And as the lesser surrenders himself to the greater that he may have delight and power over the least of all, so do even the greatest surrender himself, and stakes- life, for the sake of power.
It is the surrender of the greatest to run risk and danger, and play dice for death.
And where there is sacrifice and service and love-glances, there also is the will to be master. By by-ways do the weaker then slink into the fort-ress, and into the heart of the mightier one- and there steals power.
And this secret spoke Life herself to me. «Behold,» said she, «I am that which must ever overcome itself.
To be sure, you call it will to procreation, or impulse towards a goal, towards the higher, remoter, more manifold: but all that is one and the same secret.
Rather would I perish than disown this one thing; and verily, where there is perishing and leaf-falling, lo, there does Life sacrifice itself- for power!
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That I have to be struggle, and becoming, and purpose, and cross-pur-pose- ah, he who divines my will, divines well also on what crooked paths it has to tread!
Whatever I create, and however much I love it,- soon must I be ad-verse to it, and to my love: so wills my will.
And even you, discerning one, are only a path and footstep of my will: verily, my Will to Power walks even on the feet of your Will to Truth!
He certainly did not hit the truth who shot at it the formula: «Will to existence»: that will- does not exist!
For what is not, cannot will; that, however, which is in existence- how could it still strive for existence!
Only where there is life, is there also will: not, however, Will to Life, but- so teach I you- Will to Power!
Much is reckoned higher than life itself by the living one; but out of the very reckoning speaks- the Will to Power!»-
Thus did Life once teach me: and thereby, you wisest ones, do I solve you the riddle of your hearts.
I say to you: good and evil which would be everlasting- it does not ex-ist! Of its own accord must it ever overcome itself anew.
With your values and formulae of good and evil, you exercise power, you valuing ones: and that is your secret love, and the sparkling, trem-bling, and overflowing of your souls.
But a stronger power grows out of your values, and a new overcom-ing: by it breaks egg and egg-shell.
And he who has to be a creator in good and evil- verily, he has first to be a destroyer, and break values in pieces.
Thus does the greatest evil pertain to the greatest good: that, however, is the creating good.-
Let us speak thereof, you wisest ones, even though it be bad. To be si-lent 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!-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 13 The Sublime Ones
CALM is the bottom of my sea: who would guess that it hides droll monsters!
Unmoved is my depth: but it sparkles with swimming enigmas and laughters.
A sublime one saw I today, a solemn one, a penitent of the spirit: Oh, how my soul laughed at his ugliness!
With upraised breast, and like those who draw in their breath: thus did he stand, the sublime one, and in silence:
O’erhung with ugly truths, the spoil of his hunting, and rich in torn raiment; many thorns also hung on him- but I saw no rose.
Not yet had he learned laughing and beauty. Gloomy did this hunter return from the forest of knowledge.
From the fight with wild beasts returned he home: but even yet a wild beast gazes out of his seriousness- an unconquered wild beast!
As a tiger does he ever stand, on the point of springing; but I do not like those strained souls; ungracious is my taste towards all those self-en-grossed ones.
And you tell me, friends, that there is to be no dispute about taste and tasting? But all life is a dispute about taste and tasting!
Taste: that is weight at the same time, and scales and weigher; and alas for every living thing that would live without dispute about weight and scales and weigher!
Should he become weary of his sublimeness, this sublime one, then only will his beauty begin- and then only will I taste him and find him savory.
And only when he turns away from himself will he o’erleap his own shadow- and verily! into his sun.
Far too long did he sit in the shade; the cheeks of the penitent of the spirit became pale; he almost starved on his expectations.
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Contempt is still in his eye, and loathing hides in his mouth. To be sure, he now rests, but he has not yet taken rest in the sunshine.
As the ox ought he to do; and his happiness should smell of the earth, and not of contempt for the earth.
As a white ox would I like to see him, which, snorting and lowing, walks before the plough-share: and his lowing should also laud all that is earthly!
Dark is still his countenance; the shadow of his hand dances upon it. O’ershadowed is still the sense of his eye.
His deed itself is still the shadow upon him: his doing obscures the doer. Not yet has he overcome his deed.
To be sure, I love in him the shoulders of the ox: but now do I want to see also the eye of the angel.
Also his hero-will has he still to unlearn: an exalted one shall he be, and not only a sublime one:- the ether itself should raise him, the will-less one!
He has subdued monsters, he has solved enigmas. But he should also redeem his monsters and enigmas; into heavenly children should he transform them.
As yet has his knowledge not learned to smile, and to be without jeal-ousy; as yet has his gushing passion not become calm in beauty.
Not in satiety shall his longing cease and disappear, but in beauty! Gracefulness belongs to the munificence of the magnanimous.
His arm across his head: thus should the hero repose; thus should he also overcome his repose.
But precisely to the hero is beauty the hardest thing of all. Unattain-able is beauty by all ardent wills.
A little more, a little less: precisely this is much here, it is the most here.
To stand with relaxed muscles and with unharnessed will: that is the hardest for all of you, you sublime ones!
When power becomes gracious and descends into the visible- I call such condescension, beauty.
And from no one do I want beauty so much as from you, you power-ful one: let your goodness be your last self-conquest.
All evil do I accredit to you: therefore do I desire of you the good.
I have often laughed at the weaklings, who think themselves good be-cause they have crippled paws!
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The virtue of the pillar shall you strive after: more beautiful does it ever become, and more graceful- but internally harder and more sustain-ing- the higher it rises.
Yes, you sublime one, one day shall you also be beautiful, and hold up the mirror to your own beauty.
Then will your soul thrill with divine desires; and there will be adora-tion even in your vanity!
For this is the secret of the soul: when the hero has abandoned it, then only approach it in dreams- the super-hero.-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 14 The Land of Culture
TOO far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me.
And when I looked around me, behold, there time was my sole contemporary.
Then did I fly backwards, homewards- and always faster. Thus did I come to you: you present-day men, and into the land of culture.
For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily, with longing in my heart did I come.
But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed- I had yet to laugh! Never did my eye see anything so motley-colored!
I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as well. «Here , is the home of all the paint-pots,»- said I.
With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs- so sat you there to my astonishment, you present-day men!
And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of col-ors, and repeated it!
You could wear no better masks, you present-day men, than your own faces! Who could- recognize you!
Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters also pencilled over with new characters- thus have you concealed yourselves well from all decipherers!
And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believes that you have reins! Out of colors you seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps.
All times and peoples gaze divers-colored out of your veils; all cus-toms and beliefs speak divers-colored out of your gestures.
He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and ges-tures, would just have enough left to scare the crows.
I myself am the scared crow that once saw you naked, and without paint; and I flew away when the skeleton ogled at me.
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Rather would I be a day-laborer in the under-world, and among the shades
