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they never grew weary of viewing and admiring the tree and
the love of the vine. In falling asleep, however, Zarathustra
spake thus to his heart:

"Hush! Hush! Hath not the world now become perfect?
What hath happened unto me?

As a delicate wind danceth invisibly upon parqueted seas,
light, feather-light, so danceth sleep upon me.

No eye doth it close to me, it leaveth my soul awake. Light
is it, verily, feather-light.

It persuadeth me, I know not how, it toucheth me inwardly
with a caressing hand, it constraineth me. Yea, it constraineth
me, so that my soul stretcheth itself out:-

How long and weary it becometh, my strange soul! Hath
a seventh-day evening come to it precisely at noontide? Hath
it already wandered too long, blissfully, among good and ripe

It stretcheth itself out, long longer! it lieth still, my strange
soul. Too many good things hath it already tasted; this golden
sadness oppresseth it, it distorteth its mouth.

As a ship that putteth into the calmest cove: it now


draweth up to the land, weary of long voyages and uncertain
seas. Is not the land more faithful?

As such a ship huggeth the shore, tuggeth the shore: then
it sufficeth for a spider to spin its thread from the ship to the
land. No stronger ropes are required there.

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

O happiness! O happiness! Wilt thou perhaps sing, O my
soul? Thou liest in the grass. But this is the secret, solemn hour,
when no shepherd playeth his pipe.

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

Do not sing, thou prairie-bird, my soul! Do not even whis-
per! Lo hush! The old noontide sleepeth, it moveth its
mouth: doth it not just now drink a drop of happiness

An old brown drop of golden happiness, golden wine?
Something whisketh over it, its happiness laugheth. Thus
laugheth a God. Hush!

'For happiness, how little sufficeth for happiness!' Thus
spake I once and thought myself wise. But it was a blasphemy:
that have I now learned. Wise fools speak better.

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

What hath befallen me: Hark! Hath time flown away?
Do I not fall? Have I not fallen hark! into the well of

What happeneth to me? Hush! It stingeth me alas to
the heart? To the heart! Oh, break up, break up, my heart,
after such happiness, after such a sting!


What? Hath not the world just now become perfect?
Round and ripe? Oh, for the golden round ring whither
doth it fly? Let me run after it! Quick!

Hush " (and here Zarathustra stretched himself, and

felt that he was asleep. )

"Up!" said he to himself, "thou sleeper! Thou noontide
sleeper! Well then, up, ye old legs! It is time and more than
time; many a good stretch of road is still awaiting you

Now have ye slept your fill; for how long a time? A half-
eternity! Well then, up now, mine old heart! For how long
after such a sleep mayest thou remain awake?"

(But then did he fall asleep anew, and his soul spake against
him and defended itself, and lay down again) "Leave me
alone! Hush! Hath not the world just now become perfect?
Oh, for the golden round ball!"

"Get up," said Zarathustra, "thou little thief, thou slug-
gard! What! Still stretching thyself, yawning, sighing, falling
into deep wells?

Who art thou then, O my soul!" ( and here he became fright-
ened, for a sunbeam shot down from heaven upon his face. )

"O heaven above me," said he sighing, and sat upright,
"thou gazest at me? Thou hearkenest unto my strange soul?

When wilt thou drink this drop of dew that fell down upon
all earthly things, when wilt thou drink this strange soul

When, thou well of eternity! thou joyous, awful, noon-
tide abyss! when wilt thou drink my soul back into thee?"

Thus spake Zarathustra, and rose from his couch beside the
tree, as if awakening from a strange drunkenness: and behold!
there stood the sun still exactly above his head. One might,
however, rightly infer therefrom that Zarathustra had not
then slept long.


