ZARATHUSTRA’S PROLOGUE

1

When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his home and went into the mountains.1 There he enjoyed his spirit and solitude and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart changed-and rising one morning with the dawn, he stood before the sun and spoke to it thus:

“You great star! What would your happiness be if you had not those for whom you shine!

“For ten years you have climbed here to my cave: you would have wearied of your light and of this journey, without me, my eagle and my serpent.

“But we awaited you every morning, took from you your overflow and blessed you for it.

“Behold, I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that has gathered too much honey. I need hands outstretched to take it.

“I want to give away and distribute, until the wise have once more become happy in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches.

“Therefore I must descend into the depths: as you do in the evening, when you go behind the sea and bring light also to the underworld, you exuberant star!

“Like you must I go under2—as men say, to whom I shall descend.

“Bless me then, you tranquil eye, that can behold even an all-too-great happiness without envy!

“Bless the cup that wants to overflow, that the waters may flow golden from him and carry everywhere the reflection of your joy!

“Behold, this cup wants to be empty again, and Zarathustra wants to be man again.”

Thus Zarathustra began to go under.

2

Zarathustra went down the mountain alone and met no one. But when he entered the forest, there suddenly stood before him an old man, who had left his holy hut to look for roots. And the old man spoke thus to Zarathustra:

“This wanderer is no stranger to me: he passed by here many years ago. He was called Zarathustra; but he has changed.

“Then you carried your ashes into the mountains: would you now carry your fire into the valleys?3 Do you not fear the punishment for arsonists?

“Yes, I recognize Zarathustra. His eye is pure, and no loathing lurks about his mouth. Does he not walk like a dancer?

“Zarathustra is changed, Zarathustra has become a child, Zarathustra is an awakened one: what do you want now in the land of the sleepers?

“You lived in your solitude as in the sea, and it has borne you up. Alas, would you now climb ashore? Alas, would you again drag your own body?”

Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.”

“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it not because I loved men far too well? Now I love God: men, I do not love. Man is for me too imperfect a thing. Love of man would kill me.”

Zarathustra answered: “Did I speak of love! I bring men a gift.”

“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Take rather part of their load, and carry it along with them-that will be most agreeable to them: if only it agrees with you!

“And if you want to give to them, give them no more than alms, and let them beg for that!”

“No,” replied Zarathustra, “I give no alms. I am not poor enough for that.”

The saint laughed at Zarathustra and spoke thus: “Then see to it that they accept your treasures! They are distrustful of hermits, and do not believe that we come with gifts.

“Our footsteps ring too lonely through their streets. And just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us: where is the thief going?

“Do not go to men, but stay in the forest! Go rather even to the animals! Why not be like me—a bear among bears, a bird among birds?”4

“And what is the saint doing in the forest?” asked Zarathustra.

The saint answered: “I make songs and sing them; and in making hymns I laugh and weep and hum: thus I praise God.

“With singing, weeping, laughing, and humming I praise the god who is my god. But what do you bring us as a gift?”

When Zarathustra had heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said: “What could I have to give you! Let me rather hurry away lest I take something from you!”—And thus they parted from one another, the old one and the man, laughing, just like two schoolboys laugh.

But when Zarathustra was alone, he spoke thus to his heart: “Could it then be possible! This old saint in his forest has not yet heard of it, that God is dead!”5

3

When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town at the edge of the forest, he found many people assembled in the marketplace: for it had been announced that a tightrope walker would give a performance. And Zarathustra spoke thus to the people:

I teach you the Übermensch.6 Man is something that shall be overcome. 7 What have you done to overcome him?

All beings so far have created something beyond themselves: and you want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than overcome man?

What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock or a painful embarrassment. And just the same shall man be to the Übermensch: a laughing-stock or a painful embarrassment.

You have made your way from worm to man, and much within you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any ape.8

Even the wisest among you is only a conflict and hybrid of plant and ghost. But do I bid you become ghosts or plants?

Behold, I teach you the Übermensch!

The Übermensch is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Übermensch shall be the meaning of the earth!

I beseech you, my brothers, remain true to the earth, and do not believe those who speak to you of otherworldly hopes! They are poison-mixers, whether they know it or not.

They are despisers of life, themselves the decaying and poisoned, of whom the earth is weary: so away with them!

Once the sin against God was the greatest sin; but God died, and those sinners died with him. To sin against the earth is now the most dreadful sin, and to esteem the entrails of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth!

Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was the supreme thing:-the soul wished the body meager, ghastly, and famished. Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth.

