ON PASSING BY

ON PASSING BY

THUS SLOWLY WANDERING THROUGH many peoples and diverse cities, Zarathustra returned by roundabout roads to his mountain and his cave. And behold, on his way he came unawares to the gate of the great city: but here a frothing fool with outstretched hands sprang at him and blocked his way. It was the same fool whom the people called “Zarathustra’s ape”: for he had gathered something of phrasing and cadence and perhaps also liked to borrow from his store of wisdom. But the fool spoke thus to Zarathustra:

O Zarathustra, here is the great city: here you have nothing to seek and everything to lose.

Why would you wade through this mire? Have pity on your feet! Rather spit on the gate of the city, and-turn back!

Here is the hell for hermits’ thoughts: here great thoughts are boiled alive and reduced.

Here all great sentiments decay: only the smallest rattleboned feelings rattle here!

Don’t you already smell the slaughterhouses and cookshops of the spirit? Does not this city steam with the fumes of slaughtered spirit?

Don’t you see the souls hanging like limp dirty rags?—And they also make newspapers out of these rags!

Don’t you hear how spirit has here become a play on words? It vomits out loathsome verbal swill!—And they make newspapers out of this verbal swill too.

They hound one another and don’t know where! They inflame one another and don’t know why! They rattle with their tins, they jingle with their gold.

They are cold and seek warmth from distilled waters; they are inflamed and seek coolness from frozen spirits; they are all sick and diseased with public opinion.

All lusts and vices are at home here; but the virtuous are here too, there are there is much serviceable serving virtue:—

Much serviceable virtue with scribbling fingers and behinds hardened to sitting and waiting, blessed with little chest decorations and padded, rumpless daughters.

There is also much piety here and much devout lick-spittleing and fawning before the God of Hosts.

Down “from on high” trickles the star and the gracious spittle; every starless chest longs for what comes from above.

The moon has her court, and the court has its mooncalves: to everything, however, that comes from the court, the serviceable mob and all serviceable beggar virtues pray.

“I serve, you serve, we serve”—thus all serviceable virtue prays to the prince: that the deserved star may at last be pinned on the narrow chest!

But the moon still revolves around all that is earthly: so too the prince revolves around what is earthliest of all-that, however, is the gold of the shopkeeper.

The God of the Hosts of is not the god of gold bars; the prince proposes, but the shopkeeper—disposes!

By all that is luminous and strong and good in you, O Zarathustra! Spit on this city of shopkeepers and turn back!

Here all blood flows putrid and tepid and frothy through all veins: spit on the great city that is the great trash heap where all the scum froths together!

Spit on the city of compressed souls and narrow chests, of slit eyes and sticky fingers—

—on the city of the importunate, the shameless, the scribble-and scream-throats, the overheated ambitious ones:—

—where everything infirm, infamous, lustful, gloomy, insipid, ulcerous, and conspiratorial festers together:—

—spit on the great city and turn back!—

But here Zarathustra interrupted the foaming fool and put his hand over his mouth.—

Stop at last! shouted Zarathustra, your speech and your kind have long disgusted me!

Why did you live so long by the swamp that you yourself had to become a frog and a toad?

Does not a tainted, frothy swamp-blood now flow in your own veins, when you have thus learned to croak and revile?

Why did you not go into the forest? Or till the earth? Is the sea not full of green islands?

I despise your contempt; and since you warned me—why did you not warn yourself?

Out of love alone shall my contempt and my warning bird take wing: but not out of the swamp!—

They call you my ape, you foaming fool: but I call you my grunting pig—by your grunting you are spoiling even my praise of folly.

What was it that first made you grunt? Because no one sufficiently flattered you:-therefore you sat yourself beside this filth, so that you might have cause for much grunting,—

—that you might have cause for much revenge! For revenge, you vain fool, is all your foaming; I have divined you well!

But your fools’ words injure me, even when you are right! And even if Zarathustra’s words were a hundred times justified: you would always—do wrong with my words!

Thus spoke Zarathustra; and he looked on the great city, sighed and was long silent. At last he spoke thus:

I am disgusted by this great city, too, and not only this fool. Here as there, there is nothing to better, nothing to worsen.

Woe to this great city!-And I wish that I already saw the pillar of fire in which it will be consumed!

For such pillars of fire must precede the great noon. But this has its time and its own fate.—

This precept, however, I give to you in parting, you fool: Where one can no longer love, there should one—pass by!—

Thus spoke Zarathustra and passed by the fool and the great city.