«Penalty,» so calls itself revenge. With a lying word it feigns a good conscience.
And because in the willer himself there is suffering, because he cannot will backwards- thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed- to be penalty!
And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last mad-ness preached: «Everything perishes, therefore everything deserves to perish!»
«And this itself is justice, the law of time- that he must devour his chil-dren:» thus did madness preach.
«Morally are things ordered according to justice and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from the flux of things and from the ‘existence’ of penalty?» Thus did madness preach.
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«Can there be deliverance when there is eternal justice? Alas, unrol-lable is the stone, ‘It was’: eternal must also be all penalties!» Thus did madness preach.
«No deed can be annihilated: how could it be undone by the penalty! This, this is what is eternal in the ‘existence’ of penalty, that existence also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!
Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing become non-Willing-:» but you know, my brothers, this fabulous song of madness!
Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: «The Will is a creator.»
All «It was» is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance- until the creating Will says thereto: «But thus would I have it.»-
Until the creating Will says thereto: «But thus do I will it! Thus shall I will it!»
But did it ever speak thus? And when does this take place? has the Will been unharnessed from its own folly?
Has the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? has it un-learned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing?
And who has taught it reconciliation with time, and something higher than all reconciliation?
Something higher than all reconciliation must the Will will which is the Will to Power-: but how does that take place? Who has taught it also to will backwards?
-But at this point it chanced that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear-thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed, and said soothedly:
«It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult- espe-cially for a babbler.»-
Thus spoke Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the conversation and had covered his face during the time; but when he heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity, and said slowly:
«But why does Zarathustra speak otherwise to us than to his disciples?»
Zarathustra answered: «What is there to be wondered at! With hunch-backs one May well speak in a hunchbacked way!»
«Very good,» said the hunchback; «and with pupils one may well tell tales out of school.
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But why does Zarathustra speak otherwise to his pupils- than to him-self?»-
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Chapter 21 Manly Prudence
NOT the height, it is the declivity that is terrible!
The declivity, where the gaze shoots downwards, and the hand grasps upwards. There does the heart become giddy through its double will.
Ah, friends, do you divine also my heart’s double will?
This, this is my declivity and my danger, that my gaze shoots towards the summit, and my hand would rather clutch and lean- on the depth!
To man clings my will; with chains do I bind myself to man, because I am pulled upwards to the Superman: for there does my other will tend.
And therefore do I live blindly among men, as if I knew them not: that my hand may not entirely lose belief in firmness.
I know not you men: this gloom and consolation is often spread around me.
I sit at the gateway for every rogue, and ask: Who wishes to deceive me?
This is my first manly prudence, that I allow myself to be deceived, so as not to be on my guard against deceivers.
Ah, if I were on my guard against man, how could man be an anchor to my ball! Too easily would I be pulled upwards and away!
This providence is over my fate, that I have to be without foresight. And he who would not languish amongst men, must learn to drink
out of all glasses; and he who would keep clean amongst men, must know how to wash himself even with dirty water.
And thus spoke I often to myself for consolation: «Courage! Cheer up! old heart! An unhappiness has failed to befall you: enjoy that as thy-happiness!»
This, however, is my other manly prudence: I am more forbearing to the vain than to the proud.
Is not wounded vanity the mother of all tragedies? Where, however, pride is wounded, there there grows up something better than pride.
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That life may be fair to behold, its game must be well played; for that purpose, however, it needs good actors.
Good actors have I found all the vain ones: they play, and wish people to be fond of beholding them- all their spirit is in this wish.
They represent themselves, they invent themselves; in their neighbor-hood I like to look upon life- it cures of melancholy.
Therefore am I forbearing to the vain, because they are the physicians of my melancholy, and keep me attached to man as to a drama.
And further, who conceives the full depth of the modesty of the vain man! I am favorable to him, and sympathetic on account of his modesty.
From you would he learn his belief in himself; he feeds upon your glances, he eates praise out of your hands.
Your lies does he even believe when you lie favorably about him: for in its depths sighs his heart: «What am I?»
And if that be the true virtue which is unconscious of itself- well, the vain man is unconscious of his modesty!-
This is, however, my third manly prudence: I am not put out of conceit with the wicked by your timorousness.
I am happy to see the marvels the warm sun hatches: tigers and palms and rattlesnakes.
Also amongst men there is a beautiful brood of the warm sun, and much that is marvellous in the wicked.
In truth, as your wisest did not seem to me so very wise, so found I also human wickedness below the fame of it.
And oft did I ask with a shake of the head: Why still rattle, you rattlesnakes?
There is still a future even for evil! And the warmest south is still un-discovered by man.
How many things are now called the worst wickedness, which are only twelve feet broad and three months long! Some day, however, will greater dragons come into the world.
For that the Superman may not lack his dragon, the super-dragon that is worthy of him, there must still much warm sun glow on moist virgin forests!
Out of your wild cats must tigers have evolved, and out of your poison-toads, crocodiles: for the good hunter shall have a good hunt!
And verily, you good and just! In you there is much to be laughed at, and especially your fear of what has hitherto been called «the devil!»
So alien are you in your souls to what is great, that to you the Super-man would be frightful in his goodness!
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And you wise and knowing ones, you would flee from the solar-glow of the wisdom in which the Superman joyfully baths his nakedness!
You highest men who have come within my ken! this is my doubt of you, and my secret laughter: I suspect you would call my Superman- a devil!
Ah, I became tired of those highest and best ones: from their «height» did I long to be up, out, and away to the Superman!
A horror came over me when I saw those best ones naked: then there grew for me the pinions to soar away into distant futures.
Into more distant futures, into more southern souths than ever artist dreamed of: there, where gods are ashamed of all clothes!
But disguised do I want to see you, you neighbors and fellowmen, and well-attired and vain and estimable, as «the good and just;»-
And disguised will I myself sit amongst you- that I may mistake you and myself: for that is my last manly prudence.-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 22 The Stillest Hour
WHAT has happened to me, my friends? You see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go- alas, to go away from you!
Yes, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously this time does the bear go back to his cave!
What has happened to me? Who orders this?- Ah, my angry mistress wishes it so; she spoke to me. Have I ever named her name to you?
Yesterday towards evening there spoke to me my still hour: that is the name of my terrible mistress.
And thus did it happen- for everything must I tell you, that your heart may not harden against the suddenly departing one!
Do you know the terror of him who falls asleep?-
To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground gives way under him, and the dream begins.
This do I speak to you in parable. Yesterday at the still hour did the ground give way under me: the dream began.
The hour-hand moved on, the timepiece of my life drew breath- never did I hear such stillness around me, so that my heart was