77. The Greeting

IT WAS late in the afternoon only when Zarathustra, after long
useless searching and strolling about, again came home to his
cave. When, however, he stood over against it, not more than
twenty paces therefrom, the thing happened which he now
least of all expected: he heard anew the great cry of distress.
And extraordinary! this time the cry came out of his own cave.
It was a long, manifold, peculiar cry, and Zarathustra plainly
distinguished that it was composed of many voices: although
heard at a distance it might sound like the cry out of a single

Thereupon Zarathustra rushed forward to his cave, and
behold! what a spectacle awaited him after that concert! For
there did they all sit together whom he had passed during the
day: the king on the right and the king on the left, the old
magician, the pope, the voluntary beggar, the shadow, the in-
tellectually conscientious one, the sorrowful soothsayer, and
the ass; the ugliest man, however, had set a crown on his head,
and had put round him two purple girdles, for he liked, like
all ugly ones, to disguise himself and play the handsome per-
son. In the midst, however, of that sorrowful company stood
Zarathustra's eagle, ruffled and disquieted, for it had been
called upon to answer too much for which its pride had not any
answer; the wise serpent however hung round its neck.

All this did Zarathustra behold with great astonishment;
then however he scrutinised each individual guest with cour-
teous curiosity, read their souls and wondered anew. In the
meantime the assembled ones had risen from their seats, and
waited with reverence for Zarathustra to speak. Zarathustra
however spake thus :


'Ye despairing ones! Ye strange ones! So it was your cry of
distress that I heard? And now do I know also where he is to
be sought, whom I have sought for in vain today: the higher
man :

In mine own cave sitteth he, the higher man! But why do
I wonder! Have not I myself allured him to me by honey-
offerings and artful lure-calls of my happiness?

But it seemeth to me that ye are badly adapted for com-
pany: ye make one another's hearts fretful, ye that cry for
help, when ye sit here together? There is one that must first

One who will make you laugh once more, a good jovial
buffoon, a dancer, a wind, a wild romp, some old fool:
what think ye?

Forgive me, however, ye despairing ones, for speaking such
trivial words before you, unworthy, verily, of such guests!
But ye do not divine what maketh my heart wanton:

Ye yourselves do it, and your aspect, forgive it me! For
every one becometh courageous who beholdeth a despairing
one. To encourage a despairing one every one thinketh him-
self strong enough to do so.

To myself have ye given this power, a good gift, mine
honourable guests! An excellent guest's-present! Well, do not
then upbraid when I also offer you something of mine.

This is mine empire and my dominion: that which is mine,
however, shall this evening and tonight be yours. Mine ani-
mals shall serve you : let my cave be your resting-place!

At house and home with me shall no one despair: in my
purlieus do I protect every one from his wild beasts. And that
is the first thing which I offer you: security!

The second thing, however, is my little finger. And when ye


have that, then take the whole hand also, yea and the heart
with it! Welcome here, welcome to you, my guests!"

Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed with love and mis-
chief. After this greeting his guests bowed once more and were
reverentially silent; the king on the right, however, answered
him in their name.

"O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast given us thy
hand and thy greeting, we recognise thee as Zarathustra. Thou
hast humbled thyself before us; almost hast thou hurt our
reverence :

Who however could have humbled himself as thou hast
done, with such pride? That uplifteth us ourselves; a refresh-
ment is it, to our eyes and hearts.

To behold this, merely, gladly would we ascend higher
mountains than this. For as eager beholders have we come; we
wanted to see what brighteneth dim eyes.

And lo! now is it all over with our cries of distress. Now
are our minds and hearts open and enraptured. Little is lack-
ing for our spirits to become wanton.

There is nothing, O Zarathustra, that groweth more pleas-
ingly on earth than a lofty, strong will : it is the finest growth.
An entire landscape refresheth itself at one such tree.

To the pine do I compare him, O Zarathustra, which
groweth up like thee tall, silent, hardy, solitary, of the best,
supplest wood, stately,

In the end, however, grasping out for its dominion with
strong, green branches, asking weighty questions of the wind,
the storm, and whatever is at home on high places;

Answering more weightily, a commander, a victor! Oh!
who should not ascend high mountains to behold such

At thy tree, O Zarathustra, the gloomy and ill-constituted


also refresh themselves; at thy look even the wavering become
steady and heal their hearts.

And verily, towards thy mountain and thy tree do many eyes
turn to-day; a great longing hath arisen, and many have learned
to ask: 'Who is Zarathustra?'

And those into whose ears thou hast at any time dripped
thy song and thy honey: all the hidden ones, the lone-dwellers
and the twain-dwellers, have simultaneously said to their

'Doth Zarathustra still live? It is no longer worth while to
live, everything is indifferent, everything is useless: or else
we must live with Zarathustra!'