Oh, that soul was herself meager, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was the delight of that soul! But you, also, my brothers, tell me: what does your body say about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched contentment?

Truly, man is a polluted stream. One must be a sea to receive a polluted stream without becoming impure.

Behold, I teach you the Übermensch: he is that sea; in him your great contempt can be submerged.

What is the greatest thing you can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becomes loathsome to you, and so also your reason and virtue.

The hour when you say: “What good is my happiness! It is poverty and pollution and wretched contentment. But my happiness should justify existence itself!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my reason! Does it long for knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched contentment!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my virtue! As yet it has not made me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my evil! It is all poverty and pollution and wretched contentment!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my justice! I do not see that I am flame and fuel. The just, however, are flame and fuel!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loves man? But my pity is not a crucifixion.”

Have you ever spoken thus? Have you ever cried thus? Ah, would that I had heard you crying thus!

It is not your sin—it is your stinginess that cries to heaven; your very thrift in sin cries to heaven!

Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy with which you should be inoculated?

Behold, I teach you the Übermensch: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!—

When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called out: “Now we have heard enough of the tightrope walker; it is time now for us to see him!” And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the tightrope walker, who thought the words were directed to him, began his performance.

4

Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spoke thus:

Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Übermensch—a rope over an abyss.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous trembling and halting.

What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what is lovable in man is that he is an over-going and a going under.

I love those that do not know how to live except by going under, for they are those who go over.

I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers and arrows of longing for the other shore.

I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond the stars for going under and being sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth may some day become that of the Übermensch.

I love him who lives in order to know, and seeks to know in order that the Übermensch may live some day. And thus he wants to go under.

I love him who labors and invents to build the house for the Übermensch, and to prepare for him earth, animal, and plant: for thus he wants to go under.

I love him who loves his virtue: for virtue is the will to going under, and an arrow of longing.

I love him who reserves not one drop of spirit for himself, but wants to be wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus he strides as spirit over the bridge.

I love him who makes his virtue his addiction and his catastrophe: thus, for the sake of his virtue, he wants to live on and to live no more.

I love him who does not want too many virtues. One virtue is more of a virtue than two, because it is more of a noose on which his catastrophe can hang.

I love him whose soul is extravagant, who wants no thanks and returns none: for he always gives away and does not want to preserve himself.

I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favor and then asks: “Am I a gambler who cheats?” For he wants to perish.

I love him who scatters golden words ahead of his deeds, and always does even more than he promises: for he wants to go under.

I love him who justifies the future ones, and redeems the past ones: for he wants to perish of the present.

I love him who chastens his god because he loves his god: for he must perish of the wrath of his God.

I love him whose soul is deep, even in being wounded, and who may perish through a minor matter: thus he goes willingly over the bridge.

I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgets himself, and all things are in him: thus all things become his going under.

I love him who has a free spirit and a free heart: thus his head is only the guts of his heart; his heart, however, causes his going under.

I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark cloud that lowers over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, and as heralds they perish.

Behold, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: the lightning, however, is the Übermensch.”

5

When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people and was silent. “There they stand,” he said to his heart; “there they laugh: they do not understand me; I am not the mouth for these ears.

“Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and preachers of repentance? Or do they only believe the stammerer?

“They have something they are proud of What do they call it, that which makes them proud? Education, they call it; it distinguishes them from the goatherds.

“Therefore they dislike to hear of ‘contempt’ of themselves. So I will appeal to their pride.

“I will speak to them of the most contemptible thing: but that is the last man!”

And thus spoke Zarathustra to the people:

It is time for man to set himself a goal. It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope.

His soil is still rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor and domesticated, and no tall tree will any longer be able to grow in it.

Alas! There comes the time when man will no longer shoot the arrow of his longing beyond man—and the string of his bow will have forgotten how to whir!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you still have chaos in yourselves.

Alas! There comes the time when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas! There comes the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.

Behold! I show you the last man.

“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”—so asks the last man and he blinks.

The earth has become small, and on it hops the last man who makes everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the flea; the last man lives longest.

“We have invented happiness”—say the last men, and blink.9

They have left the regions where it was hard to live: for one needs warmth. One still loves one’s neighbor and rubs against him: for one needs warmth.

Becoming sick and being suspicious are sinful to them: one proceeds carefully.

He is a fool who still stumbles over stones or human beings!

A little poison now and then: that makes pleasant dreams. And much poison at last for a pleasant death.

One still works, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.

One no longer becomes poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wants to rule? Who still wants to obey? Both are too burdensome.

No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wants the same; everyone is the same: whoever feels different goes willingly into the madhouse.

