Thus Spake Zarathustra quotes

There he enjoyed his spirit and solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart changed—and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the sun, and spake thus unto it:

Thou great star! What would be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for whom thou shinest!

For ten years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have wearied of thy light and of the journey, had it not been for me, mine eagle, and my serpent.

But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow and blessed thee for it.

Lo! 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.

When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: “

Could it be possible! This old saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that God is dead!

”

All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than surpass man?

What is the ape to man? A laughingstock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Superman: a laughingstock, a thing of shame.

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.

What is the ape to man? A laughingstock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Superman: a laughingstock, a thing of shame.

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.

Lo, I teach you the Superman!

The Superman is the meaning of the earth.

Let your will say: The Superman shall be the meaning of the earth!

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: he is that sea; in him can your great contempt be submerged.

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.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous trembling and halting.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous trembling and halting.

What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what is lovable in man is that he is an over-going and a down-going.

I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for they are the over-goers.

I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny: thus, for the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on, or live no more.

I love him who desireth not too many virtues. One virtue is more of a virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one’s destiny to cling to.

I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and doth not give back: for he always bestoweth, and desireth not to keep for himself.

I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, and succumb as heralds.

Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: the lightning, however, is the Superman.

—

Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man—and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.

Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.

Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones or men!

A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much poison at last for a pleasant death.

One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.

One no longer becometh poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to obey? Both are too burdensome.

No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wanteth the same; everyone is equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the madhouse.

“Formerly all the world was insane,”—say the subtlest of them, and blink thereby.

They are clever and know all that hath happened: so there is no end to their raillery. People still fall out, but are soon reconciled—otherwise it spoileth their stomachs.

They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health.

“We have discovered happiness,”—say the last men, and blink thereby.—

Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground, absorbed in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it became night, and a cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then arose Zarathustra and said to his heart:

Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made today! It is not a man he hath caught, but a corpse.

Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon may be fateful to it.

Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made today! It is not a man he hath caught, but a corpse.

Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon may be fateful to it.

I want to teach men the sense of their existence, which is the Superman, the lightning out of the dark cloud—man.

What is the great dragon which the spirit is no longer inclined to call Lord and God?

“Thou-shalt,” is the great dragon called. But the spirit of the lion saith, “I will.”

“Thou-shalt,” lieth in its path, sparkling with gold—a scale-covered beast; and on every scale glittereth golden, “Thou shalt!”

But tell me, my brethren, what the child can do, which even the lion could not do? Why hath the preying lion still to become a child?

Innocence is the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea.

Aye, for the game of creating, my brethren, there is needed a holy Yea unto life: its own will, willeth now the spirit; his own world winneth the world’s outcast.

Modest is even the thief in presence of sleep: he always stealeth softly through the night. Immodest, however, is the night-watchman; immodestly he carrieth his horn.

No small art is it to sleep: it is necessary for that purpose to keep awake all day.

Ten times a day must thou overcome thyself: that causeth wholesome weariness, and is poppy to the soul.

But the awakened one, the knowing one, saith: “Body am I entirely, and nothing more; and soul is only the name of something in the body.”

The body is a big sagacity, a plurality with one sense, a war and a peace, a flock and a shepherd.

An instrument of thy body is also thy little sagacity, my brother, which thou callest “spirit”—a little instrument and plaything of thy big sagacity.

Behind thy thoughts and feelings, my brother, there is a mighty lord, an unknown sage—it is called Self; it dwelleth in thy body, it is thy body.

There is more sagacity in thy body than in thy best wisdom.

And who then knoweth why thy body requireth just thy best wisdom?

Of all that is written, I love only what a person hath written with his blood. Write with blood, and thou wilt find that blood is spirit.

It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate the reading idlers.

I no longer feel in common with you; the very cloud which I see beneath me, the blackness and heaviness at which I laugh—that is your thundercloud.

Ye look aloft when ye long for exaltation; and I look downward because I am exalted.

Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted?

Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted?

He who climbeth on the highest mountains, laugheth at all tragic plays and tragic realities.

Courageous, unconcerned, scornful, coercive—so wisdom wisheth us; she is a woman, and ever loveth only a warrior.

Ye tell me, “Life is hard to bear.” But for what purpose should ye have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening?

Life is hard to bear: but do not affect to be so delicate! We are all of us fine sumpter asses and assesses.

What have we in common with the rosebud, which trembleth because a drop of dew hath formed upon it?

What have we in common with the rosebud, which trembleth because a drop of dew hath formed upon it?

It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we are wont to love.

There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some method in madness.

It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we are wont to love.

There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some method in madness.

And to me also, who appreciate life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them amongst us, seem most to enjoy happiness.

To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about—that moveth Zarathustra to tears and songs.

I should only believe in a God that would know how to dance.

And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity—through him all things fall.

And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity—through him all things fall.

Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we slay. Come, let us slay the spirit of gravity!

I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need pushing in order to move from a spot.

“

But the wind, which we see not, troubleth and bendeth it as it listeth. We are sorest bent and troubled by invisible hands.

”

Zarathustra smiled, and said: “

Many a soul one will never discover, unless one first invent it.

”

One can only be silent and sit peacefully when one hath arrow and bow; otherwise one prateth and quarrelleth. Let your peace be a victory!

