Can you get high by licking weeds
Thus spoke zarathustra.
When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his home and went to the mountains. Here he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude and never tired of ten years. But at last his heart was transformed - and one morning he got up with the dawn, stood before the sun and said to it thus:
«You great star! How lucky would you be if you didn't have the one you shine!
You came up here to my cave for ten years: you would be full of your light and this path without me, my eagle and my snake.
But we waited for you every morning, took away your excess and blessed you for it.
Please refer! I am too tired of my wisdom, like the bee that has gathered too much honey, I need hands that stretch out.
I would like to give away and share, until the wise among men have once again rejoiced in their folly and the poor once in their wealth.
To do this I have to go into the depths: as you do in the evening when you go behind the sea and still bring light to the underworld, you abundant star!
I have to, like you, go underas the people call it, whom I want to go down to.
So bless me, you calm eye, which can see too great happiness without envy!
Bless the cup which is about to overflow, so that the water flows golden from it and everywhere carries the reflection of your bliss!
Please refer! This cup wants to be empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become human again. "
- So began Zarathustra's downfall.
Zarathustra descended the mountains alone and no one met him. But when he got into the woods, an old man suddenly stood in front of him, who had left his holy hut to look for roots in the forest. And thus said the old man to Zarathustra:
This wanderer is no stranger to me: some years ago it passed. His name was Zarathustra; but he has changed. At that time you carried your ashes to the mountain: do you want to carry your fire into the valleys today? Don't you fear the arsonist's punishments?
Yes, I know Zarathustra. His eyes are pure and there is no disgust on his mouth. Doesn't he therefore walk like a dancer?
Zarathustra is transformed, Zarathustra became a child, Zarathustra is an awakened one: what do you want now with the sleeping?
As in the sea you lived in solitude, and the sea carried you. Don't you want to go ashore? Woe to you, you want to drag your own body again?
Zarathustra replied: "I love people."
Why, said the saint, did I go into the forest and the wasteland? Wasn't it because I loved people too much?
Now I love God: I don't love people. Man is too imperfect a thing for me. Love for people would kill me.
Zarathustra replied: «What did I say of love! I bring people a gift. "
Don't give them anything, said the saint. Better take something from them and carry it with them - that will do them the best: if only he does you good!
And if you want to give them, give no more than an alms and let them beg for it!
«No, answered Zarathustra, I do not give alms. I'm not poor enough for that. "
The saint laughed at Zarathustra and said thus: See that they accept your treasures. They are suspicious of the hermits and do not believe that we are coming to give.
Our steps sound too lonely to them through the streets. And as if you hear a man walking in your bed at night long before the sun rises, you probably wonder: where is the thief going?
Do not go to the people and stay in the forest! Better go to the animals! Why don't you want to be like me - a bear among bears, a bird among birds?
"And what does the saint do in the forest?" asked Zarathustra.
The saint replied: I make songs and sing them, and when I make songs I laugh, cry and grumble: so I praise God.
With singing, crying, laughing and humming, I praise the God who is my God. But what do you bring us as a present?
When Zarathustra had heard these words, he greeted the saint and said: “What would I have to give you! But let me quickly get out of the fact that I am not taking anything from you! " - And so they parted from each other, the old man and the man, laughing, like two boys laughing.
But when Zarathustra was alone, he said to his heart: “Should it be possible! This old saint has never heard anything in his forest that God kills is! " -
When Zarathustra came to the next city, which is by the woods, there he found a great number of people gathered in the marketplace: for it had been promised that one should see a tightrope walker. And Zarathustra said thus to the people:
I teach you the superman. Man is something to be overcome. What did you do to overcome it?
What is the monkey to man? A laugh or a painful shame. And that is exactly what man should be for the superman: a laugh or a painful shame.
You made the way from worm to human, and much of you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now man is more ape than any ape.
But whoever is the wisest of you is only a dichotomy and hybrid of plant and ghost. But do I tell you to become ghosts or plants?
See, I am teaching you the superman!
The superman is the meaning of the earth. Your will say: the superman be the meaning of the earth!
I swear to you, my brothers, stay true to the earth and do not believe those who speak to you of unearthly hopes! They are poisoners, whether they know it or not.
It is those who despise life, those who die and are poisoned themselves, of whom the earth is tired: so let them go!
Once the iniquity against God was the greatest iniquity, but God died, and with it these wicked ones too. To do wrong on the earth is now the most terrible and the bowels of the unsearchable are to be valued more highly than the meaning of the earth!
Once the soul looked contemptuously at the body: and then this contempt was the highest: - it wanted him thin, hideous, starved. So she thought of slipping away from him and the earth.
Oh this soul itself was still thin, hideous and starved: and cruelty was the lust of this soul!
But you too, my brothers, tell me: what does your body tell of your soul? Is not your soul poverty and filth and a pitiful ease?
Verily, man is a filthy river. You have to be a sea to be able to absorb a dirty stream without becoming unclean.
See, I teach you the superman: this is this sea, in it your great contempt can go under.
What is the greatest thing that you can experience? This is the hour of great contempt. The hour when your happiness becomes disgusting to you as well as your reason and your virtue.
The hour when you say: “What is my happiness! It is poverty and filth and a pitiful comfort. But my happiness should justify existence itself! "
The hour when you say: “What is my reason! Does it desire knowledge as the lion desires its food? It is poverty and filth and a wretched comfort! "
The hour when you say: “What is my virtue! It hasn't made me race yet. How tired am I of my good and my bad! All of this is poverty and filth and a pitiful comfort! "
The hour when you say: "What matters to my righteousness! I do not see that I am embers and coal. But the righteous are embers and coal! "
The hour when you say: “What is the matter of my compassion! Isn't compassion the cross on which He who loves people is nailed? But my pity is not a crucifixion. "
Did you already speak like that? Did you already scream like that? Oh, that I had heard you scream like that!
Not your sin - your frugality screams to heaven, your avarice even in your sin screams to heaven!
Where is the lightning bolt that licks you with its tongue? Where's the madness you should be vaccinated with?
See, I teach you the superman: it is this lightning bolt, it is this madness! -
When Zarathustra had spoken in this way, one of the people shouted: “We have now heard enough about the tightrope walker; now let's see him too! " And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the tightrope walker, who believed that the word was meant for him, set to work.
But Zarathustra looked at the people and wondered. Then he said thus:
Man is a rope, tied between animal and superman - a rope over an abyss.
A dangerous crossing, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking back, a dangerous shuddering and stopping.
What is great about a person is that he is a bridge and not an end: what can be loved in a person is that he is a crossing and a Downfall is.
I love those who do not know how to live, except as perishing, for it is those who are passing over.
I love the great despisers because they are the great worshipers and arrows of longing for the other bank.
I love those who do not first look for a reason to go under and to be victims behind the stars: but who sacrifice themselves to the earth so that the earth will one day become supermen.
I love him who lives so that he may know and who wants to know so that the superman may one day live. And so he wants his downfall.