'Why doth he not come who hath so long announced him-
self?' thus do many people ask; 'hath solitude swallowed him
up? Or should we perhaps goto him?'

Now doth it come to pass that solitude itself becometh
fragile and breaketh open, like a grave that breaketh open and
can no longer hold its dead. Everywhere one seeth resurrected

Now do the waves rise and rise around thy mountain, O
Zarathustra. And however high be thy height, many of them
must rise up to thee: thy boat shall not rest much longer on dry

And that we despairing ones have now come into thy cave,
and already no longer despair: it is but a prognostic and a
presage that better ones are on the way to thee,

For they themselves are on the way to thee, the last
remnant of God among men that is to say, all the men of
great longing, of great loathing, of great satiety,

All who do not want to live unless they learn again to
hope unless they learn from thee, O Zarathustra, the great


Thus spake the king on the right, and seized the hand of
Zarathustra in order to kiss it; but Zarathustra checked his
veneration, and stepped back frightened, fleeing as it were,
silently and suddenly into the far distance. After a little while,
however, he was again at home with his guests, looked at
them with clear scrutinising eyes, and said:

"My guests, ye higher men, I will speak plain language and
plainly with you. It is not for you that I have waited here in
these mountains."

(" 'Plain language and plainly?' Good God!" said here the
king on the left to himself; "one seeth he doth not know the
good Occidentals, this sage out of the Orient!

But he meaneth 'blunt language and bluntly' well! That
is not the worst taste in these days!" )

"Ye may, verily, all of you be higher men," continued Zara-
thustra; "but for me ye are neither high enough, nor strong

For me, that is to say, for the inexorable which is now silent
in me, but will not always be silent. And if ye appertain to me,
still it is not as my right arm.

For he who himself standeth, like you, on sickly and tender
legs, wisheth above all to be treated indulgently, whether he be
conscious of it or hide it from himself.

My arms and my legs, however, I do not treat indulgently,
1 do not treat my warriors Indulgently: how then could ye be
iit for my warfare?

With you I should spoil all my victories. And many of you
would tumble over if ye but heard the loud beating of my

Moreover, ye are not sufficiently beautiful and well-born for
me. I require pure, smooth mirrors for my doctrines; on your
surface even mine own likeness is distorted.


On your shoulders presseth many a burden, many a recol-
lection; many a mischievous dwarf squatteth in your corners.
There is concealed populace also in you.

And though ye be high and of a higher type, much in you
is crooked and misshapen. There is no smith in the world that
could hammer you right and straight for me.

Ye are only bridges: may higher ones pass over upon you!
Ye signify steps: so do not upbraid him who ascendeth beyond
you into his height!

Out of your seed there may one day arise for me a genuine
son and perfect heir: but that time is distant. Ye yourselves
are not those unto whom my heritage and name belong.

Not for you do I wait here in these mountains; not with you
may I descend for the last time. Ye have come unto me only
as a presage that higher ones are on the way to me,

Not the men of great longing, of great loathing, of great
satiety, and that which ye call the remnant of God;

Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! For others do I wait here
in these mountains, and will not lift my foot from thence
without them;

For higher ones, stronger ones, triumphanter ones,
merrier ones, for such as are built squarely in body and soul :
laughing lions must come!

O my guests, ye strange ones have ye yet heard nothing of
my children? And that they are on the way to me?

Do speak unto me of my gardens, of my Happy Isles, of my
new beautiful race why do ye not speak unto me thereof?

This guests' -present do I solicit of your love, that ye speak
unto me of my children. For them am I rich, for them I became
poor: what have I not surrendered.

What would I not surrender that I might have one thing:


these children, this living plantation, these life-trees of my
will and of my highest hope!"

Thus spake Zarathustra, and stopped suddenly in his dis-
course: for his longing came over him, and he dosed his eyes
and his mouth, because of the agitation of his heart. And all
his guests also were silent, and stood still and confounded:
except only that the old soothsayer made signs with his hands
and his gestures.