Ye say it is the good cause which halloweth even war? I say unto you: it is the good war which halloweth every cause.

War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your sympathy, but your bravery hath hitherto saved the victims.

A state? What is that? Well! open now your ears unto me, for now will I say unto you my word concerning the death of peoples.

A state, is called the coldest of all cold monsters.

Coldly lieth it also; and this lie creepeth from its mouth: “I, the state, am the people.”

Open still remaineth a free life for great souls.

Verily, he who possesseth little is so much the less possessed: blessed be moderate poverty!

There, where the state ceaseth—there only commenceth the man who is not superfluous: there commenceth the song of the necessary ones, the single and irreplaceable melody.

Admirably do forest and rock know how to be silent with thee. Resemble again the tree which thou lovest, the broad-branched one—silently and attentively it o’erhangeth the sea.

Where solitude endeth, there beginneth the marketplace; and where the marketplace beginneth, there beginneth also the noise of the great actors, and the buzzing of the poison-flies.

In the world even the best things are worthless without those who represent them: those representers, the people call great men.

Slow is the experience of all deep fountains: long have they to wait until they know what hath fallen into their depths.

Away from the marketplace and from fame taketh place all that is great: away from the marketplace and from fame have ever dwelt the devisers of new values.

Flee, my friend, into thy solitude: I see thee stung all over by the poisonous flies. Flee thither, where a rough, strong breeze bloweth!

Thy silent pride is always counter to their taste; they rejoice if once thou be humble enough to be frivolous.

What we recognise in a man, we also irritate in him.

Therefore be on your guard against the small ones!

“One, is always too many about me”—thinketh the anchorite. “Always once one—that maketh two in the long run!”

I and me are always too earnestly in conversation: how could it be endured, if there were not a friend?

The friend of the anchorite is always the third one: the third one is the cork which preventeth the conversation of the two sinking into the depth.

“Be at least mine enemy!”—thus speaketh the true reverence, which doth not venture to solicit friendship.

If one would have a friend, then must one also be willing to wage war for him: and in order to wage war, one must be capable of being an enemy.

One ought still to honour the enemy in one’s friend. Canst thou go nigh unto thy friend, and not go over to him?

Oh! your poverty, ye men, and your sordidness of soul! As much as ye give to your friend, will I give even to my foe, and will not have become poorer thereby.

There is comradeship: may there be friendship!

Values did man only assign to things in order to maintain himself—he created only the significance of things, a human significance! Therefore, calleth he himself “man,” that is, the valuator.

Valuing is creating: hear it, ye creating ones! Valuation itself is the treasure and jewel of the valued things.

Through valuation only is there value; and without valuation the nut of existence would be hollow. Hear it, ye creating ones!

Verily, a prodigy is this power of praising and blaming. Tell me, ye brethren, who will master it for me? Who will put a fetter upon the thousand necks of this animal?

A thousand goals have there been hitherto, for a thousand peoples have there been.

Only the fetter for the thousand necks is still lacking; there is lacking the one goal. As yet humanity hath not a goal.

Ye crowd around your neighbour, and have fine words for it. But I say unto you: your neighbour-love is your bad love of yourselves.

Ye flee unto your neighbour from yourselves, and would fain make a virtue thereof: but I fathom your “unselfishness.”

Art thou one entitled to escape from a yoke? Many a one hath cast away his final worth when he hath cast away his servitude.

Free from what? What doth that matter to Zarathustra! Clearly, however, shall thine eye show unto me: free for what?

Canst thou give unto thyself thy bad and thy good, and set up thy will as a law over thee? Canst thou be judge for thyself, and avenger of thy law?

A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard and a soothsayer, and a fool, and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain.

Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own flame; how couldst thou become new if thou have not first become ashes!

Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the creating one: a God wilt thou create for thyself out of thy seven devils!

To create, desireth the loving one, because he despiseth!

What knoweth he of love who hath not been obliged to despise just what he loved!

With thy love, go into thine isolation, my brother, and with thy creating; and late only will justice limp after thee.

Careful, have I found all buyers, and all of them have astute eyes. But even the astutest of them buyeth his wife in a sack.

Many short follies⁠—that is called love by you. And your marriage putteth an end to many short follies, with one long stupidity.

Your love to woman, and woman’s love to man—ah, would that it were sympathy for suffering and veiled deities! But generally two animals alight on one another.

Many die too late, and some die too early.

Yet strange soundeth the precept: “Die at the right time!”

And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult art of—going at the right time.

One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is known by those who want to be long loved.

Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last day of autumn: and at the same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.

Intelligently doth the body purify itself; attempting with intelligence it exalteth itself; to the discerners all impulses sanctify themselves; to the exalted the soul becometh joyful.

Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also heal thy patient.

Let it be his best cure to see with his eyes him who maketh himself whole.

Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath deceived you.

The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but also to hate his friends.

One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar. And why will ye not pluck at my wreath?

The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but also to hate his friends.

One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar.

And why will ye not pluck at my wreath?

One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar. And why will ye not pluck at my wreath?

Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration should some day collapse? Take heed lest a statue crush you!

Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account is Zarathustra! Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers!

Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account is Zarathustra! Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers!

Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all believers; therefore all belief is of so little account.

Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you.

Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all believers; therefore all belief is of so little account.

Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you.

Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; with another love shall I then love you.

Once did people say God, when they looked out upon distant seas; now, however, have I taught you to say, Superman.

God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond your creating will.

Could ye create a God?—Then, I pray you, be silent about all Gods! But ye could well create the Superman.

But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of all perishableness!

Creating⁠—that is the great salvation from suffering, and life’s alleviation.

But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much transformation.

Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but something better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself better.

Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren, is our original sin!

And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to contrive pain.

For in seeing the sufferer suffering—thereof was I ashamed on account of his shame; and in helping him, sorely did I wound his pride.

Great obligations do not make grateful, but revengeful; and when a small kindness is not forgotten, it becometh a gnawing worm.

“Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accepting!”—thus do I advise those who have naught to bestow.

And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the sting of conscience teacheth one to sting.

The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than to have thought pettily!

To be sure, ye say: “The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great evil deed.” But here one should not wish to be sparing.

Ah, my brethren! One knoweth a little too much about everyone! And many a one becometh transparent to us, but still we can by no means penetrate him.

It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult.

And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us at all.

Thus speaketh all great love: it surpasseth even forgiveness and pity.

One should hold fast one’s heart; for when one letteth it go, how quickly doth one’s head run away!

Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the follies of the pitiful?

For this is your truth: ye are too pure for the filth of the words: vengeance, punishment, recompense, retribution.

Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child; but when did one hear of a mother wanting to be paid for her love?

It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring’s thirst is in you: to reach itself again struggleth every ring, and turneth itself.

And others are there who go along heavily and creakingly, like carts taking stones downhill: they talk much of dignity and virtue—their drag they call virtue!

And others are there who are like eight-day clocks when wound up; they tick, and want people to call ticking⁠—virtue.

Verily, in those have I mine amusement: wherever I find such clocks I shall wind them up with my mockery, and they shall even whirr thereby!

Their knees continually adore, and their hands are eulogies of virtue, but their heart knoweth naught thereof.

And again there are those who regard it as virtue to say: “Virtue is necessary”; but after all they believe only that policemen are necessary.

And many a one who cannot see men’s loftiness, calleth it virtue to see their baseness far too well: thus calleth he his evil eye virtue.—

Life is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all fountains are poisoned.

To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see the grinning mouths and the thirst of the unclean.

In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance, in all their eulogies is maleficence; and being judge seemeth to them bliss.

But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful!

They are people of bad race and lineage; out of their countenances peer the hangman and the sleuthhound.

Distrust all those who talk much of their justice! Verily, in their souls not only honey is lacking.

And when they call themselves “the good and just,” forget not, that for them to be Pharisees, nothing is lacking but⁠—power!

My friends, I will not be mixed up and confounded with others.

But the people ye remain for me, even with your virtues, the people with purblind eyes—the people who know not what spirit is!

Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life: by its own torture doth it increase its own knowledge⁠—did ye know that before?

And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and consecrated with tears as a sacrificial victim—did ye know that before?

Ye are not eagles: thus have ye never experienced the happiness of the alarm of the spirit.

And he who is not a bird should not camp above abysses.

Ye seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly floweth all deep knowledge. Ice-cold are the innermost wells of the spirit: a refreshment to hot hands and handlers.

’Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.

’Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.

Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longeth to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the language of love.

Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!

Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light!

It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.

Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety!

They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap ’twixt giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.

For thus do things stand with us three.

In my heart do I love only Life⁠—and verily, most when I hate her!

But that I am fond of Wisdom, and often too fond, is because she remindeth me very strongly of Life!

Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all graves: Hail to thee, my Will!

And only where there are graves are there resurrections.

—

Hearken now unto my word, ye wisest ones! Test it seriously, whether I have crept into the heart of life itself, and into the roots of its heart!

Wherever I found a living thing, there found I Will to Power; and even in the will of the servant found I the will to be master.

That to the stronger the weaker shall serve—thereto persuadeth he his will who would be master over a still weaker one. That delight alone he is unwilling to forego.

But a stronger power groweth out of your values, and a new surpassing: by it breaketh egg and eggshell.

And he who hath to be a creator in good and evil⁠—verily, he hath first to be a destroyer, and break values in pieces.

Thus doth the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however, is the creating good.—

Let us speak thereof, ye wisest ones, even though it be bad.

To be silent is worse; all suppressed truths become poisonous.

And let everything break up which—can break up by our truths! Many a house is still to be built!—

Calm is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hideth droll monsters!

Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkleth with swimming enigmas and laughters.

To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the hardest for all of you, ye sublime ones!

When power becometh gracious and descendeth into the visible⁠—I call such condescension, beauty.

And from no one do I want beauty so much as from thee, thou powerful one: let thy goodness be thy last self-conquest.

Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me.

And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary.

Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and always faster. Thus did I come unto you, ye present-day men, and into the land of culture.

And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours, and repeated it!

Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces! Who could⁠—recognise you!

Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters also pencilled over with new characters—thus have ye concealed yourselves well from all decipherers!

Unfruitful are ye: therefore do ye lack belief. But he who had to create, had always his presaging dreams and astral premonitions—and believed in believing!—

Half-open doors are ye, at which gravediggers wait.