I love him who works and invents to build the house for the superman and prepare earth, animals and plants for him: for this is how he wants his downfall.
I love him who loves his virtue: for virtue is the will to doom and an arrow of longing.
I love him who does not keep a drop of spirit for himself, but wants to be completely the spirit of his virtue: so he walks as a spirit over the bridge.
I love him who turns his virtue into his inclination and his fate: so he wants to live for the sake of his virtue and no longer live.
I love the one who doesn't want too many virtues. One virtue is more virtue than two, because it is more of a knot on which fate is attached.
I love him whose soul is wasted, who does not want thanks and does not give back: because he always gives and does not want to preserve himself.
I love the one who is ashamed when the die falls to his luck and then asks: Am I a wrong player? - because he wants to perish.
I love him who throws golden words ahead of his deeds and still keeps more than he promises: for he wants his downfall.
I love him who justifies the future and redeems the past: for he wants to perish on the present.
I love him who chastises his God because he loves his God: for he must perish at the anger of his God.
I love him, whose soul is deep in the wound, and who can be ruined by a little experience: so he likes to cross the bridge.
I love him whose soul is so full that he forgets himself and all things are in him: so all things will be his downfall.
I love him who is free of spirit and free heart: so his head is only the bowels of his heart, but his heart drives him to perdition.
I love all those who are heavy drops, falling one by one from the dark cloud that hangs over man: they proclaim that the lightning is coming and perish as heralds.
See, I am a preacher of lightning and a heavy drop from the cloud: but this lightning is called superman. -
When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he looked again at the people and was silent. “There they stand,” he said to his heart, “there they laugh: they don't understand me, I'm not the mouth for these ears.
Do you first have to break their ears so that they learn to hear with their eyes? Do you have to rattle drums and penitential preachers? Or do you just believe the stammer?
They have something to be proud of. What do you call it that makes you proud? They call it education, it distinguishes them from the goatherds.
That is why they do not like to hear the word 'contempt' from themselves. So I want to speak to her proud one.
So I want to speak to them of the most contemptible: but that is the last man.»
And so Zarathustra said to the people:
It is time for man to set his goal. It is time for man to plant the seeds of his highest hope.
Its soil is still rich enough for that. But this soil will one day be poor and tame, and no tall tree will be able to grow out of it.
Woe! The time will come when man no longer throws the arrow of his longing over man and has forgotten the bowstring to buzz!
I tell you: one must still have chaos in oneself in order to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you still have chaos in you.
Woe! The time will come when man will no longer give birth to a star. Woe! The world of the most despicable man comes, who can no longer despise himself.
Look! I show you the last man.
"What is love? What is creation What is longing? What is a star? - so the last person asks and blinks.
The earth has then become small, and the last person who makes everything small hops on it. His sex is ineradicable, like the earth flea; the last person lives the longest.
«We invented happiness» - say the last people and blink.
They have left the areas where it was hard to live: because you need warmth. You still love your neighbor and rub yourself against him: because you need warmth.
It is sinful to them to become ill and to have mistrust: one walks along mindfully. A gate that still stumbles over stones or people!
A little poison now and then: that makes pleasant dreams. And finally a lot of poison, for a pleasant dying.
You still work because work is entertainment. But care is taken that the conversation does not harm.
You don't get rich and poor anymore: both are too burdensome. Who still wants to rule? Who else will obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd and one flock! Everyone wants the same, everyone is the same: whoever feels different, goes voluntarily to the madhouse.
"In the past, everyone was crazy" - say the finest and blink.
One is clever and knows everything that has happened: so one has no end to scoff at. You still quarrel, but you soon make up - otherwise it will ruin your stomach.
You have your lust for the day and your lust for the night: but you honor your health.
«We invented happiness» - say the last people and blink -
And here Zarathustra's first speech ended, which is also called "the preface": for at this point he was interrupted by the shouting and the pleasure of the crowd. «Give us these last people, O Zarathustra, - so they cried - make us these last people! So we give you the supermen! " And all the people cheered and clicked their tongues. But Zarathustra was sad and said to his heart:
You do not understand me: I am not the mouth for these ears.
I lived too long in the mountains, I listened too much to streams and trees: now I am talking to them like goatherds.
My soul is motionless and as bright as the mountains in the morning. But they think I am cold and a mocker in terrible jokes.
And now they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh, they still hate me. There is ice in her laughter.
But then something happened that made every mouth mute and every eye rigid. In the meantime the tightrope walker had started his work: he had stepped out of a small door and walked over the rope, which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung over the market and the people. When he was just in the middle of his path, the little door opened again, and a motley fellow, like a buffoon, jumped out and followed the first with quick steps. "Forward, Lamefoot, called his terrible voice, forward sloth, surreptitious trader, pale-faced! I don't tickle you with my heel! What are you doing here between towers? You belong in the tower, you should be locked up, somebody better than you are, you block the free path! " - And with every word he came closer and closer to him: but when he was only one step behind him, the terrible thing happened that made every mouth mute and every eye rigid: - he uttered a shout like a devil and jumped over Away the one who was in his way.But the latter, when he saw his rival triumph, lost his head and the rope; he threw away his pole and shot down faster than it, like a vortex of arms and legs. The market and the people were like the sea when the storm drove in: everything fled from one another and over one another, and mostly where the body had to fall.
But Zarathustra remained standing, and the body fell right next to him, badly battered and broken, but not yet dead. After a while the shattered man regained consciousness and saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. "What are you doing there? he finally said, I knew for a long time that the devil would trip me up. Now he's dragging me to hell: do you want to stop him? "
"By my honor, friend," replied Zarathustra, there is nothing that you speak of: there is no devil and no hell. Your soul will be dead faster than your body: fear nothing any more! "
The man looked up suspiciously. "If you speak the truth," he said, "I will lose nothing if I lose my life." I am little more than an animal that has been taught to dance with blows and small bites. "
“Not after all, said Zarathustra; you made your job out of danger, there is nothing to be despised about it. Now you are ruining your job: for that I want to bury you with my hands. "
When Zarathustra had said this, the dying man no longer answered; but he moved his hand as if he were looking for Zarathustra's hand as a thank you. -
In the meantime evening came and the market hid itself in darkness: then the people lost their way, for even curiosity and horror grow tired. But Zarathustra sat next to the dead man on the earth and was lost in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it was night, and a cold wind blew over the lonely man. Then Zarathustra rose and said to his heart:
Verily, Zarathustra caught a fine fish today! He did not catch a person, but he did catch a corpse.
Human existence is uncanny and still meaningless: a buffoon can be his fate.
I want to teach people the meaning of their being: which one is the superman, the lightning bolt from the dark cloud man.
But I am still far from them, and my mind does not speak to their senses. I am still a middle man between a fool and a corpse.
The night is dark, the ways of Zarathustra are dark. Come, you cold and stiff companion! I carry you where I bury you with my hands.
