truly, a hearty service to all preachers of death! They steal for themselves the works of the inventors and the treasures of the wise: Just look at these superfluous! They are always sick, they vomit their gall and call it the newspaper. They devour one another and are not even able to digest themselves. They acquire riches and yet they become poorer. They want power and first of all the crowbar of power, much money — these impotent, impoverished ones!

They scramble all over each other and thus drag one another down into the mud and depths. They all want to get to the throne, it is their madness — as if happiness sat on the throne! Often mud sits on the throne — and often too the throne on mud. Mad all of them seem to me, and scrambling monkeys and overly aroused.

Their idol smells foul to me, the cold monster: My brothers, do you want to choke in the reek of their snouts and cravings? Smash the windows instead and leap into the open! Get out of the way of the bad smell! Go away from the idol worship of the superfluous! Get away from the steam of these human sacrifices!

Even now the earth stands open for great souls. Many seats are still empty for the lonesome and twosome, fanned by the fragrance of silent seas. An open life still stands open for great souls.

Indeed, whoever possesses little is possessed all the less: There, where the state ends, only there begins the human being who is not superfluous; there begins the song of necessity, the unique and irreplaceable melody. There, where the state ends — look there, my brothers! Do you not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the overman? On the Flies of the Market Place Flee, my friend, into your solitude! I see you dazed by the noise of the great men and stung by the stings of the little.

Wood and cliff know worthily how to keep silent with you. Be once more like the tree that you love, the broad-branching one: Where solitude ends, there begins the market place; and where the market place begins, there begins too the noise of the great actors and the buzzing of poisonous flies. The people little understand what is great, that is: But they have a sense for all performers and actors of great things.

The world revolves around the inventors of new values: But the people and fame revolve around actors: Spirit the actor has, but little conscience of spirit. He always believes in whatever makes people believe most strongly — believe in him! Tomorrow he will have a new belief and the day after tomorrow an even newer one.

He has hasty senses, like the people, and a fickle ability to scent. To overthrow — to him that means: To drive insane — to him that means: And blood to him is the best of all possible grounds.

A truth that slips into only the finer ears he calls a lie and nothing. Indeed, he only believes in gods that make great noise in the world! The market place is full of pompous jesters — and the people are proud of their great men!

They are the men of the hour. But the hour presses them, and so they press you. And from you too they want a Yes or a No. Alas, do you want to set your chair between pro and contra? Be without envy on account of these unconditional and pressing types, you lover of truth! Never before has truth hung on the arm of an absolutist. Return to your safety on account of these precipitous types: For all deep wells experience is slow; they must wait long before they know what fell into their depth.

Away from the market place and fame all greatness takes place; away from the market place and fame the inventors of new values have lived all along. Flee, my friend, into your solitude: I see you stung by poisonous flies.

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Flee where raw, strong air blows! Flee into your solitude! You have lived too long near the small and the pitiful. Flee their invisible revenge! Against you they are nothing but revenge. They are innumerable, and it is not your lot to be a shoo-fly. Innumerable are these small and pitiful ones; and rain drops and weeds have sufficed to bring down many a proud structure. You are no stone, but already you have become hollow from many drops. You will shatter and burst still from many drops. I see you weary from poisonous flies, torn bloody in a hundred places, and yet your pride does not even become angered.

They want blood from you in all innocence, their bloodless souls demand blood — and so they sting away in all innocence. But you, deep one, you suffer too deeply even from small wounds; and before you could even heal yourself, the same poisonous worm crawled across your hand. You are too proud to slay these sweet-toothed creatures. But beware, or it will become your doom to bear all their poisonous injustice!

They also buzz around you with their praise; importunity is their praising! They want the closeness of your skin and your blood. They flatter you like a god or devil; they snivel before you as before a god or devil. They are sycophants and snivelers and nothing more. Often too they give themselves charming airs.

But that has always been the cleverness of cowards; yes, cowards are clever! They think about you much with their narrow souls — you always give them pause! Everything that is thought about much gives pause. They punish you for all your virtues. What they forgive you thoroughly are only — your mistakes. Because you are mild and of just temperament, you say: Your wordless pride always contradicts their taste; they jubilate if only you are modest enough to be vain.

That which we recognize in a person we also inflame in him — therefore beware of the petty! They feel small before you, and their baseness glimmers and glows at you in invisible revenge.

