It is an earthly virtue which I love: there is little prudence in it, and least of all any common wisdom.
But that bird built its nest with me: therefore, I love and cherish it-now it sits with me on its golden eggs.»
Thus should you stammer, and praise your virtue.
Once you had passions and called them evil. But now you have only your virtues: they grew out of your passions.
You implanted your highest goal into the heart of those passions: then they became your virtues and joys.
And though you were of the race of the hot-tempered, or of the volup-tuous, or of the fanatical, or the vindictive;
All your passions in the end became virtues, and all your devils angels.
Once had you wild dogs in your cellar: but they changed at last into birds and charming singers.
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Out of your poisons you brewed your balsam; you milked your cow, melancholy- now you drink the sweet milk of her udder.
And nothing evil grows in you any longer, unless it be the evil that grows out of the conflict of your virtues.
My brother, if you are fortunate, then you have one virtue and no more: thus you will go easier over the bridge.
It is illustrious to have many virtues, but a hard lot; and many a one has gone into the wilderness and killed himself, because he was weary of being the battle and battlefield of virtues.
My brother, are war and battle evil? But this evil is necessary; neces-sary are the envy and the distrust and the back-biting among the virtues.
Behold how each of your virtues is covetous of the highest place; each wants your whole spirit to be her herald, it wants your whole power, in wrath, hatred, and love.
Each virtue is jealous of the others, and jealousy is a terrible thing. Even virtues may perish of jealousy.
He whom the flame of jealousy encompasses, will at last, like the scor-pion, turn the poisoned sting against himself.
Ah! my brother, have you never seen a virtue backbite and stab itself? Man is something that must be overcome: and therefore you will love
your virtues,- for you will perish by them.-Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 6
The Pale Criminal
YOU DO not want to kill, you judges and executioners, until the animal has bowed its head? Behold, the pale criminal has bowed his head: out of his eye speaks the great contempt.
«My ego is something that shall be overcome: my ego is to me the great contempt of man»: so speaks it out of that eye.
When he judged himself- that was his supreme moment; let not the ex-alted one return again to his baseness!
There is no salvation for the man who thus suffers from himself, un-less it be speedy death.
Your killing, you judges, shall be pity, and not revenge; and as you kill, be sure that you yourselves affirm life!
It is not enough that you should reconcile with the man whom you kill. Let your sorrow be love of the Superman: thus you will justify your own survival!
«Enemy» you shall say, but not «villain,» «invalid» you shall say, but not «wretch,» «fool» you shall say, but not «sinner.»
And you, red judge, if you would confess to all you have done in thought, then everyone would cry: «Away with this filth and this poison-ous snake!»
But the thought is one thing, the deed another, and the idea of the deed still another. The wheel of causality does not roll between them.
An idea made this pale man pale. He was equal to his deed when he did it, but the idea of it, he could not endure when it was done.
Always he now saw himself as the doer of one deed. Madness, I call this: the exception reversed itself to the rule in him.
The streak of chalk bewitches the hen; the stroke he struck stopped his weak reason. Madness after the deed, I call this.
Hearken, you judges! There is another madness besides, and it is be-fore the deed. Ah! you have not yet crept deep enough into this soul!
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Thus speaks the red judge: «Why did this criminal commit murder? He meant to rob.» I tell you, however, that his soul wanted blood, not rob-bery: he thirsted for the bliss of the knife!
But his weak reason did not understand this madness, and it per-suaded him: «What matters blood!» it said; «don’t you want, at least, to rob? Or take revenge?»
And he listened to his weak reason: like lead its words laid upon him-therefore he robbed when he murdered. He did not want to be ashamed of his madness.
And now the lead of his guilt lies upon him, and once more his weak reason is so numb, so paralyzed, so dull.
If only he could only shake his head, then his burden would roll off; but who can shake that head?
What is this man? A mass of diseases that reach out into the world through his spirit; there they want to catch their prey.
What is this man? A coil of wild snakes that are seldom at peace among themselves- so they go forth separately and seek their prey in the world.
Look at that poor body! What it suffered and craved, the poor soul in-terpreted to itself- it interpreted it as murderous desire, and eagerness for the bliss of the knife.
The man who turns sick today, is overcome by the evil which is evil today: he seeks to cause pain with whatever causes him pain. But there have been other ages, and another evil and good.
Once doubt was evil, and the will to Self. Then the invalids became heretics or witches; as heretics or witches they suffered, and sought to cause suffering.
But this will not enter your ears; it hurts your good people, you tell me. But what matter your good people to me!
Much about your good people cause me disgust, and verily, not their evil. I wish that they had a madness by which they might perish, like this pale criminal!
I wish that their madness were called truth, or fidelity, or justice: but they have their virtue in order to live long, and in miserable self-complacency.
I am a railing beside the torrent; whoever is able to grasp me may grasp me! Your crutch, however, I am not.-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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Chapter 7 Reading and Writing
OF ALL that is written, I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood, and you will find that blood is spirit.
It is no easy task to understand unfamiliar blood; I hate reading idlers. He who knows the reader, does nothing for the reader. Another cen-
tury of readers- and spirit itself will stink.
That everyone is allowed to learn to read, ruins in the long run not only writing but also thinking.
Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it even becomes rabble.
He that writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read, but learnt by heart.
In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route you must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks, and those spoken to should be tall and lofty.
The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joy-ful wickedness: these things go well together.
I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. Courage which scares away ghosts, creates goblins for itself- it wants to laugh.
I no longer feel as you do; the very cloud which I see beneath me, the blackness and heaviness at which I laugh- that is your thunder-cloud.
You look aloft when you long for exaltation; and I look downward be-cause I am exalted.
Who among you can at the same time laugh and be exalted?
He who climbs high mountains, laughs at all tragic plays and tragic realities.
Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent- thus wisdom wants us; wisdom is a woman, and always loves only a warrior.
You tell me, «Life is hard to bear.» But why should you have your pride in the morning and your resignation in the evening?
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Life is hard to bear: but do not pretend to be so delicate! We are all of us fine sumpter asses and she-asses.
What do we have in common with the rose-bud, which trembles be-cause a drop of dew lies on it?
It is true we love life; not because we are wont to live, but because we are wont to love.
There is always some madness in love. But there is always, also, some method in madness.
And to me also, who appreciates life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them, seem to know most about happiness.
To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about- that moves Zarathustra to tears and songs.
I would only believe in a God who could dance.
And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity- through him all things fall.
Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we kill. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity!
I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need to be pushed to move from a spot.
Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.-
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
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