When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he loaded the corpse on his back and set off. And he had not yet walked a hundred paces when a person sneaked up to him and whispered in his ear - and behold! The one who spoke was the buffoon from the tower. "Go away from this city, O Zarathustra," said he; Too many hate you here. The good and righteous hate you, and they call you their enemy and despiser; the believers of right faith hate you, and they call you the danger of the multitude. It was your luck that people laughed at you: and truly, you talked like a buffoon. It was your luck that you joined the dead dog; when you humbled yourself so, you saved yourself for today. But go away from this city - or tomorrow I'll jump over you, a living man over a dead man. " And when he had said this, the man disappeared; But Zarathustra went on through the dark alleys.
At the gate of the city he met the grave-diggers: they shone their torches in his face, recognized Zarathustra, and made great mockery of him. «Zarathustra carries away the dead dog: good that Zarathustra became the grave-digger! Because our hands are too clean for this roast. Does Zarathustra want to steal his bite from the devil? Well then! And good luck with your meal! If only the devil isn't a better thief than Zarathustra! - he steals both of them, he eats them both! " And they laughed together and put their heads together.
Zarathustra didn't say a word about it and went on his way. When he had walked for two hours, past forests and swamps, he had heard the hungry howling of the wolves too much, and he was hungry himself. So he stopped at a lonely house in which a light was burning.
I'm hungry, said Zarathustra, like a robber. In the woods and swamps I feel hungry and in the dead of night.
My hunger has strange moods. Often he does not come to me until after the meal, and today he did not come all day: where was he staying?
And with that Zarathustra struck the door of the house. An old man appeared; he carried the light and asked: "Who will come to me and my bad sleep?"
"One living and one dead," said Zarathustra. Give me something to eat and drink, I forgot it during the day. He who feeds the hungry refreshes his own soul: thus speaks wisdom. "
The old man went away, but came back immediately and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. "It's a bad place for the hungry," he said; that's why I live here. Animals and humans come to me, the hermit. But also ask your companion to eat and drink, he is more tired than you. " Zarathustra replied: "My companion is dead, I will hardly persuade him to do so." "That's none of my business," said the old man sullenly; whoever knocks at my house must also take what I offer him. Eat and enjoy yourself! " -
Then Zarathustra walked again for two hours and trusted the path and the light of the stars: for he was a habitual night-walker and loved to look into the face of everything sleeping. But when morning dawned, Zarathustra found himself in a deep forest, and no way was shown to him. Then he put the dead man in a hollow tree at his head - for he wanted to protect him from the wolves - and himself on the ground and the moss. And immediately he fell asleep, tired body, but with an unmoved soul.
Zarathustra slept a long time, and not only the dawn came over his face, but also the morning. But at last his eye opened: astonished Zarathustra looked into the forest and the silence, astonished he looked inside himself. Then he rose quickly, like a seafarer who suddenly sees land, and shouted: for he saw a new truth. And so he then spoke to his heart:
A light dawned on me: I need companions and living - not dead companions and corpses that I carry with me wherever I want.
I need living companions who follow me because they want to follow themselves - and to where I want.
A light dawned on me: do not speak to the people Zarathustra, but to companions! Zarathustra should not be shepherd and dog of a flock!
To lure many away from the herd - I came to that. People and flocks shall be angry with me: Zarathustra will be called robber, the shepherd.
I say shepherds, but they call themselves the good and the righteous. I say shepherds: but they call themselves the believers of right faith.
See the good and the just! Who do you hate the most? He who breaks their tables of values, the breaker, the criminal: - but that is the creator.
See the believers of all faith! Who do you hate the most? He who breaks their tables of values, the breaker, the criminal: - but that is the creator.
The creator seeks companions and not corpses, nor flocks and believers. The creator seeks the co-creators, those who write new values on new boards.
The creator seeks companions and co-harvesters: for everything is ripe for harvest with him. But he lacks the hundred sickles: so he pulls up ears of corn and is angry.
The creator seeks companions, and those who know how to sharpen their sickles. They will be called annihilators and despisers of good and evil. But it is the harvesters and the celebrants.
Zarathustra seeks co-workers, co-harvesters and co-celebrants are looking for Zarathustra: what does he have to do with flocks and shepherds and corpses!
And you, my first companion, are doing well! I buried you well in your hollow tree, well I hid you from the wolves.
But I'm parting from you, the time is up. Between dawn and dawn a new truth came to me.
I am not supposed to be a shepherd, not a grave-digger. I don't want to talk to the people again for once; for the last time I spoke to a dead man.
I want to join the creators, the harvesters, the celebrants: I want to show them the rainbow and all the stairs of the superman.
I will sing my song to the hermits and to the hermits; and for those who still have ears for the unheard of, I will make their heart heavy with my happiness.
I want to reach my goal, I go my way; I will jump over the hesitant and the sluggish. So my course be their downfall!
Zarathustra had spoken this to his heart when the sun was standing at noon: then he looked up questioningly - for he heard the sharp call of a bird above him. And see! An eagle swept through the air in wide circles, and clinging to it was a snake, not like a prey but a friend: for it was curled around its neck.
"They are my animals!" said Zarathustra and was delighted from the bottom of his heart.
“The proudest animal under the sun and the wisest animal under the sun - they have gone out to meet customers.
They want to find out whether Zarathustra is still alive. Verily, am I still alive?
I found it more dangerous among people than among animals, Zarathustra goes a dangerous way. May my animals lead me! "
When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered the words of the saint in the forest, sighed, and said thus to his heart:
I want to be smarter! I want to be wise from the bottom up, like my snake!
But I ask the impossible: so I ask my pride to always go with my cleverness!
And if one day my cleverness leaves me: - oh, it loves to fly away! - may my pride then still fly with my folly!
- So began Zarathustra's downfall.
The speeches of Zarathustra
Of the three metamorphoses
I call you three metamorphoses of the spirit: how the spirit becomes a camel, and the camel becomes a lion, and finally the lion becomes a child.
There is much heaviness in the spirit, the strong, slow spirit in which awe resides: its strength demands the heavy and the heaviest.
What is hard? so the lethargic spirit asks, so it kneels down like the camel, and wants to be well laden.
What is the hardest part, you heroes? so the slow spirit asks that I take it upon myself and be glad of my strength.
Isn't it that: humble oneself to hurt one's pride? Let his folly shine to mock his wisdom?
Or is it that: parting with our cause when it celebrates its victory? To climb high mountains to try the tempter?
Or is it that: feed on acorns and grass of knowledge and suffer hunger in the soul for the sake of truth?
Or is it that: being sick and sending the comforters home and making friends with pigeons who never hear what you want?
Or is it that: step into dirty water, if it is the water of truth, and not reject cold frogs and hot toads?
Or is it that: loved ones who despise us and shake hands with ghosts when they want to frighten us?
The slow spirit takes on all these most difficult things: like the camel that hurries laden into the desert, so he hurries into his desert.