And this is your reality: “Everything deserveth to perish.”

Where is beauty? Where I must will with my whole Will; where I will love and perish, that an image may not remain merely an image.

Loving and perishing: these have rhymed from eternity.

Will to love: that is to be ready also for death. Thus do I speak unto you cowards!

Dare only to believe in yourselves—in yourselves and in your inward parts!

He who doth not believe in himself always lieth.

A God’s mask have ye hung in front of you, ye “pure ones”: into a God’s mask hath your execrable coiling snake crawled.

Kissed and sucked would it be by the thirst of the sun; vapour would it become, and height, and path of light, and light itself!

Verily, like the sun do I love life, and all deep seas.

And this meaneth to me knowledge: all that is deep shall ascend—to my height!—

But to the sheep I am no longer a scholar: so willeth my lot—blessings upon it!

For this is the truth: I have departed from the house of the scholars, and the door have I also slammed behind me.

Too long did my soul sit hungry at their table: not like them have I got the knack of investigating, as the knack of nut-cracking.

Clever are they—they have dexterous fingers: what doth my simplicity pretend to beside their multiplicity! All threading and knitting and weaving do their fingers understand: thus do they make the hose of the spirit!

Good clockworks are they: only be careful to wind them up properly!

Then do they indicate the hour without mistake, and make a modest noise thereby.

Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself.

But granting that someone did say in all seriousness that the poets lie too much: he was right⁠—we do lie too much.

We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie.

And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride themselves, before all mortals!

Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreamed!

And especially above the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations, poet-sophistications!

Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the jingle-jangling of their harps; what have they known hitherto of the fervour of tones!—

They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that it may seem deep.

And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!—

And this is the account of Zarathustra’s interview with the fire-dog:

The earth, said he, hath a skin; and this skin hath diseases. One of these diseases, for example, is called “man.”

And another of these diseases is called “the fire-dog”: concerning him men have greatly deceived themselves, and let themselves be deceived.

“

And believe me, friend Hullabaloo! The greatest events⁠—are not our noisiest, but our stillest hours.

“Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the inventors of new values, doth the world revolve; inaudibly it revolveth.

“

Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the inventors of new values, doth the world revolve; inaudibly it revolveth.

“And just own to it! Little had ever taken place when thy noise and smoke passed away. What, if a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in the mud!

“

Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake and live on⁠—in sepulchres.

”

When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn to his disciples in profound dejection, and said:

Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings!

This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle- and butcher-ground.

Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings!

This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle- and butcher-ground.

And when mine eye fleeth from the present to the bygone, it findeth ever the same: fragments and limbs and fearful chances—but no men!

And it is all my poetisation and aspiration to compose and collect into unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful chance.

And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also the composer, and riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance!

To redeem what is past, and to transform every “It was” into “Thus would I have it!”—that only do I call redemption!

This, yea, this alone is revenge itself: the Will’s antipathy to time, and its “It was.”

Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto all humanity, that this folly acquired spirit!

The spirit of revenge: my friends, that hath hitherto been man’s best contemplation; and where there was suffering, it was claimed there was always penalty.

The spirit of revenge: my friends, that hath hitherto been man’s best contemplation; and where there was suffering, it was claimed there was always penalty.

“Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a good conscience.

And because in the willer himself there is suffering, because he cannot will backwards—thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be penalty!

Not the height, it is the declivity that is terrible!

The declivity, where the gaze shooteth downwards, and the hand graspeth upwards. There doth the heart become giddy through its double will.

I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wisheth to deceive me?

This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard against deceivers.

Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how could man be an anchor to my ball! Too easily would I be pulled upwards and away!

This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight.

And he who would not languish amongst men, must learn to drink out of all glasses; and he who would keep clean amongst men, must know how to wash himself even with dirty water.

And thus spake I often to myself for consolation: “Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappiness hath failed to befall thee: enjoy that as thy—happiness!”

This, however, is mine other manly prudence: I am more forbearing to the vain than to the proud.

Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded, there there groweth up something better than pride.

That life may be fair to behold, its game must be well played; for that purpose, however, it needeth good actors.

Verily, there is still a future even for evil! And the warmest south is still undiscovered by man.

How many things are now called the worst wickedness, which are only twelve feet broad and three months long!

Some day, however, will greater dragons come into the world.

Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “What matter about thyself? Thou art not yet humble enough for me.

Humility hath the hardest skin.

”—

Then was there again spoken unto me as a whispering: “

It is the stillest words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps guide the world.

“O Zarathustra, thou shalt go as a shadow of that which is to come: thus wilt thou command, and in commanding go foremost.”—

And there was spoken unto me for the last time: “

O Zarathustra, thy fruits are ripe, but thou art not ripe for thy fruits!

“So must thou go again into solitude: for thou shalt yet become mellow.”—

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: here shall no one steal after thee! Thy foot itself hath effaced the path behind thee, and over it standeth written: Impossibility.

And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must thou learn to mount upon thine own head: how couldst thou mount upward otherwise?

Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest in thee become the hardest.

Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest in thee become the hardest.

He who hath always much-indulged himself, sickeneth at last by his much-indulgence.

Praises on what maketh hardy! I do not praise the land where butter and honey—flow!