“ ‘Formerly all the world was insane,’ ”—say the subtlest of them and blink.

One is clever and knows all that has happened: so there is no end of derision. One still argues, but one is soon reconciled-otherwise it spoils the digestion.

One has one’s little pleasures for the day and one’s little pleasures for the night, but one has a regard for health.

“We have invented happiness,”—say the last men, and blink.

And here ended the first speech of Zarathustra, which is also called “The Prologue,”10 for at this point the shouting and mirth of the multitude interrupted him. “Give us this last man, O Zarathustra,”—they called out—“make us into these last men! Then we will make you a present of the Übermensch!” And all the people exulted and smacked their lips. But Zarathustra turned sad and said to his heart:

“They do not understand me: I am not the mouth for these ears.

“Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too long have I listened to the brooks and trees: now I speak to them as to the goatherds.

“My soul is calm and bright as the mountains in the morning. But they think I am cold and I jeer and make terrible jests.

“And now they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me too. There is ice in their laughter.”

6

Then, however, something happened which made every mouth mute and every eye stare. For meanwhile the tightrope walker had commenced his performance: he had come out at a little door, and was going along the rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the marketplace and the people. When he was just midway across, the little door opened once more, and a gaudilydressed fellow like a jester sprang out, and went rapidly after the first one. “Go on, lame foot,” cried his frightful voice, “go on, lazy-bones, interloper, sallow-face!—or I will tickle you with my heel! What are you doing here between the towers? In the tower is the place for you, you should be locked up; you block the way of your better!”—And with every word he came nearer and nearer. When, however, he was but a step behind, there happened the frightful thing which made every mouth mute and every eye stare-he uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped over the other who was in his way. But the latter, when he thus saw his rival triumph, lost both his head and his footing on the rope; he threw his pole away, and shot downwards faster than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The marketplace and the people were like the sea when a storm comes on: they all flew apart and over one another, especially where the body was about to fall.

But Zarathustra did not move, and the body fell just beside him, badly broken and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What are you doing there?” he said at last, “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he will drag me down to hell: will you prevent him?”

“On my honor, my friend,” answered Zarathustra, “there is nothing of all that you speak of: there is no devil and no hell. Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body: fear nothing further.”

The man looked up distrustfully. “If you speak the truth,” he said, “I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal that has been taught to dance by blows and a few scraps.”

“Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “You have made danger your calling; there is nothing contemptible in that. Now you perish by your calling: for that I will bury you with my own hands.”

When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but he moved his hand as if he sought Zarathustra’s hand in gratitude.

7

Meanwhile the evening came on, and the marketplace veiled itself in gloom. Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror grow weary. Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground, absorbed in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it became night, and a cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then Zarathustra rose and said to his heart:

“Truly, Zarathustra has made a fine catch of fish today!11 It is not a man he has caught, but a corpse.

“Human life is uncanny and as yet without meaning: a jester may be fatal to it.

“I want to teach men the sense of their existence: the Übermensch, the lightning out of the dark cloud of man.

“But I am still far from them, and my sense does not speak to their senses. To men I am still the mean between a fool and a corpse.

“Dark is the night, dark are the ways of Zarathustra. Come, you cold and stiff companion! I carry you to the place where I shall bury you with my own hands.”

8

When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he put the corpse upon his shoulders and set out on his way. Yet he had not gone a hundred steps when a man crept up to him and whispered in his ear—and behold, it was the jester from the tower. “Leave this town, O Zarathustra,” he said, “there are too many here who hate you. The good and just hate you, and call you their enemy and despiser; the believers in the true faith hate you, and call you a danger to the multitude. It was your good fortune to be laughed at: and truly you spoke like a jester. It was your good fortune to associate with the dead dog; by so humiliating yourself you have saved your life today. Depart, however, from this town,-or tomorrow I shall jump over you, a living man over a dead one.” And when he had said this, the jester vanished; but Zarathustra went on through the dark streets.

At the gate of the town the gravediggers met him: they shone their torch on his face, and, recognizing Zarathustra, they mocked him. “Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog: a fine thing that Zarathustra has turned a gravedigger! Our hands are too clean for that roast. Will Zarathustra steal the bite from the devil? Well then, we wish you a hearty meal. If only the devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra!-he will steal them both, he will eat them both!” And they laughed and put their heads together.

Zarathustra did not say a word and went on his way. When he had walked for two hours, past forests and swamps, he had heard too much of the greedy howling of the wolves, and he himself became hungry. So he halted at a lonely house where a light was burning.

