ON THE PALE CRIMINAL

ON THE PALE CRIMINAL

You DO NOT WANT to kill, you judges and sacrificers, until the animal has nodded? Behold, the pale criminal has nodded: out of his eyes speaks the great contempt.

“My ‘I’ is something that shall be overcome: to me my ‘I’ is the great contempt of man”: so it speaks out of that eye.

When he judged himself—that was his supreme moment; do not the sublime relapse again into his baseness!

There is no salvation for him who thus suffers from himself, unless it is speedy death.

Your slaying, you judges, shall be pity, and not revenge; and as you kill, see to it that you yourselves justify life!

It is not enough that you should reconcile with him whom you kill. Let your sorrow be love of the Übermensch: thus you will justify your own survival!

“Enemy” you shall say but not “villain,” “sick” you shall say but not “wretch,” “fool” you shall say but not “sinner.”

And you, red judge, if you would say aloud all you have done in thought, then everyone would cry: “Away with this filth and this poisonous worm!”

But the thought is one thing, the deed another, and the image of the deed still another. The wheel of causality does not roll between them.

An image made this pale man pale. He was equal to his deed when he did it, but he could not endure its image after it was done.

Now he always saw himself as the doer of one deed. Madness, I call this: the exception became the essence for him.

A streak of chalk stops a hen; the stroke he himself struck stopped his weak reason-madness after the deed I call this.

Listen, you judges! There is yet another madness, and it comes before the deed. Ah, you have not yet crept deep enough into this soul!

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 robbery: he thirsted for the bliss of the knife!

But his poor reason did not understand this madness, and it persuaded him. “What matters blood!” it said; “don’t you want, at least, to commit a robbery with it? Or take revenge?”

And he listened to his poor reason: its words lay upon him like lead-so he robbed when he murdered. He did not want to be ashamed of his madness.

And now once more the lead of his guilt lies upon him, and once more his poor reason is so stiff, so paralyzed, so heavy.

If only he could shake his head, then his burden would roll off; but who shakes that head?

What is this man? A pile of diseases that reach out into the world through the spirit; there they want to catch their prey.

What is this man? A coil of wild serpents that are seldom at peace among themselves-so they go forth singly and seek prey in the world.

Look at that poor body! What it suffered and craved, the poor soul interpreted to itself-it interpreted it as murderous lust and greed for the bliss of the knife.

Those who fall sick today are overcome by that evil which is evil today: he seeks to hurt with that which hurts him. But there have been other ages and another evil and good.

Once doubt was evil, and the will to self. Then the sick became heretics or witches; as heretics or witches they suffered and sought to inflict suffering.

But this will not go in your ears; it hurts your good people, you tell me. But what do your good people matter to me!

Much in your good people nauseates me, and truly, it is not their evil. Indeed, I wish they had a madness by which they might perish like this pale criminal!

Truly, I wish their madness were called truth or fidelity or justice: but they have their virtue in order to live long and in wretched contentment.

I am a railing by the torrent; grasp me, those who can grasp me! Your crutch, however, I am not.—

Thus spoke Zarathustra.