That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their summits.

Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.

—

Every monster wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on its paw—: and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it.

Love is the danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, if it only live!

Laughable, verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!—

Then was the dwarf silent; and it lasted long.

The silence, however, oppressed me; and to be thus in pairs, one is verily lonesomer than when alone!

I ascended, I ascended, I dreamt, I thought—but everything oppressed me. A sick one did I resemble, whom bad torture wearieth, and a worse dream reawakeneth out of his first sleep.—

For courage is the best slayer—courage which attacketh: for in every attack there is sound of triumph.

Man, however, is the most courageous animal: thereby hath he overcome every animal.

With sound of triumph hath he overcome every pain; human pain, however, is the sorest pain.

Courage is the best slayer: courage slayeth also fellow-suffering. Fellow-suffering, however, is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man looketh into life, so deeply also doth he look into suffering.

Courage, however, is the best slayer, courage which attacketh: it slayeth even death itself; for it saith: “Was that life? Well! Once more!”

In such speech, however, there is much sound of triumph. He who hath ears to hear, let him hear.—

Thus spake Zarathustra. And he waited for his misfortune the whole night; but he waited in vain. The night remained clear and calm, and happiness itself came nigher and nigher unto him. Towards morning, however, Zarathustra laughed to his heart, and said mockingly: “

Happiness runneth after me. That is because I do not run after women. Happiness, however, is a woman.

”

Here am I still like a cock in a strange farmyard, at which even the hens peck: but on that account I am not unfriendly to the hens.

I am courteous towards them, as towards all small annoyances; to be prickly towards what is small, seemeth to me wisdom for hedgehogs.

They all speak of me when they sit around their fire in the evening—they speak of me, but no one thinketh—of me!

And if they should altogether praise me, how could I go to sleep on their praise?

A girdle of spines is their praise unto me: it scratcheth me even when I take it off.

And this also did I learn among them: the praiser doeth as if he gave back; in truth, however, he wanteth more to be given him!

And if they should altogether praise me, how could I go to sleep on their praise? A girdle of spines is their praise unto me: it scratcheth me even when I take it off.

And this also did I learn among them: the praiser doeth as if he gave back; in truth, however, he wanteth more to be given him!

Ask my foot if their lauding and luring strains please it! Verily, to such measure and ticktack, it liketh neither to dance nor to stand still.

Foot and eye shall not lie, nor give the lie to each other. But there is much lying among small people.

Some of them will, but most of them are willed. Some of them are genuine, but most of them are bad actors.

There are actors without knowing it amongst them, and actors without intending it—, the genuine ones are always rare, especially the genuine actors.

So much kindness, so much weakness do I see. So much justice and pity, so much weakness.

Round, fair, and considerate are they to one another, as grains of sand are round, fair, and considerate to grains of sand.

Modestly to embrace a small happiness—that do they call “submission”! and at the same time they peer modestly after a new small happiness.

Modestly to embrace a small happiness—that do they call “submission”! and at the same time they peer modestly after a new small happiness.

In their hearts they want simply one thing most of all: that no one hurt them.

Thus do they anticipate everyone’s wishes and do well unto everyone.

Shrewd indeed are they, their virtues have shrewd fingers. But they lack fists: their fingers do not know how to creep behind fists.

Virtue for them is what maketh modest and tame: therewith have they made the wolf a dog, and man himself man’s best domestic animal.

“We set our chair in the midst”—so saith their smirking unto me—“and as far from dying gladiators as from satisfied swine.”

—By your many small virtues, by your many small omissions, and by your many small submissions!

Too tender, too yielding: so is your soil! But for a tree to become great, it seeketh to twine hard roots around hard rocks!

Also what ye omit weaveth at the web of all the human future; even your naught is a cobweb, and a spider that liveth on the blood of the future.

But why talk I, when no one hath mine ears! It is still an hour too early for me here.

Mine own forerunner am I among this people, mine own cockcrow in dark lanes.

But their hour cometh! And there cometh also mine! Hourly do they become smaller, poorer, unfruitfuller—poor herbs! poor earth!

A hard guest is he—but I honour him, and do not worship, like the tenderlings, the potbellied fire-idol.

Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration!

—so willeth my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent, steaming, steamy fire-idols.

I, a—creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the powerful; and if ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore am I glad even in my winter-bed.

A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich one, for I am jealous of my poverty.

And in winter she is most faithful unto me.

This is the wise waggish-will and goodwill of my soul, that it concealeth not its winters and glacial storms; it concealeth not its chilblains either.

To one man, lonesomeness is the flight of the sick one; to another, it is the flight from the sick ones.

Let them hear me chattering and sighing with winter-cold, all those poor squinting knaves around me! With such sighing and chattering do I flee from their heated rooms.

Why wouldst thou wade through this mire? Have pity upon thy foot! Spit rather on the gate of the city, and—turn back!

Here is the hell for anchorites’ thoughts: here are great thoughts seethed alive and boiled small.

Here do all great sentiments decay: here may only rattle-boned sensations rattle!

They hound one another, and know not whither! They inflame one another, and know not why! They tinkle with their pinchbeck, they jingle with their gold.