But in the loneliest desert the second metamorphosis takes place: here the spirit becomes a lion, freedom he wants to capture and be master in his own desert.
He looks for his last master here: he wants to become enemy to him and his last god, for victory he wants to wrestle with the great dragon.
Which is the great dragon whom the spirit can no longer be called Lord and God? "Thou-shalt" is the name of the great dragon. But the spirit of the lion says "I will".
"You-should" lies on his way, sparkling gold, a pangolin, and on every scale shines golden "You-should!"
Millennial values shine on these scales, and so the mightiest of all dragons speaks "of all worth of things - it shines on me."
«All worth has already been created, and all created value - that is me. Truly, there should no longer be an 'I want'! " So speaks the dragon.
My brothers, what is the spirit of the lion? What is not enough for the resilient animal that is renounced and reverent?
Creating new values - even the lion is not yet able to do that: but creating freedom to create new things - that is what the lion's power can do.
Creating freedom and a holy no to duty: for that, my brothers, the lion is needed.
Taking the right to new values - that is the most terrible taking for a slow and reverent mind. Verily, it is a matter of robbery to him and to a robbery animal.
As his most sacred thing he once loved the "thou-shalt": now he must also find delusion and arbitrariness in the most sacred, that he rob himself of freedom from his love: the lion is needed for this robbery.
But say, my brothers, what else can the child do that the lion could not? What else must the preying lion become a child?
Innocence is the child and forgetting, a new beginning, a game, a wheel rolling out of itself, a first movement, a sacred yes-saying.
Yes, the game of creation, my brothers, requires a sacred yes-saying: his The spirit now wants will, his World wins the world lost.
I have named you three metamorphoses of the spirit: how the spirit became a camel, and the camel became a lion, and finally the lion became a child. –-
Thus spoke zarathustra. And then he was staying in the city that is called: the variegated cow.
From the chairs of virtue
Zarathustra was praised for a wise man who knew how to speak well of sleep and of virtue: he was greatly honored and rewarded for it, and all young men would sit in front of his chair. Zarathustra went to him, and sat with all the young men in front of his chair. And thus said the sage:
Honor and shame before sleep! This is the first! And avoid all who sleep badly and wake up at night!
The thief is still ashamed before sleep: he always steals quietly through the night. But the watchman of the night is shameless, he wears his horn shamelessly.
Sleeping is no small art: it is necessary to watch over it all day.
You have to overcome yourself ten times a day: that makes you tired and is poppy for the soul.
You must reconcile yourself ten times; for overcoming is bitterness, and the unreconciled sleeps badly.
You must find ten truths during the day: otherwise you will search for truth at night and your soul will remain hungry.
You must laugh and be cheerful ten times during the day: otherwise your stomach will bother you at night, this tribulation father.
Few know this: but one must have all the virtues in order to sleep well. Am I going to give false testimony? Am I going to commit adultery?
Will I let myself be lusted after by my neighbor's maid? All of this would go badly with a good night's sleep.
And even if you have all the virtues, you still have to understand one thing: send the virtues to sleep yourself at the right time.
That they don't quarrel with each other, the good women! And about you, you unfortunate one!
Peace to God and the neighbor: this is how good sleep wants it. And peace also with the neighbor's devil! Otherwise he'll be with you at night.
Honor the authority and obedience, and also the crooked authority! This is how good sleep wants it. What can I do to ensure that power likes to walk on crooked legs?
He should always be called the best shepherd for me, who leads his sheep to the greenest meadow: this is how it goes with a good night's sleep.
I don't want much honors, nor great treasures: that inflames the spleen. But it is difficult to sleep without a good name and a little treasure.
A small company is more welcome to me than an angry one: but it must go and come at the right time. So it goes with a good night's sleep.
I also like the mentally poor very much: they promote sleep. Blessed are they, especially if one always agrees with them.
So the day goes to the virtue seed. Now when night comes, I take care not to call to sleep! It does not want to be called, sleep, who is the lord of virtues!
But I think what I did and thought that day. Chewing the cud, patiently like a cow, I ask myself: what were your ten conquests?
And what were the ten reconciliations and the ten truths and the ten laughter with which my heart was pleased?
Considering such things and swaying forty thoughts, suddenly I am overwhelmed by sleep, the unsophisticated, the lord of virtues.
Sleep knocks on my eye: it becomes difficult. Sleep touches my mouth: then it stays open.
Truly, he comes to me on soft soles, the dearest of thieves, and steals my thoughts from me: I am as stupid as this chair.
But then I don't stand for long: I'm already lying there. -
When Zarathustra heard the wise speak thus, he laughed in his heart: for a light had dawned on him. And so he said to his heart:
I am a fool in this way with his forty thoughts: but I think he knows how to sleep.
Happy who lives near this sage! Such sleep is contagious, it is contagious even through a thick wall.
A magic lives even in his chair. And not in vain did the young men sit before the preacher of virtue.
His wisdom is: watch to sleep well. And truly, if life had no meaning and if I had to choose nonsense, then this would also be the most nonsense worth choosing for me.
Now I understand clearly what one was looking for when looking for teachers of virtue. You looked for a good night's sleep and poppy-flowered virtues!
To all these praised sages of the chairs wisdom was sleep without dreams: they knew no better meaning of life.
Even today there are some, like this preacher of virtue, and not always so honest: but their time is up. And they don't stand much longer: there they are already.
Blessed are these sleepy ones: for they should soon be nodding off. -
Thus spoke zarathustra.
From the backworlders
Once Zarathustra threw his madness beyond man, like all people behind the world. The world seemed to me to be a suffering and tormented work of God.
The world and poetry of a god seemed to me to be a dream; colored smoke before the eyes of a divinely dissatisfied person.
Good and bad and pleasure and sorrow and I and you - colored smoke it seemed to me in front of creative eyes. The Creator wanted to look away from himself - there he created the world.
It is drunken pleasure in the sufferer to look away from his suffering and to lose himself. Drunken lust and self-loosing the world once seemed to me.
This world, the eternally imperfect image of an eternal contradiction and an imperfect image - a drunken pleasure for its imperfect Creator: - so the world once thought to me.
So once I threw my madness beyond man, like all people behind the world. Beyond man in truth?
Oh, brothers, this God, whom I created, was human work and madness, like all gods!
He was human, and only a poor piece of human and me: from my own ashes and embers it came to me, this ghost, and truly! It did not come from the hereafter!
What happened my brothers? I overcame myself, the sufferer, I carried my own ashes to the mountains, I invented a brighter flame for myself. And see! There gave way the ghost of me!
It would be suffering for me now, and agony for those who have recovered to believe such ghosts: It would be suffering for me now and humiliation. So I talk to the backworlders.
It was suffering and inability - that created all the underlying worlds; and that brief madness of happiness that only the most suffering experience experiences.
Fatigue that wants to go to the last with one jump, with a death jump, a poor ignorant fatigue that doesn't even want to: it created all gods and backworlds.
Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the body - it groped with the fingers of the infatuated spirit on the last walls.
Believe me, my brothers! It was the body that despaired of the earth - it heard the belly of being speak to itself.
And then he wanted with his head through the last walls, and not just with his head - over to "that world".
But "that world" is well hidden from man, that dehumanized inhuman world that is a heavenly nothing; and the belly of being does not speak to people at all, except as a person.
Truly, all being is difficult to prove and difficult to make people speak. Tell me, brethren, is not the strangest thing of all things best proven?
Yes, this ego and the ego's contradiction and confusion still speaks most honestly of its being, this creating, willing, evaluating ego, which is the measure and value of things.
And this most honest being, the I - that speaks of the body, and it still wants the body, even if it writes and raves and flutters with broken wings.
The ego learns to speak more and more honestly: and the more it learns, the more it finds words and honors for body and earth.
My self taught me a new pride, which I teach people: - to no longer bury one's head in the sand of heavenly things, but to carry it freely, an earthly head that creates meaning for the earth!
I teach people a new will: to want this path that people have blindly walked, and approve of it and no longer sneak aside, like the sick and dying!
It was sick and dying who despised body and earth and invented the heavenly and the redeeming drops of blood: but they also took these sweet and gloomy poisons from body and earth!
They wanted to escape their misery, and the stars were too far away for them. Then they sighed: "Oh that there were heavenly ways to sneak into another being and happiness!" - then they invented their tricks and bloody little potions!
Now they thought they were removed from their bodies and from this earth, these ungrateful ones. But who did they thank for their rapture, cramp and bliss? Your body and this earth.
Zarathustra is mild to the sick. Verily, he is not angry with their kinds of consolation and ingratitude. May they recover and conquer and create a higher body!
Not even Zarathustra is angry with the convalescent when he looks tenderly at his delusion and sneaks around the grave of his god at midnight: but sickness and sick body also remain his tears for me.
There have always been many sick people among those who are poetic and addicted to God; furiously they hate the knower and that youngest of the virtues, which is called: honesty.
They always look backwards to dark times: there, of course, delusion and belief were a different thing; The frenzy of reason was likeness to God, and doubt was sin.
I know these godlike ones all too well: they want to be believed in and doubt to be a sin. I also know all too well what you yourself believe best.
Truly not in backworlds and redeeming drops of blood: they also believe best in the body, and their own body is their thing in itself.
But it is a morbid thing for them: and they would like to get out of their skin. That is why they listen to the preachers of death and preach backworlds themselves.
Rather listen to me, my brothers, to the voice of the healthy body: this is a more honest and purer voice.
The healthy body speaks more honestly and purer, the perfect and right-angled body: and it speaks of the meaning of the earth.
Thus spoke zarathustra.
Of those who despise the body
I will speak my word to those who despise the body. They should not re-learn or re-teach me, but only say goodbye to their own bodies - and thus become mute.
"I am body and soul" - this is how the child speaks. And why not talk like children?
But the awakened one, the one who knows, says: I am body utterly, and nothing else; and soul is only a word for something in the body.
The body is a great reason, a multiplicity with one sense, a war and a peace, a flock and a shepherd.
The tool of your body is also your little reason, my brother, whom you call "spirit", a little tool and toy of your great reason.
"I" you say and you are proud of that word. But the bigger thing is what you don't want to believe in - your body and its great reason: it doesn't say I, but I do.
What the sense feels, what the mind recognizes, never ends in itself. But mind and spirit would like to persuade you that they are the end of all things: they are so vain.
Tools and toys are meaning and spirit: behind them lies the self. The self also seeks with the eyes of the senses; it also listens with the ears of the spirit.
The self is always listening and searching: it compares, conquers, conquers, destroys. It rules and is also the ruler of the I.
Behind your thoughts and feelings, my brother, there is a powerful master, an unknown wise man - his name is 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 what your body needs your best wisdom for?
Your self laughs at your self and its proud leaps. «What are these leaps and flights of thought to me? it says to itself. A detour to my purpose. I am the leader of the ego and the blower of its concepts. "
The self says to the ego: "I feel pain here!" And then it suffers and thinks about how it no longer suffers - and that too should think it.
The self says to the ego: "Here I feel pleasure!" It is happy and thinks about how it is often happy - and that too should think it.
I will say a word to those who despise the body. That they despise makes them respect. What is it that created respect and despise and worth and will?
The creating self created respect and despise, it created pleasure and pain. The creative body created the spirit as a hand of its will.
Even in your folly and contempt, you despisers of the body, you serve your self. I tell you: your self itself wants to die and turns away from life.
It is no longer able to do what it would like best: - to go beyond itself. That is what it wants best, it is all his fervor.
But it was too late for him now: - Your self will perish, you despisers of the body.
Your self wants to perish, and that is why you have become despised of the body! Because you are no longer able to go beyond yourself.
And that is why you are now angry with life and earth. There is an unconscious envy in the curious look of your contempt.
I am not going your way, you despisers of the body! You are not a bridge to the superman for me! -
Thus spoke zarathustra.
Of joys and passions
My brother, if you have a virtue and it is your virtue, you have it in common with no one.
Of course, you want to call them by name and caress them; you want to pluck her ears and have fun with her.
And see! Now you have their name in common with the people and have become people and flock with your virtue!
It would be better for you to say: "It is inexpressible and nameless what makes my soul torment and sweetness and what is also the hunger of my bowels."
Your virtue is too high for the confidentiality of names: and if you have to talk about it, don't be ashamed to stammer about it.
So speak and stammer: «That is my I love the good, that's how I like it, that's how I want the good alone.
I do not want it as a God's law, I do not want it as a human statute and necessity: it should not be a guide for me above earth and paradises.
It is an earthly virtue that I love: there is little prudence in it, and least of all the reason of all.
But this bird built its nest with me: that is why I love and embrace it - now it is sitting with me on its golden eggs. "
So you should stammer and praise your virtue.
Once you had passions and called them evil. But now you only have your virtues: they grew out of your passions.
You attached your highest goal to these passions: then they became your virtues and joys.
And whether you were of the race of the irascible or of the lustful or the believing or the vindictive:
In the end, all of your passions became virtues and all of your devils became angels.
Once you had wild dogs in your basement: but in the end they turned into birds and lovely singers.
You brewed your balm from your poisons; you milked your miserable cow - now you drink the sweet milk of her udder.
And no more evil grows out of you in the future, unless the evil that grows out of the struggle of your virtues.
My brother, if you are lucky, you have one virtue and nothing more: it will make it easier for you to cross the bridge.
It is distinctive to have many virtues, but a difficult lot; and some went into the wilderness and killed themselves, because they were weary of battle and battlefield of virtues.
My brother, is war and battle evil? But this evil is necessary; envy and distrust and slander are necessary among your virtues.