. The Supper

FOR at this point the soothsayer interrupted the greeting of
Zarathustra and his guests : he pressed forward as one who had
no time to lose, seized Zarathustra's hand and exclaimed: "But

One thing is more necessary than the other, so sayest thou
thyself: well, one thing is now more necessary unto me than
all others.

A word at the right time: didst thou not invite me to table?
And here are many who have made long journeys. Thou dost
not mean to feed us merely with discourses?

Besides, all of you have thought too much about freezing,
drowning, suffocating, and other bodily dangers : none of you,
however, have thought of my danger, namely, perishing of
hunger ' '

(Thus spake the soothsayer. When Zarathustra's animals,
however, heard these words, they ran away in terror. For they
saw that all they had brought home during the day would not
be enough to fill the one soothsayer. )

"Likewise perishing of thirst," continued the soothsayer.
"And although I hear water splashing here like words of wis-


dom that is to say, plenteously and unweariedly, I want

Not every one is a born water-drinker like Zarathustra.
Neither doth water suit weary and withered ones: we deserve
wine // alone giveth immediate vigour and improvised

On this occasion, when the soothsayer was longing for wine,
it happened that the king on the left, the silent one, also found
expression for once. "We took care," said he, "about wine, I,
along with my brother the king on the right: we have enough
of wine, a whole ass-load of it. So there is nothing lacking
but bread."

"Bread," replied Zarathustra, laughing when he spake, "it
is precisely bread that anchorites have not. But man doth not
live by bread alone, but also by the flesh of good lambs, of
which I have two:

These shall we slaughter quickly, and cook spicily with
sage: it is so that I like them. And there is also no lack of
roots and fruits, good enough even for the fastidious and
dainty, nor of nuts and other riddles for cracking.

Thus will we have a good repast in a little while. But who-
ever wisheth to eat with us must also give a hand to the work,
even the kings. For with Zarathustra even a king may be a

This proposal appealed to the hearts of all of them, save
that the voluntary beggar objected to the flesh and wine and

'Just hear this glutton Zarathustra!" said he jokingly: "doth
one go into caves and high mountains to make such repasts?

Now indeed do I understand what he once taught us:
'Blessed be moderate poverty!' And why he wisheth to do
away with beggars."


"Be of good cheer," replied Zarathustra, "as I am. Abide
by thy customs, thou excellent one : grind thy corn, drink thy
water, praise thy cooking, if only it make thee glad!

I am a law only for mine own; I am not a law for all. He,
however, who belongeth unto me must be strong of bone and
light of foot,

Joyous in fight and feast, no sulker, no John o' Dreams,
ready for the hardest task as for the feast, healthy and hale.

The best belongeth unto mine and me; and if it be not given,
us, then do we take it: the best food, the purest sky, the
strongest thoughts, the fairest women!"

Thus spake Zarathustra; the king on the right however
answered and said: "Strange! Did one ever hear such sensible
things out of the mouth of a wise man?

And verily, it is the strangest thing in a wise man, if over
and above, he be still sensible, and not an ass."

Thus spake the king on the right and wondered; the ass
however, with ill-will, said YE-A to his remark. This however
was the beginning of that long repast which is called 'The
Supper" in the history-books. At this there was nothing else
spoken of but the higher man.

The Higher Man

WHEN I came unto men for the first time, then did I commit
the anchorite folly, the great folly : I appeared on the market-


And when I spake unto all, I spake unto none. In the eve-
ning, however, rope-dancers were my companions, and
corpses; and I myself almost a corpse.

With the new morning, however, there came unto me a new
truth: then did I learn to say: "Of what account to me are
market-place and populace and populace-noise and long popu-

Ye higher men, learn this from me: On the market-place no
one believeth in higher men. But if ye will speak there, very
well! The populace, however, blinketh: "We are all equal."

'Ye higher men," so blinketh the populace "there are
no higher men, we are all equal; man is man, before God
we are all equal!"

Before God! Now, however, this God hath died. Before
the populace, however, we will not be equal. Ye higher men,
away from the market-place!

Before God! Now however this God hath died! Ye higher
men, this God was your greatest danger.

Only since he lay in the grave have ye again arisen. Now
only cometh the great noontide, now only doth the higher
man become master!