They are cold, and seek warmth from distilled waters: they are inflamed, and seek coolness from frozen spirits; they are all sick and sore through public opinion.

All lusts and vices are here at home; but here there are also the virtuous; there is much appointable appointed virtue:—

Could they do otherwise, then would they also will otherwise.

The half-and-half spoil every whole.

That leaves become withered—what is there to lament about that!

—An old grim-beard of a God, a jealous one, forgot himself in such wise:—

And all the Gods then laughed, and shook upon their thrones, and exclaimed: “Is it not just divinity that there are Gods, but no God?”

He that hath an ear let him hear.—

“

One thing is forsakenness, another matter is lonesomeness: that hast thou now learned!

And that amongst men thou wilt ever be wild and strange:

Down there, however—all talking is in vain! There, forgetting and passing-by are the best wisdom: that have I learned now!

He who would understand everything in man must handle everything. But for that I have too clean hands.

I do not like even to inhale their breath; alas! that I have lived so long among their noise and bad breaths!

Everything among them talketh; no one knoweth any longer how to understand.

Everything falleth into the water; nothing falleth any longer into deep wells.

Everything among them talketh, nothing succeedeth any longer and accomplisheth itself. Everything cackleth, but who will still sit quietly on the nest and hatch eggs?

He who liveth amongst the good—pity teacheth him to lie.

Pity maketh stifling air for all free souls. For the stupidity of the good is unfathomable.

To conceal myself and my riches—that did I learn down there: for everyone did I still find poor in spirit. It was the lie of my pity, that I knew in everyone,

The gravediggers dig for themselves diseases. Under old rubbish rest bad vapours.

One should not stir up the marsh. One should live on mountains.

With blessed nostrils do I again breathe mountain-freedom. Freed at last is my nose from the smell of all human hubbub!

And we—we bear loyally what is apportioned unto us, on hard shoulders, over rugged mountains! And when we sweat, then do people say to us: “Yea, life is hard to bear!”

But man himself only is hard to bear! The reason thereof is that he carrieth too many extraneous things on his shoulders.

Like the camel kneeleth he down, and letteth himself be well laden.

Women know that, the choicest of them: a little fatter a little leaner—oh, how much fate is in so little!

Man is difficult to discover, and unto himself most difficult of all; often lieth the spirit concerning the soul.

So causeth the spirit of gravity.

To be true—that can few be! And he who can, will not! Least of all, however, can the good be true.

Oh, those good ones! Good men never speak the truth.

For the spirit, thus to be good, is a malady.

The daring venture, the prolonged distrust, the cruel Nay, the tedium, the cutting-into-the-quick—how seldom do these come together! Out of such seed, however—is truth produced!

Beside the bad conscience hath hitherto grown all knowledge!

Break up, break up, ye discerning ones, the old tables!

—Verily, not to a nobility which ye could purchase like traders with traders’ gold; for little worth is all that hath its price.

Let it not be your honour henceforth whence ye come, but whither ye go!

Your Will and your feet which seek to surpass you—let these be your new honour!

“Why should one live? All is vain! To live—that is to thrash straw; to live—that is to burn oneself and yet not get warm.”—

Such ancient babbling still passeth for “wisdom”; because it is old, however, and smelleth mustily, therefore is it the more honoured. Even mould ennobleth.

—

—The soul most self-loving, in which all things have their current and countercurrent, their ebb and their flow:—oh, how could the loftiest soul fail to have the worst parasites?

O my brethren, am I then cruel? But I say: What falleth, that shall one also push!

Everything of today—it falleth, it decayeth; who would preserve it! But I—I wish also to push it!

I love the brave: but it is not enough to be a swordsman—one must also know whereon to use swordsmanship!

And often is it greater bravery to keep quiet and pass by, that thereby one may reserve oneself for a worthier foe!

Ye shall only have foes to be hated; but not foes to be despised: ye must be proud of your foes. Thus have I already taught.

And often is it greater bravery to keep quiet and pass by, that thereby one may reserve oneself for a worthier foe!

Ye shall only have foes to be hated; but not foes to be despised: ye must be proud of your foes.

Thus have I already taught.

Thus would I have man and woman: fit for war, the one; fit for maternity, the other; both, however, fit for dancing with head and legs.

And lost be the day to us in which a measure hath not been danced. And false be every truth which hath not had laughter along with it!

Your marriage-arranging: see that it be not a bad arranging! Ye have arranged too hastily: so there followeth therefrom—marriage-breaking!

—As those who say and feel in their hearts: “We already know what is good and just, we possess it also; woe to those who still seek thereafter!”

And whatever harm the wicked may do, the harm of the good is the harmfulest harm!

And whatever harm the world-maligners may do, the harm of the good is the harmfulest harm!

This new table, O my brethren, put I up over you: Become hard!—

O thou, my Will! Thou change of every need, my needfulness! Preserve me from all small victories!

Thou fatedness of my soul, which I call fate! Thou In-me! Over-me! Preserve and spare me for one great fate!

And thy last greatness, my Will, spare it for thy last—that thou mayest be inexorable in thy victory!

Ah, who hath not succumbed to his victory!

Ah, whose eye hath not bedimmed in this intoxicated twilight! Ah, whose foot hath not faltered and forgotten in victory—how to stand!—

—O mine animals, answered Zarathustra, talk on thus and let me listen! It refresheth me so to hear your talk: where there is talk, there is the world as a garden unto me.