See how each of your virtues is covetous for the Most High: your whole spirit wants it to be you Be herald, she wants all your strength in anger, hatred and love.
Every virtue is jealous of the other, and jealousy is a terrible thing. Virtues too can perish from jealousy.
Whoever is surrounded by the flame of jealousy, like the Scorpione, finally turns the poisoned sting against himself.
Oh, my brother, have you never seen a virtue slander and stab yourself?
Man is something that has to be overcome: and that is why you should love your virtues - because you will perish on them. -
Thus spoke zarathustra.
About the pale criminal
You do not want to kill, you judges and sacrifices, before the animal has nodded? See, the pale criminal nodded: great contempt speaks from his eye.
"My ego is something that is to be overcome: my ego is the great contempt of man": this is what it speaks from this eye.
That he judged himself was his highest moment: do not let the sublime return to his lower!
There is no redemption for him who suffers so in himself, unless quick death.
Your killing, you judges, should be a pity and not a vengeance. And by killing, see that you yourself justify life!
It is not enough that you be reconciled with Him whom you kill. Your sadness be love for the superman: this is how you justify your still-life!
You should say "enemy", but not "villain"; You should say "sick", but not "scoundrel"; "Thor" you should say, but not "sinner".
And you, red judge, if you wanted to say out loud what you have already done in your thoughts: everyone would scream: "Get rid of this filth and poison worm!"
But the thought is another, the deed is another, and the image of the deed is another. The wheel of reason does not roll wipe them.
A picture made this pale person pale. He was equal to his deed when he did it: but he did not endure its image when it was done.
He always saw himself now as a perpetrator of one deed. I call this madness: the exception turned into essence for him.
The line banishes the hen; the prank he performed banished his poor sanity - madness to in fact I am called this.
Listen, you judges! There is another madness: and that is before the deed. Oh, you crawled deep enough into this soul for me!
Thus said the red judge: “What did this criminal murder? He wanted to rob. " But I tell you: his soul wanted blood, not prey: he thirsted for the happiness of the knife!
But his poor reason did not understand this madness and persuaded him. «What is the matter of blood! she said; don't you want to at least make a robbery? Take revenge? "
And he listened to his poor reason: their speech lay on him like lead, - then he robbed when he murdered. He didn't want to be ashamed of his madness.
And now the lead of his guilt rests on him again, and again his poor reason is so stiff, so paralyzed, so heavy.
If he could only shake his head, his burden would roll down: but who shakes this head?
What is this man? A heap of diseases which reach out into the world through the spirit: there they want to make their prey.
What is this man? A ball of wild snakes, which seldom have rest with each other, - then they go away for themselves and look for prey in the world.
See this poor body! What he suffered and desired, this poor soul interpreted - she interpreted it as murderous lust and greed for the happiness of the knife.
Whoever gets sick now is overcome by evil that is now evil: woe he wants to do with what hurts him. But there were different times and different bad and good.
Once the doubt was bad and the will to self. At that time the patient became a heretic and a guardian: as a heretic and witch he suffered and wanted to make suffer.
But this doesn’t want to get in your ears: it’s a shame for your good guys, you tell me. But what do I care about your good guys!
There is much about your good guys that makes me disgusted, and certainly not your bad ones.If only I wanted them to have a madness in which they perished, like this pale criminal!
Verily, I wish their madness were to be called truth, or fidelity, or righteousness: but they have their virtue to live long and in a pitiful comfort.
I am a railing by the river: take hold of whoever can take me! But I am not your crutch. -
Thus spoke zarathustra.
From reading and writing
Of all that is written, I only love what one writes with his blood. Write in blood: and you will learn that blood is spirit.
It is not easy to understand foreign blood: I hate the idlers who read.
Whoever knows the reader does nothing more for the reader. Another century of readers - and the ghost itself will stink.
The fact that everyone is allowed to learn to read spoils not only writing but also thinking in the long run.
Once the spirit was God, then it became a person and now it even becomes a mob.
Anyone who writes in blood and proverbs does not want to be read, but to be learned by heart.
In the mountains the next way is from peak to peak: but you have to have long legs to do this. Proverbs should be summits: and those who are spoken to, tall and tall.
The air thin and pure, danger near, and the mind full of happy malice: this is how it goes well with one another.
I want goblins around me, for I am brave. Courage, who scares away the ghosts, creates goblins for himself - courage wants to laugh.
I no longer feel with you: this cloud that I see below me, this blackness and heaviness at which I laugh - that is precisely your storm cloud.
You look up when you ask for exaltation. And I look down because I'm raised
Which of you can laugh and be exalted at the same time?
Whoever climbs the highest mountains laughs at all mourning games and serious grief.
Courageous, carefree, mocking, violent - so wisdom wants us: she is a woman and always loves only one soldier.
You tell me: "Life is difficult to bear." But why would you have your pride in the morning and your devotion in the evening?
Life is difficult to bear: but don't feel so tender to me! We are all beautiful, resilient donkeys.
What do we have in common with the rosebud, which trembles because there is a drop of dew on its body?
It is true: we love life, not because we are used to life, but because we are used to love.
There is always some madness in love. But there is always some reason in madness.
And to me, too, who am good to life, butterflies and soap bubbles and what kind of people they are, seem to know most about happiness.
To see these light, foolish, agile souls flutter - that seduces Zarathustra to tears and songs.
I would only believe in a God who knew how to dance.
And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, deep, solemn: it was the spirit of gravity - through him all things fall.
One kills not with anger, but with laughter. Let's kill the spirit of gravity!
I learned to walk: since then I have been letting myself run. I've learned to fly: since then I haven't wanted to be pushed to get out of place.
Now I'm light, now I'm flying, now I see myself below me, now a god is dancing through me.
Thus spoke zarathustra.
From the tree on the mountain
Zarathustra's eye had seen a young man avoid him. And when he was walking alone one evening through the mountains that surround the city that is called "the variegated cow": behold, as he walked he found this young man sitting leaning against a tree and looking wearily into the valley. Zarathustra took hold of the tree by which the young man was sitting and said thus:
If I wanted to shake that tree with my hands, I wouldn't be able to do it.
But the wind, which we do not see, torments and bends it wherever it wants. We are worst bent and tormented by invisible hands.
Then the youth rose, dismayed, and said: "I hear Zarathustra and I was just thinking of him." Zarathustra replied:
'What do you frighten about that? - But man is like a tree.
The more he wants to go up into the heights and light, the more his roots strive earthward, downward, into the dark, the deep - into the evil. "
«Yes to evil! cried the youth. How is it possible that you discovered my soul? "
Zarathustra smiled and said: "Some souls will never be discovered unless they are first invented." «Yes to evil! called the youth again.
You were telling the truth, Zarathustra. I don't trust myself anymore since I wanted to go up, and nobody trusts me anymore - how does this happen?
I transform too quickly: my today contradicts my yesterday. I often skip the steps when I climb - that doesn't forgive me any step.