Have ye understood this word, O my brethren? Ye are
frightened: do your hearts turn giddy? Doth the abyss here
yawn for you? Doth the hell-hound here yelp at you?

Well! Take heart! ye higher men! Now only travaileth the
mountain of the human future. God hath died: now do we
desire the Superman to live.



The most careful ask to-day: "How is man to be main-
tained?" Zarathustra however asketh, as the first and only one:
"How is man to be surpassed?"

The Superman, I have at heart; that is the first and only thing
to me and not man: not the neighbour, not the poorest, not
the sorriest, not the best.

O my brethren, what I can love in man is that he is an over-
going and a down-going. And also in you there is much that
maketh me love and hope.

In that ye have despised, ye higher men, that maketh me
hope. For the great despisers are the great reverers.

In that ye have despaired, there is much to honour. For ye
have not learned to submit yourselves, ye have not learned
petty policy.

For to-day have the petty people become master: they all
preach submission and humility and policy and diligence and
consideration and the long et cetera of petty virtues.

Whatever is of the effeminate type, whatever originateth
from the servile type, and especially the populace-mishmash:
that wisheth now to be master of all human destiny O
disgust! Disgust! Disgust!

That asketh and asketh and never tireth: "How is man to
maintain himself best, longest, most pleasantly?" Thereby
are they the masters of today.

These masters of today surpass them, O my brethren
these petty people: they are the Superman's greatest danger!

Surpass, ye higher men, the petty virtues, the petty policy,
the sand-grain considerateness, the ant-hill trumpery, the piti-


able comfortableness, the "happiness of the greatest num-

And rather despair than submit yourselves. And verily, I
love you, because ye know not today how to live, ye higher
men! For thus do ye live best!

Have ye courage, O my brethren? Are ye stout-hearted? Not
the courage before witnesses, but anchorite and eagle courage,
which not even a God any longer beholdeth?

Cold souls, mules, the blind and the drunken, I do not call
stout-hearted. He hath heart who knoweth fear, but vanquish-
ed it; who seeth the abyss, but with pride.

He who seeth the abyss, but with eagle's eyes, he who with
eagle's talons grasp eth the abyss: he hath courage.

"Man is evil" so said to me for consolation, all the wisest
ones. Ah, if only it be still true today! For the evil is man's
best force.

"Man must become better and eviler" so do I teach. The
evilest is necessary for the Superman's best.

It may have been well for the preacher of the petty people
to suffer and be burdened by men's sin. I, however, rejoice in
great sin as my great consolation.

Such things, however, are not said for long ears. Every word,
also, is not suited for every mouth. These are fine far-away
things: at them sheep's claws shall not grasp!



Ye higher men, think ye that I am here to put right what ye
have put wrong?

Or that I wished henceforth to make snugger couches for
you sufferers? Or show you restless, miswandering, misclimb-
ing ones, new and easier footpaths?

Nay! Nay! Three times Nay! Always more, always better
ones of your type shall succumb, for ye shall always have it
worse and harder. Thus only

Thus only groweth man aloft to the height where the
lightning striketh and shartereth him: high enough for the

Towards the few, the long, the remote go forth my soul and
my seeking: of what account to me are your many little, short

Ye do not yet suffer enough for me! For ye suffer from your-
selves, ye have not yet suffered from man. Ye would lie if ye
spake otherwise! None of you suffereth from what / have suf-

It is not enough for me that the lightning no longer doeth
harm. I do not wish to conduct it away: it shall learn to work
for me.

My wisdom hath accumulated long like a doud, it becometh
stiller and darker. So doeth all wisdom which shall one day
bear lightnings.


Unto these men of today will I not be light t nor be called
light. Themvfitt. I blind: lightning of my wisdom! put out
their eyes!


Do not will anything beyond your power: there is a bad
falseness in those who will beyond their power.

Especially when they will great things! For they awaken
distrust in great things, these subtle false-coiners and stage-

Until at last they are false towards themselves, squint-
eyed, whited cankers, glossed over with strong words, parade
virtues and brilliant false deeds.

Take good care there, ye higher men! For nothing is more
precious to me, and rarer, than honesty.

Is this today not that of the populace? The populace how-
ever knoweth not what is great and what is small, what is

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