How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and tones rainbows and seeming bridges ’twixt the eternally separated?

To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a back-world.

How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and tones rainbows and seeming bridges ’twixt the eternally separated?

To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a back-world.

Among the most alike doth semblance deceive most delightfully: for the smallest gap is most difficult to bridge over.

To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a back-world.

Among the most alike doth semblance deceive most delightfully: for the smallest gap is most difficult to bridge over.

For me—how could there be an outside-of-me? There is no outside! But this we forget on hearing tones; how delightful it is that we forget!

Have not names and tones been given unto things that man may refresh himself with them?

It is a beautiful folly, speaking; therewith danceth man over everything.

How lovely is all speech and all falsehoods of tones! With tones danceth our love on variegated rainbows.—

And ye looked on at it all? O mine animals, are ye also cruel? Did ye like to look at my great pain as men do? For man is the cruellest animal.

At tragedies, bullfights, and crucifixions hath he hitherto been happiest on earth; and when he invented his hell, behold, that was his heaven on earth.

When the great man crieth—: immediately runneth the little man thither, and his tongue hangeth out of his mouth for very lusting. He, however, calleth it his “pity.”

“

Ah, that his baddest is so very small! Ah, that his best is so very small!

”

“

For singing is for the convalescent; the sound ones may talk.

And when the sound also want songs, then want they other songs than the convalescent.”

Never yet have I found the woman by whom I should like to have children, unless it be this woman whom I love: for I love thee, O Eternity!

For I love thee, O Eternity!

If ever I have drunk a full draught of the foaming spice- and confection-bowl in which all things are well mixed:

Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high mountains, no impatient one, no patient one; rather one who hath even unlearnt patience—because he no longer “suffereth.”

For my fate giveth me 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 today ascended this high mountain to catch fish.

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 today ascended this high mountain to catch fish.

Did ever anyone 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—

“

There is no sorer misfortune in all human destiny, than when the mighty of the earth are not also the first men.

Then everything becometh false and distorted and monstrous.

“Well! What of that!

Where doth one at present learn better to wait than at courts?

And the whole virtue of kings that hath remained unto them—is it not called today: Ability to wait?”

“

Better know nothing than half-know many things! Better be a fool on one’s own account, than a sage on other people’s approbation!

I—go to the basis:

“Many a one have I found who stretched and inflated himself, and the people cried: ‘Behold; a great man!’

But what good do all bellows do! The wind cometh out at last.

“At last bursteth the frog which hath inflated itself too long: then cometh out the wind. To prick a swollen one in the belly, I call good pastime. Hear that, ye boys!

“

But the devil is never at the place which would be his right place: he always cometh too late, that cursed dwarf and clubfoot!

”—

“

Whoever extolleth him as a God of love, doth not think highly enough of love itself.

Did not that God want also to be judge? But the loving one loveth irrespective of reward and requital.

“

At last, however, he became old and soft and mellow and pitiful, more like a grandfather than a father, but most like a tottering old grandmother.

“There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney-corner, fretting on account of his weak legs, world-weary, will-weary, and one day he suffocated of his all-too-great pity.”⸺

“Thou old pope,” said here Zarathustra interposing, “hast thou seen that with thine eyes? It could well have happened in that way: in that way, and also otherwise.

When Gods die they always die many kinds of death.

“Well! At all events, one way or other—he is gone! He was counter to the taste of mine ears and eyes; worse than that I should not like to say against him.

“

Too much miscarried with him, this potter who had not learned thoroughly!

That he took revenge on his pots and creations, however, because they turned out badly—that was a sin against good taste.

“—Whether it be the pity of a God, or whether it be human pity, it is offensive to modesty.

And unwillingness to help may be nobler than the virtue that rusheth to do so.

“That however—namely, pity—is called virtue itself at present by all petty people:—they have no reverence for great misfortune, great ugliness, great failure.

“

The God who beheld everything, and also man: that God had to die! Man cannot endure it that such a witness should live.

”

“

Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of truth: then did it kick me on the face.

Sometimes I meant to lie, and behold! then only did I hit—the truth.

“A good wind?

Ah, he only who knoweth whither he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and a fair wind for him.

“What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a broken backbone.

“

What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a broken backbone.

“This seeking for my home: O Zarathustra, dost thou know that this seeking hath been my home-sickening; it eateth me up.

“

Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture thee, a hard, rigorous delusion!

For now everything that is narrow and fixed seduceth and tempteth thee.

“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—

“

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!

“—Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it me!

For everyone becometh courageous who beholdeth a despairing one.

To encourage a despairing one—everyone thinketh himself strong enough to do so.

“

Ye are only bridges: may higher ones pass over upon you!

Ye signify steps: so do not upbraid him who ascendeth beyond you into his height!

“

I am a law only for mine own; I am not a law for all.

He, however, who belongeth unto me must be strong of bone and light of foot—

Well! Take heart! ye higher men! Now only travaileth the mountain of the human future.

God hath died: now do we desire⁠—the Superman to live.

The most careful ask today: “How is man to be maintained?” Zarathustra however asketh, as the first and only one: “How is man to be surpassed?”