When I'm upstairs, I always find myself alone. Nobody talks to me, the frost of loneliness makes me tremble. What do I want up high?
My contempt and my longing grow with each other; the higher I climb, the more I despise him who climbs. What does he want up there?
How ashamed I am of my climbing and stumbling! How do I mock my violent snorting! How do I hate the flyer! How tired I am on the heights! "
Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra looked at the tree by which they were standing and said thus:
This tree stands lonely here by the mountains; it grew high above humans and animals.
And if he wanted to talk, he would have no one to understand him: he grew so tall.
Now he waits and waits - what is he waiting for? He lives too close to the seat of the clouds: is he waiting for the first lightning?
When Zarathustra had said this, the youth called out with violent gestures: “Yes, Zarathustra, you speak the truth. I longed for my downfall when I wanted to go up, and you are the lightning I was waiting for! See, what am I still since you appeared to us? The envy it is you who destroyed me! " - So said the young man and wept bitterly. But Zarathustra put his arm around him and led him away.
And after they had walked together for a while, Zarathustra began to speak thus:
It breaks my heart. Better than your words say, your eye tells me all your danger.
You are not free yet, you looking for still for freedom. Your searching made you sleepy and watchful.
You want to go up high, your soul thirsts for stars. But your bad urges also thirst for freedom.
Your wild dogs want to go free; they bark with lust in their basement when your mind seeks to loosen all prisons.
You are still a prisoner to me, devising freedom: oh, the soul of such prisoners becomes wise, but also malicious and bad.
The liberated spirit has yet to purify himself. Much prison and mold is still left in him: his eye has yet to become pure.
Yes i know your danger But with my love and hope I swear to you: do not throw away your love and hope!
You still feel noble, and the others still feel noble, who are angry with you and send evil looks. Know that there is a noble in the way of everyone.
There is also a noble in the way of the good: and even if they call him a good, they want to put him aside.
The noble wants to create something new and a new virtue. The good wants the old, and that the old be preserved.
But that is not the danger of the noble man becoming a good man, but a cheeky man, a scornful man, a destroyer.
Oh, I knew nobles who lost their highest hope. And now they all slandered high hopes.
Now they lived cheekily in short lusts, and during the day they hardly threw any targets.
"Spirit is also lust" - they said. Then the wings of her mind broke: now it crawls around and dirty in its gnaws.
Once they thought they would become heroes: now they are voluptuous. A sorrow and a horror is their hero.
But with my love and hope I swear to you: do not throw away the hero in your soul! Keep holy your highest hope! -
Thus spoke zarathustra.
From the preachers of death
There are preachers of death: and the earth is full of those who must be preached turning away from life.
The earth is full of superfluous, life is corrupted by the many-too-many. May one lure oneself away from this life with "eternal life"!
"Yellow": this is how the preachers of death are called, or "blacks". But I want to show you in other colors.
There are the terrible, who carry the beast of prey around within themselves and have no choice, unless lust or self-tearing. And even their lusts are still self-tearing.
They have not even become human beings, these terrible ones: may they preach turning away from life and go there themselves!
There are those consumptive of the soul: no sooner have they been born than they begin to die and long for the teachings of tiredness and renunciation.
They would like to be dead, and we should approve of their will! Let us be careful not to awaken these dead and harm these living coffins!
They meet a sick person or an old man or a corpse; and immediately they say "life has been refuted!"
But only you are refuted and your eye, which only sees the one face in existence.
Wrapped in heavy melancholy and eager for the little coincidences that bring death: so they wait and bite their teeth at one another.
Or else: they reach for candy and mock their childishness: they hang life on their straw and mock that they are still hanging on a straw.
Their wisdom is: «a fool who remains alive, but so much are we fools! And that is the most foolish thing about life! " -
"Life is only suffering" - so say others and do not lie: so make sure that you stop! So make sure that life, which is only suffering, ends!
And so the doctrine of your virtue reads: "You should kill yourself!" You should steal yourself away! " -
"Lust is sin, - so say those who preach death - let's go aside and not father any children!"
«It is laborious to give birth - others say to you - why give birth? One only gives birth to the unfortunate! " And they too are preachers of death.
"Pity is necessary - so say the third party. Take what I have! Accept what I am! All the less does life bind me! "
If they were compassionate from the bottom up, they would spoil the life of their neighbors. To be angry - that would be their real goodness.
But they want to get away from life: what does it matter to them that they bind others even more tightly with their chains and gifts! -
And you too, for whom life is wild work and restlessness: aren't you very tired of life? Aren't you very ripe for the preaching of death?
All of you who love the wild work and the fast, the new, the foreign - you bear yourselves badly, your diligence is flight and the will to forget yourself.
If you believed in life more, you would throw yourself less into the moment. But you don't have enough content in you to wait - and not even to be lazy!
The voice of those who preach death resounds everywhere: and the earth is full of those to whom death must be preached.
Or "Eternal Life": that doesn't matter to me - as long as you drive there quickly!
Thus spoke zarathustra.
About the war and the people of war
We do not want to be spared from our best enemies, nor from those whom we love deeply. So let me tell you the truth!
My brothers in war! I love you profoundly, I am and I was your kind. And I'm your best enemy too. So let me tell you the truth!
I know of the hatred and envy of your heart. You are not big enough not to know hatred and envy. So be big enough not to be ashamed of them!
And if you cannot be saints of knowledge, at least be their warriors to me. These are the companions and forerunners of such holiness.
I see a lot of soldiers: I want to see a lot of warmen! "Ein-form" is what they wear: may it not be Ein-form what they are hiding with it!
You should be those whose eyes are always looking for an enemy - for yours Enemies. And with some of you there is hatred at first sight.
You should look for your enemy, you should wage your war and for your thoughts! And if your thought is defeated, your honesty should still call triumph over it!
You should love peace as a means of new wars. And the short peace more than the long one.
I advise you not to work, but to fight. I advise you not to peace, but to victory. Your work is a struggle, your peace is a victory!
One can only be silent and sit still when one has a bow and arrow: otherwise one gossips and quarrels. May your peace be a victory!
You say it is the good thing that even sanctifies war? I tell you: it is the good war that sanctifies everything.
War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your pity, but your bravery saved the victims so far.
What is good? you ask. To be brave is good. Let the little girls talk: "To be good is what is beautiful and touching at the same time."
You are called heartless: but your heart is real, and I love the shame of your cordiality. You are ashamed of your flood, and others are ashamed of its ebb.
You are ugly? Well then, my brothers! So take the sublime around you, the cloak of the ugly!
And when your soul grows great, it becomes arrogant, and in your majesty there is malice. I know you.
In malice the arrogant meets the weak. But they misunderstand each other. I know you.
You may only have enemies who are to be hated, but not enemies to despise. You must be proud of your enemy: then the successes of your enemy are also your successes.
Rebellion - that is the nobility of the slave. Your nobility be obedience! Your commands themselves are to be obeyed!