Yes my friend, you are the bad conscience of your neighbors, for they are unworthy of you. Therefore they hate you and would like much to suck your blood. Your neighbors will always be poisonous flies; that which is great in you — that itself must make them more poisonous and ever more fly-like. Flee, my friend, into your solitude and where raw, strong air blows! It is not your lot to be a shoo-fly. On Chastity I love the forest. It is bad to live in the cities; there too many are in heat. Is it not better to fall into the hands of a murderer than into the dreams of a woman in heat?

And just look at these men: There is mud at the bottom of their souls; and watch out if their mud has spirit too! If only you were perfect at least as animals! But to animals belongs innocence. Do I advise you to kill your senses?

I advise you on the innocence of your senses. Do I advise you to chastity? In some people chastity is a virtue, but in many it is almost a vice. They abstain, to be sure: Even into the heights of their virtue and all the way into their cold spirit this beast follows them with its unrest. And how sweetly the bitch, sensuality, knows how to beg for a piece of spirit when she is denied a piece of meat! You love tragedies and everything that makes the heart break?

But I am mistrustful of your bitch. Your eyes are too cruel for me and they gaze with lust in search of sufferers. Has your lust not simply disguised itself, and now calls itself pity?

Those for whom chastity is difficult should be advised against it, or else it could become their road to hell — that is, the mud and the heat of the soul. Do I speak of dirty things? That is not the worst of it to me. Not when truth is dirty, but when it is shallow the seeker of knowledge steps reluctantly into its water. Indeed, there are chaste people through and through; they are milder of heart, they laugh more gladly and more richly than you. They laugh at chastity too and ask: Is chastity not folly?

But this folly came to us, and not we to it. We offered this guest hostel and heart: For the hermit the friend is always a third: Oh, there are too many depths for all hermits. That is why they long so for a friend and his height. Our faith in others betrays the areas in which we would like to have faith in ourselves. Our longing for a friend is our betrayer. And often one uses love merely to leap over envy.

And often one attacks and makes an enemy in order to conceal that one is open to attack. If one wants a friend, then one must also want to wage war for him: Can you step up to your friend without stepping over to him? You should be closest to him in heart when you resist him. But for that he curses you to the devil! Whoever makes no secret of himself outrages others; so much reason do you have to fear nakedness! Indeed, if you were gods then you could be ashamed of your clothing! For your friend you cannot groom yourself beautifully enough, for you should be his arrow and longing for the overman.

But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow and blessed thee for it. I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it. I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches. Therefore must I descend into the deep: Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even the greatest happiness without envy!

Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden out of it, and carry everywhere the reflection of thy bliss! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again going to be a man. Thus began Zarathustra's down-going. Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no one meeting him. When he entered the forest, however, there suddenly stood before him an old man, who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And thus spake the old man to Zarathustra: Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered.

Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: Fearest thou not the incendiary's doom? Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathing lurketh about his mouth. Goeth he not along like a dancer? Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one is Zarathustra: As in the sea hast thou lived in solitude, and it hath borne thee up.

Alas, wilt thou now go ashore? Alas, wilt thou again drag thy body thyself? Was it not because I loved men far too well? Now I love God: Man is a thing too imperfect for me.

Love to man would be fatal to me. I am bringing gifts unto men. If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them no more than an alms, and let them also beg for it! I am not poor enough for that. They are distrustful of anchorites, and do not believe that we come with gifts.

The fall of our footsteps ringeth too hollow through their streets. And just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us: Where goeth the thief?

Go not to men, but stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals! Why not be like me—a bear amongst bears, a bird amongst birds? The saint answered: With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise the God who is my God. But what dost thou bring us as a gift? Let me rather hurry hence lest I take aught away from thee! When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth the forest, he found many people assembled in the market-place; for it had been announced that a rope-dancer would give a performance.

And Zarathustra spake thus unto the people: Man is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass man? All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: What is the ape to man?

A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Superman: Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within you is still worm.

Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of the apes. Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants? Lo, I teach you the Superman! The Superman is the meaning of the earth.

Let your will say: Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not. Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of whom the earth is weary: Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and therewith also those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth!

Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was the supreme thing: Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth. Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was the delight of that soul! But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency?

Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted stream without becoming impure. Lo, I teach you the Superman: What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto you, and so also your reason and virtue. The hour when ye say: It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency. But my happiness should justify existence itself!

Doth it long for knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency! As yet it hath not made me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency! I do not see that I am fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour and fuel!

Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion.

Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None by Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Have ye ever cried thus? It is not your sin—it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven! Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy with which ye should be inoculated? But the rope-dancer, who thought the words applied to him, began his performance. Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered.

Then he spake thus: Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss.

SHERRELL from Virginia
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