“Hunger attacks me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. Among forests and swamps my hunger attacks me, and late in the night.

“My hunger is certainly capricious. Often it comes to me only after a meal, and all day it has failed to come: where has it been?”

And at that Zarathustra knocked on the door of the house. An old man appeared; he carried a light and asked: “Who comes to me and my bad sleep?”

“A living man and a dead one,” said Zarathustra. “Give me something to eat and drink, I forgot about it during the day. Whoever feeds the hungry refreshes his own soul: thus speaks wisdom.”

The old man withdrew, but came back immediately and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. “A bad country for the hungry,” he said; “that is why I live here. Animal and man come to me, the hermit. But bid your companion eat and drink also, he is wearier than you.” Zarathustra answered: “My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him to eat.” “That does not concern me,” said the old man sullenly; “whoever knocks at my door must take what I offer him. Eat, and be off!”12—

After that, Zarathustra walked another two hours, trusting the road and the light of the stars: for he was used to walking at night and liked to look into the face of all that slept. When the morning dawned, however, Zarathustra found himself in a thick forest, and no path was any longer visible. So he put the dead man into a hollow tree-for he wanted to protect him from the wolves—and laid himself down on the ground and moss. And immediately he fell asleep, his body fatigued but his soul untroubled.

9

For a long time Zarathustra slept; and not only dawn passed over his face but also the morning. At last, however, his eyes opened, and amazed he gazed into the forest and the stillness, amazed he gazed into himself Then he rose quickly, like a seafarer who suddenly sees the land; and he shouted for joy: for he saw a new truth. And thus he spoke to his heart:

“An insight has come to me: I need companions-living ones; not dead companions and corpses, which I carry with me where I please.

“But I need living companions, who will follow me because they want to follow themselves—wherever I please.

“An insight has come to me. Not to the people is Zarathustra to speak, but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be the shepherd and dog of a herd!13

“To lure many from the herd-for that I have come. The people and the herd shall be angry with me: Zarathustra wants to be called a robber by the shepherds.

“Shepherds, I say, but they call themselves the good and just. Shepherds, I say, but they call themselves believers in the true faith.

“Behold the good and just! Whom do they hate most? The man who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker:—he, however, is the creator.

“Behold the believers of all faiths! Whom do they hate most? The man who breaks their tablets of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker-he, however, is the creator.

“Companions, the creator seeks, not corpses-and not herds or believers either. Fellow creators the creator seeks-those who write new values on new tablets.

“Companions, the creator seeks, and fellow reapers: for everything about him is ripe for the harvest. But he lacks a hundred sickles: so he plucks ears of corn and is annoyed.

“Companions, the creator seeks, and such as know how to whet their sickles. Destroyers, they will be called, and despisers of good and evil. But they are the reapers and rejoicers.

“Fellow creators, Zarathustra seeks; fellow reapers and fellow rejoicers, Zarathustra seeks: what has he to do with herds and shepherds and corpses!

“And you, my first companion, farewell! I have buried you well in your hollow tree; I have hidden you well from the wolves.

“But I part from you; the time has arrived. Between dawn and dawn a new truth has come to me.

“I am not to be a shepherd, I am not to be a gravedigger. Never again shall I speak to the people; for the last time have I spoken to the dead.

“I shall join the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers: I shall show them the rainbow and all the steps to the Übermensch.

“To the hermits I will sing my song, to the lonesome and the twosome; and to him who still has ears for the unheard—I will make his heart heavy with my happiness.

“To my goal will I go—on my own way; over those who hesitate and loiter I shall leap. Thus let my going be their going under.”

10

This is what Zarathustra had said to his heart when the sun stood high at noon. Then he looked inquiringly aloft,—for he heard above him the sharp call of a bird. And behold! An eagle swept through the air in wide circles, and on him there hung a serpent, not as prey but as a friend: for she kept herself coiled round the eagle’s neck.

“They are my animals,” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his heart.

“The proudest animal under the sun, and the wisest animal under the sun,-they have come out to search.

“They want to know whether Zarathustra still lives. Truly, do I still live?

“I have found life to be more dangerous among men than among animals; on dangerous paths walks Zarathustra. Let my animals lead me!”

When Zarathustra had said this he remembered the words of the saint in the forest. Then he sighed and spoke thus to his heart:

“Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise from the very ground, like my serpent!

“But I am asking the impossible. Therefore I ask my pride to go always with my wisdom!

“And if my wisdom should some day forsake me:-ah! it loves to fly away!-may my pride then fly with my folly!”

Thus Zarathustra began to go under.