To a good warrior, "you should" sounds more pleasant than "I want to". And everything that is dear to you, you should still allow yourself to be ordered.
Your love for life be love for your highest hope: and your highest hope be the highest thought of life!
But you should let me command your highest thoughts - and it reads: Man is something that is to be overcome.
So live your life of obedience and war! What is the matter of long life! Which warrior wants to be spared!
I do not spare you, I love you profoundly, my brothers in war! -
Thus spoke zarathustra.
From the new idol
Somewhere there are still peoples and flocks, but not with us, my brothers: there are states.
Country? What's this? Well! Now open my ears, for now I am telling you my word about the death of nations.
State is called the coldest of all cold monsters. It also lies cold; and this lie creeps out of his mouth: "I, the state, am the people."
It's a lie! It was creators who created the peoples and hung a faith and a love over them: so they served life.
It is destroyers who set traps for many and call them the state: they hang a sword and a hundred desires over them.
Where there is still a people, the state does not understand it and hates it as an evil eye and a sin of morals and rights.
I give you this sign: every nation speaks its tongue of good and evil: the neighbor does not understand it. It invented its language in manners and rights.
But the state lies in all tongues of good and evil; and whatever he says, he lies - and whatever he has, he has stolen it.
Everything about him is wrong; he bites with stolen teeth, the biting one. Even his entrails are false.
Confusion of the language of good and evil: I give this sign to you as a sign of the state. Verily, this sign indicates the will to die! Verily, it beckons to the preachers of death!
Far too many are born: the state was invented for the superfluous!
See how he lures them to himself, the far-too-many! How he gulps and chews and ruminates them!
"There is nothing bigger than me on earth: I am the organizing finger of God" - so the monster roars. And not only long-eared and short-eyed people sink to their knees!
Oh, in you too, you great souls, he whispers his dark lies! Oh, he guesses the rich hearts that like to waste themselves!
Yes, he guesses you too, you conquerors of the old God! You got tired in the fight, and now your tiredness still serves the new idol!
He would like to set up heroes and honorable ones, the new idol! He likes to bask in the sunshine with a clear conscience - the cold monster!
He wants everything to you give if you the new idol worships him: so he buys the splendor of your virtue and the look of your proud eyes.
He wants to bait the many-too-many with you! Yes, a feat of hell was invented, a horse of death, clinking in the trim of divine honors!
Yes, a dying for many was invented, which praises itself as life: verily, a service of the heart for all preachers of death!
I call it a state where all are poison drinkers, good and bad: State where everyone loses themselves, good and bad: State where the slow suicide of all is called "life".
Look at these superfluous ones! They steal the works of inventors and the treasures of the wise: they call education their theft - and everything becomes sickness and hardship for them!
Look at these superfluous ones! They are always sick, they vomit their bile and call it a newspaper. They devour each other and cannot even digest each other.
Look at these superfluous ones! They acquire riches and become poorer with it. They want power and first the crowbar of power, a lot of money - these inept people!
See them climbing, those swift monkeys! They climb over each other and so drag themselves into the mud and the depths.
They all want to go to the throne: it is their madness - as if happiness sat on the throne! Often the mud sits on the throne - and often the throne sits on the mud.
They are all mad to me, and climbing monkeys and overheating. Their idol, the cold monster, smells bad for me: they all smell bad for me, these idolaters.
My brothers, do you want to suffocate in the haze of their mouths and desires! Better break the window and jump outside!
Avoid the bad smell! Get away from idolatry of the superfluous!
Avoid the bad smell! Get away from the steam of these human sacrifices!
Even now the earth is free for great souls. There are still many empty seats for solitary and two people, around whom the smell of calm seas wafts.
Great souls still have a free life. Truly, he who has little is all the less possessed: praised be the little poverty!
Where the state ends, there only begins the human being who is not superfluous: there begins the song of the necessary, the unique and irreplaceable way.
Where the state stops, - look at me, my brothers! Do you not see him, the rainbow and the bridges of the superman? -
Thus spoke zarathustra.
From the flies of the market
Flee, my friend, into your solitude! I see you stunned by the noise of the big men and stung by the spines of the little ones.
Forest and rock know dignified to be silent with you. Same again as the tree you love, the broad-branched one: it hangs over the sea, quiet and listening.
Where loneliness ends, the market begins; and where the market begins, there begins the din of the great actors and the buzz of poisonous flies.
The best things are still no good in the world without someone to perform them first: the people are called these performers great men.
Little does the people understand what is great, that is: what creates. But it has meaning for all performers and actors of great things.
The world revolves around the inventors of new values: - it revolves invisibly. But the people and fame revolve around the actors: that's the way the world runs.
The actor has a spirit, but little conscience of the spirit. He always believes in that with which he makes believe most strongly - believe in yourself makes!
Tomorrow he will have a new faith and the day after tomorrow a newer one. He has quick senses, like the people, and changeable weather.
To overturn - that means to him: to prove. To do great - that means to him: to convince. And blood is his best of all reasons.
A truth that only slips into sensitive ears is what he calls a lie and nothing. Verily, he only believes in gods who make great noise in the world!
The market is full of solemn buffoons - and the people boast of their great men! they are the masters of the hour for him.
But the hour pushes them: so they push you. And they want yes or no from you too. Woe to you if you want to sit between the pros and cons?
For the sake of this unconditional and urgent matter, do not be jealous, you lover of truth! Truth has never hung on the arm of an unconditional one.
For the sake of this sudden, go back to your safety: only in the market will you get yes? or no? ambushed.
The experience of all deep wells is slow: they have to wait a long time before they know What fell into their depths.
Away from the market and fame, everything great happens: apart from the market and fame, the inventors of new values have always lived.
Flee, my friend, into your solitude: I see you bitten by poisonous flies. Flee where rough, strong air blows!
Flee into your solitude! You lived too close to the little and wretched. Flee from their invisible vengeance! Against you they are nothing but revenge.
Don't raise your arm against her anymore! They are innumerable and it is not your lot to be a fly whisk.
These small and wretched are innumerable; and many a proud burrow could already be destroyed by raindrops and weeds.
You are not a stone, but you have already become hollow with many drops. You will break and burst from many drops for me.
Tired I see you by poisonous flies, I see you bloodily scratched in a hundred places; and your pride doesn't even want to be angry.
They want blood from you in all innocence, their bloodless souls desire blood - and therefore they sting in all innocence.
But, you deeper, you also suffer too deeply from small wounds; and before you had healed yourself, the same poison worm crept over your hand.
You are too proud for me to kill those who have a sweet tooth. But be careful that it does not become your fate to bear all their poisonous injustice!
They hum around you with their praises: intrusiveness is their praise. They want your skin and blood close to you.
They flatter you like a god or a devil; they whine in front of you like a god or a devil. What is it doing! It is flatterers and winslers and nothing more.
They also often present themselves to you as amiable ones. But that has always been the wisdom of the figs. Yes, figs are wise!
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