It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring’s thirst is in you: to reach itself again struggles every ring, and turns itself.
And like the star that goes out, so is every work of your virtue: ever is its light on its way and travelling- and when will it cease to be on its way?
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Thus is the light of your virtue still on its way, even when its work is done. Be it forgotten and dead, still its ray of light lives and travels.
That your virtue is your Self, and not an outward thing, a skin, or a cloak: that is the truth from the basis of your souls, you virtuous ones!-
But sure enough there are those to whom virtue means writhing under the lash: and you have hearkened too much to their crying!
And others are there who call virtue the slothfulness of their vices; and when once their hatred and jealousy relax the limbs, their «justice» be-comes lively and rubs its sleepy eyes.
And others are there who are drawn downwards: their devils draw them. But the more they sink, the more ardently glows their eye, and the longing for their God.
Ah! their crying also has reached your ears, you virtuous ones: «What I am not, that, that is God to me, and virtue!»
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.
In those have I my amusement: wherever I find such clocks I shall wind them up with my mockery, and they shall even whirr thereby!
And others are proud of their modicum of righteousness, and for the sake of it do violence to all things: so that the world is drowned in their unrighteousness.
Ah! how ineptly comes the word «virtue» out of their mouth! And when they say: «I am just,» it always sounds like: «I am just- revenged!»
With their virtues they want to scratch out the eyes of their enemies; and they elevate themselves only that they may lower others.
And again there are those who sit in their swamp, and speak thus from among the bulrushes: «Virtue- that is to sit quietly in the swamp.
We bite no one, and go out of the way of him who would bite; and in all matters we have the opinion that is given us.»
And again there are those who love attitudes, and think that virtue is a sort of attitude.
Their knees continually adore, and their hands are eulogies of virtue, but their heart knows naught thereof.
And again there are those who regard it as virtue to say: «Virtue is ne-cessary»; but after all they believe only that policemen are necessary.
And many a one who cannot see men’s loftiness, calls it virtue to see their baseness far too well: thus calls he his evil eye virtue.-
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And some want to be edified and raised up, and call it virtue: and oth-ers want to be cast down,- and likewise call it virtue.
And thus do almost all think that they participate in virtue; and at least every one claims to be an authority on «good» and «evil.»
But Zarathustra came not to say to all those liars and fools: «What do you know of virtue! What could you know of virtue!»-
But that you, my friends, might become weary of the old words which you have learned from the fools and liars:
That you might become weary of the words «reward,» «retribution,» «punishment,» «righteous vengeance.»-
That you might become weary of saying: «That an action is good is be-cause it is unselfish.»
Ah! my friends! That your very Self be in your action, as the mother is in the child: let that be your formula of virtue!
I have taken from you a hundred formulae and your virtue’s favorite playthings; and now you upbraid me, as children upbraid.
They played by the sea- then came there a wave and swept their playthings into the deep: and now do they cry.
But the same wave shall bring them new playthings, and spread be-fore them new speckled shells!
Thus will they be comforted; and like them shall you also, my friends, have your comforting- and new speckled shells!-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 6 The Rabble
LIFE is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all foun-tains are poisoned.
To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see the grin-ning mouths and the thirst of the unclean.
They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glances up to me their odious smile out of the fountain.
The holy water have they poisoned with their lustfulness; and when they called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words.
Indignant becomes the flame when they put their damp hearts to the fire; the spirit itself bubbles and smokes when the rabble approach the fire.
Mawkish and over-mellow becomes the fruit in their hands: unsteady, and withered at the top, does their look make the fruit-tree.
And many a one who has turned away from life, has only turned away from the rabble: he hated to share with them fountain, flame, and fruit.
And many a one who has gone into the wilderness and suffered thirst with beasts of prey, disliked only to sit at the cistern with filthy camel-drivers.
And many a one who has come along as a destroyer, and as a hail-storm to all cornfields, wanted merely to put his foot into the jaws of the rabble, and thus stop their throat.
And it is not the mouthful which has most choked me, to know that life itself requires enmity and death and torture-crosses:-
But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my question: What? Is the rabble also necessary for life?
Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking fires, and filthy dreams, and maggots in the bread of life?
Not my hatred, but my loathing, gnawed hungrily at my life! Ah, oft-times became I weary of spirit, when I found even the rabble spiritual!
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And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw what they now call ruling: to traffic and bargain for power- with the rabble!
Amongst peoples of a strange language did I dwell, with stopped ears: so that the language of their trafficking might remain strange to me, and their bargaining for power.
And holding my nose, I went morosely through all yesterdays and todays: verily, badly smell all yesterdays and todays of the scribbling rabble!
Like a cripple become deaf, and blind, and dumb- thus have I lived long; that I might not live with the power-rabble, the scribe-rabble, and the pleasure-rabble.
Toilsomely did my spirit mount stairs, and cautiously; alms of delight were its refreshment; on the staff did life creep along with the blind one.
What has happened to me? How have I freed myself from loathing? Who has rejuvenated my eye? How have I flown to the height where no rabble any longer sit at the wells?
Did my loathing itself create for me wings and fountain-divining powers? to the loftiest height had I to fly, to find again the well of delight!
Oh, I have found it, my brothers! Here on the loftiest height bubbles up for me the well of delight! And there is a life at whose waters none of the rabble drink with me!
Almost too violently do you flow for me, you fountain of delight! And often emptiest you the goblet again, in wanting to fill it!
And yet must I learn to approach you more modestly: far too violently does my heart still flow towards you:-
My heart on which my summer burns, my short, hot, melancholy, over-happy summer: how my summer heart longs for your coolness!
Past, the lingering distress of my spring! Past, the wickedness of my snowflakes in June! Summer have I become entirely, and summer-noontide!
A summer on the loftiest height, with cold fountains and blissful still-ness: oh, come, my friends, that the stillness may become more blissful!
For this is our height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell for all uncleanly ones and their thirst.
Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! How could it become turbid thereby! It shall laugh back to you with its purity.
On the tree of the future build we our nest; eagles shall bring us lone ones food in their beaks!
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No food of which the impure could be fellow-partakers! Fire, would they think they devoured, and burn their mouths!
No abodes do we here keep ready for the impure! An ice-cave to their bodies would our happiness be, and to their spirits!
And as strong winds will we live above them, neighbors to the eagles, neighbors to the snow, neighbors to the sun: thus live the strong winds.
And like a wind will I one day blow amongst them, and with my spir-it, take the breath from their spirit: thus wills my future.
A strong wind is Zarathustra to all low places; and this counsel coun-sels he to his enemies, and to whatever spits and spews: «Take care not to spit against the wind!»-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 7 The Tarantulas
LO, THIS is the tarantula’s den! Would’st you see the tarantula
