You know only the sparks of the spirit: but you do not see the anvil which it is, and the cruelty of its hammer!
You know not the spirit’s pride! But still less could you endure the spirit’s humility, should it ever want to speak!
And never yet could you cast your spirit into a pit of snow: you are not hot enough for that! Thus are you unaware, also, of the delight of its coldness.
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In all respects, however, you make too familiar with the spirit; and out of wisdom have you often made an alms-house and a hospital for bad poets.
You are not eagles: thus have you never experienced the happiness of the alarm of the spirit. And he who is not a bird should not camp above abysses.
You seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly flows all deep knowledge. Ice-cold are the innermost wells of the spirit: a refreshment to hot hands and handlers.
Respectable do you there stand, and stiff, and with straight backs, you famous wise ones!- no strong wind or will impels you.
Have you ne’er seen a sail crossing the sea, rounded and inflated, and trembling with the violence of the wind?
Like the sail trembling with the violence of the spirit, does my wisdom cross the sea- my wild wisdom!
But you servants of the people, you famous wise ones- how could you go with me!-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 9 The Night Song
‘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 longs to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaks itself the lan-guage 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!
And you yourselves would I bless, you twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft!- and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.
But I live in my own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.
It is my poverty that my hand never ceases giving; it is my envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.
Oh, the misery of all givers! 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 small gap has finally to be bridged over.
A hunger arises out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I illu-mine; I should like to rob those I have gifted:- thus do I hunger for wickedness.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretches out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesitates even in its leap:- thus do I hunger for wickedness!
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Such revenge does my abundance think of such mischief wells out of my lonesomeness.
My happiness in giving died in giving; my virtue became weary of it-self by its abundance!
He who ever gives is in danger of losing his shame; to him who ever dispenses, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing.
My eye no longer overflows for the shame of suppliants; my hand has become too hard for the trembling of filled hands.
Whence have gone the tears of my eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all givers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!
Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with their light- but to me they are silent.
Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpityingly does it pursue its course.
Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns:- thus travels every sun.
Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness.
Oh, you only is it, you dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, you only drink milk and refreshment from the light’s udders!
Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burns with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it pants after your thirst!
‘Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!
‘Tis night: now do my longing break forth in me as a fountain,- for speech do I long.
‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
‘Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.-
Thus sang Zarathustra.
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Chapter 10 The Dance Song
ONE evening went Zarathustra and his disciples through the forest; and when he sought for a well, lo, he lighted upon a green meadow peace-fully surrounded by trees and bushes, where maidens were dancing to-gether. As soon as the maidens recognized Zarathustra, they ceased dan-cing; Zarathustra, however, approached them with friendly mien and spoke these words:
Cease not your dancing, you lovely maidens! No game-spoiler has come to you with evil eye, no enemy of maidens.
God’s advocate am I with the devil: yet he is the spirit of gravity. How could I, you light-footed ones, be hostile to divine dances? Or to maid-ens’ feet with fine ankles?
To be sure, I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.
And even the little God may he find, who is dearest to maidens: beside the well lies he quietly, with closed eyes.
In broad daylight did he fall asleep, the sluggard! Had he perhaps chased butterflies too much?
Upbraid me not, you beautiful dancers, when I chasten the little God somewhat! He will cry, certainly, and weep- but he is laughable even when weeping!
And with tears in his eyes shall he ask you for a dance; and I myself will sing a song to his dance:
A dance-song and satire on the spirit of gravity my supremest, power-fulest devil, who is said to be «lord of the world.»-
And this is the song that Zarathustra sang when Cupid and the maid-ens danced together:
Of late did I gaze into your eye, O Life! And into the unfathomable did I there seem to sink.
But you pulled me out with a golden angle; derisively did you laugh when I called you unfathomable.
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«Such is the language of all fish,» said you; «what they do not fathom is unfathomable.
But changeable am I only, and wild, and altogether a woman, and no virtuous one:
Though I be called by you men the ‘profound one,’ or the ‘faithful one,’ ‘the eternal one,’ ‘the mysterious one.’
But you men endow us always with your own virtues- alas, you virtu-ous ones!»
Thus did she laugh, the unbelievable one; but never do I believe her and her laughter, when she speaks evil of herself.
And when I talked face to face with my wild Wisdom, she said to me angrily: «You will, you crave, you love; on that account alone do you praise Life!»
Then had I almost answered indignantly and told the truth to the angry one; and one cannot answer more indignantly than when one «tells the truth» to one’s Wisdom.
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 re-minds me very strongly of Life!
She has her eye, her laugh, and even her golden angle-rod: am I re-sponsible for it that both are so alike?
And when once Life asked me: «Who is she then, this Wisdom?»- then said I eagerly: «Ah, yes! Wisdom!
One thirsts for her and is not satisfied, one looks through veils, one grasps through nets.
Is she beautiful? What do I know! But the oldest carps are still lured by her.
Changeable is she, and wayward; often have I seen her bite her lip, and pass the comb against the grain of her hair.
Perhaps she is wicked and false, and altogether a woman; but when she speaks ill of herself, just then does she seduce most.»
When I had said this to Life, then laughed she maliciously, and shut her eyes. «Of whom do you speak?» said she. «Perhaps of me?
And if you were right- is it proper to say that in such wise to my face! But now, pray, speak also of your Wisdom!»
Ah, and now have you again opened your eyes, O beloved Life! And into the unfathomable have I again seemed to sink.-
Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had departed, he became sad.
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«The sun has been long set,» said he at last, «the meadow is damp, and from the forest comes coolness.
An unknown presence is about me, and gazes thoughtfully. What! you live still, Zarathustra?
Why? Wherefore? Whereby? Where? Where?
