AT NOON

AT NOON

—AND ZARATHUSTRA RAN AND ran but he found no one else, and he was alone and ever found himself again, he enjoyed and drank his solitude and thought of good things for hours on end. About the hour of noon, however, when the sun stood exactly over Zarathustra’s head, he passed an old, bent and gnarled tree, which was encircled by the abundant love of a vine, and hidden from itself: from it there hung yellow grapes in profusion, confronting the wanderer. Then he felt inclined to quench a little thirst, and to break off for himself a cluster of grapes. But when he had already reached out his arm to do so, he felt still more inclined for something else: namely, to lie down beside the tree at the hour of perfect noon and sleep.

This Zarathustra did; and no sooner had he laid himself on the ground in the stillness and secrecy of the mottled grass, than he forgot his modest thirst and fell asleep. For as the proverb of Zarathustra says: “One thing is more necessary than another.” Only his eyes remained open-for they never grew weary of viewing and admiring the tree and the love of the vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra spoke thus to his heart:

Hush! Hush! Has not the world become perfect just now? What has happened to me?

As a delicate wind dances invisibly upon parqueted seas, light, feather light: thus-sleep dances on me.

It does not close my eyes, it leaves my soul awake. It is light, truly! Feather light.

It persuades me, I know not how, it touches me inwardly with a caressing hand, it compels me. Yes, it compels me, so that my soul stretches itself out:—

—how long and weary it becomes, my strange soul! Has a seventh day’s evening come to it precisely at noon? Has it already wandered too long, blissfully, among good and ripe things?

It stretches itself out, long, long—longer! it lies still, my strange soul. It has tasted too many good things, this golden sadness oppresses it, it twists its mouth.

Like a ship that puts into the calmest cove-now it draws up to the land, weary of long voyages and uncertain seas. Is not the land more faithful?

As such a ship hugs the shore, nestles the shore-there it’s enough for a spider to spin its thread from the ship to the land. No stronger ropes are needed.

As such a weary ship in the calmest cove: so do I also repose now, near to the earth, faithful, trusting, waiting, bound to it with the lightest threads.

O happiness! O happiness! you will perhaps sing, O my soul? You lie in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour, when no shepherd plays his pipe.

Take care! Hot noon sleeps on the fields. Do not sing! Hush! The world is perfect.

Do not sing, you prairie bird, my soul! Do not even whisper! Look-hush! The old noon sleeps, it moves its mouth: does it not just now drink a drop of happiness—

—An old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine? Something whisks over it, its happiness laughs. Thus-does a god laugh. Hush!—

—‘For happiness, how little is sufficient for happiness!’ Thus I spoke once and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy: that I have now learned. Wise fools speak better.

The least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a lizard’s rustling, a breath, a whisk, a glance of an eye-little makes up the best happiness. Hush!

-What has happened to me? Listen! Has time flown away? Don’t I fall? Have I not fallen-hark! into the well of eternity?

-What happens to me? Hush! It stings me—ah—to the heart? To the heart! Oh, break up, break up, my heart, after such happiness, after such a sting!

-What? Has not the world become perfect just now? Round and ripe? Oh, for the golden round ring—where does it fly? Let me run after it! Quick!

Hush—” (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and felt that he was asleep.)

“Up!” he said to himself, “You sleeper! You noon sleeper! Well then, up, you old legs! It is time and past time; many a good stretch of road is still awaiting you—

Now you have slept your fill; for how long a time? A half-eternity! Well then, up now, my old heart! For how long after such a sleep may you—remain awake?”

(But then he fell asleep again, and his soul contradicted him and defended itself, and lay down again)—“Leave me alone! Hush! Has not the world become perfect just now? Oh, for the golden round ball!—

“Get up,” said Zarathustra, “you little thief, you slacker! What! Still stretching yourself, yawning, sighing, falling into deep wells?

“Who are you then, O my soul!” (and here he became frightened, for a sunbeam shot down from the sky upon his face.)

“O heaven above me,” he said sighing, and sat upright, “you gaze at me? You listen to my strange soul?

“When will you drink this drop of dew that fell down upon all earthly things,—when will you drink this strange soul—

—“when, you well of eternity! You joyous, awful, noon abyss! when will you drink my soul back into you?”

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and rose from his bed beside the tree, as if awakening from a strange drunkenness: and behold! the sun stood there still exactly above his head. But one might rightly infer from this that Zarathustra had not slept long.