The most careful ask today: “How is man to be maintained?”

Zarathustra however asketh, as the first and only one: “How is man to be surpassed?”

The Superman, I have at heart; that is the first and only thing to me—and not man: not the neighbour, not the poorest, not the sorriest, not the best.—

In that ye have despised, ye higher men, that maketh me hope.

For the great despisers are the great reverers.

In that ye have despaired, there is much to honour. For ye have not learned to submit yourselves, ye have not learned petty policy.

Surpass, ye higher men, the petty virtues, the petty policy, the sand-grain considerateness, the anthill trumpery, the pitiable comfortableness, the “happiness of the greatest number”—!

And rather despair than submit yourselves.

And verily, I love you, because ye know not today how to live, ye higher men! For thus do ye live—best!

Cold souls, mules, the blind and the drunken, I do not call stouthearted.

He hath heart who knoweth fear, but vanquisheth it; who seeth the abyss, but with pride.

He who seeth the abyss, but with eagle’s eyes—he who with eagle’s talons graspeth the abyss: he hath courage.⸺

Take good care there, ye higher men!

For nothing is more precious to me, and rarer, than honesty.

Is this today not that of the populace? The populace however knoweth not what is great and what is small, what is straight and what is honest: it is innocently crooked, it ever lieth.

Such persons vaunt about not lying: but inability to lie is still far from being love to truth. Be on your guard!

Freedom from fever is still far from being knowledge!

Refrigerated spirits I do not believe in. He who cannot lie, doth not know what truth is.

Freedom from fever is still far from being knowledge! Refrigerated spirits I do not believe in.

He who cannot lie, doth not know what truth is.

If ye would go up high, then use your own legs! Do not get yourselves carried aloft; do not seat yourselves on other people’s backs and heads!

Ye creating ones, ye higher men!

One is only pregnant with one’s own child.

Do not let yourselves be imposed upon or put upon! Who then is your neighbour? Even if ye act “for your neighbour”—ye still do not create for him!

Ask women: one giveth birth, not because it giveth pleasure.

The pain maketh hens and poets cackle.

Ye creating ones, in you there is much uncleanliness. That is because ye have had to be mothers.

What wonder that many a vessel shattereth!

Learn to laugh at yourselves, as ye ought to laugh!

Ye higher men, O, how much is still possible!

And verily, how much hath already succeeded!

How rich is this earth in small, good, perfect things, in well-constituted things!

Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye higher men. Their golden maturity healeth the heart. The perfect teacheth one to hope.

Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye higher men. Their golden maturity healeth the heart.

The perfect teacheth one to hope.

What hath hitherto been the greatest sin here on earth? Was it not the word of him who said: “Woe unto them that laugh now!”

And he himself just did not love sufficiently; otherwise would he have raged less because people did not love him.

All great love doth not seek love:⁠—it seeketh more.

Go out of the way of all such absolute ones! They are a poor sickly type, a populace-type: they look at this life with ill-will, they have an evil eye for this earth.

Go out of the way of all such absolute ones!

They have heavy feet and sultry hearts:⁠—they do not know how to dance.

How could the earth be light to such ones!

Go out of the way of all such absolute ones! They have heavy feet and sultry hearts:—they do not know how to dance. How could the earth be light to such ones!

Tortuously do all good things come nigh to their goal.

Like cats they curve their backs, they purr inwardly with their approaching happiness—all good things laugh.

His step betrayeth whether a person already walketh on his own path: just see me walk!

He, however, who cometh nigh to his goal, danceth.

And verily, a statue have I not become, not yet do I stand there stiff, stupid and stony, like a pillar; I love fast racing.

There are also heavy animals in a state of happiness, there are clubfooted ones from the beginning. Curiously do they exert themselves, like an elephant which endeavoureth to stand upon its head.

Better, however, to be foolish with happiness than foolish with misfortune, better to dance awkwardly than walk lamely.

So learn, I pray you, my wisdom, ye higher men: even the worst thing hath two good reverse sides—

—

Even the worst thing hath good dancing-legs

: so learn, I pray you, ye higher men, to put yourselves on your proper legs!

“

For fear⁠—that is man’s original and fundamental feeling; through fear everything is explained, original sin and original virtue.

Through fear there grew also my virtue, that is to say: Science.

“For fear—is an exception with us.

Courage, however, and adventure, and delight in the uncertain, in the unattempted⁠—courage seemeth to me the entire primitive history of man.

“The wildest and most courageous animals hath he envied and robbed of all their virtues: thus only did he become—man.

“

He⁠—loveth his enemies: this art knoweth he better than anyone I have seen. But he taketh revenge for it⁠—on his friends!

”

What hidden wisdom it is to wear long ears, and only to say Yea and never Nay!

Hath he not created the world in his own image, namely, as stupid as possible?

—The ass, however, here brayed Ye‑a.

Thou goest straight and crooked ways; it concerneth thee little what seemeth straight or crooked unto us men. Beyond good and evil is thy domain.

It is thine innocence not to know what innocence is.

—The ass, however, here brayed Ye‑a.

“

Better to adore God so, in this form, than in no form at all!

Think over this saying, mine exalted friend: thou wilt readily divine that in such a saying there is wisdom.