"Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for All and None"

I now wish to relate the history of Zarathustra. The fundamental idea of the work, the Eternal Recurrence, the highest formula of a Yea-saying to life that can ever be attained, was first conceived in the month of August 1881. I made a note of the idea on a sheet of paper, with the postscript: "Six thousand feet beyond man and time." That day I happened to be wandering through the woods alongside of the Lake of Silvaplana, and I halted not far from Surlei, beside a huge rock that towered aloft like a pyramid. It was then that the thought struck me. Looking back now, I find that exactly two months before this inspiration I had an omen of its coming in the form of a sudden and decisive change in my tastes—more particularly in music. The whole of Zarathustra might perhaps be classified under the rubric music. At all events, the essential condition of its production was a second birth within me of the art of hearing. In Recoaro, a small mountain resort near Vicenza, where I spent the spring of 1881, I and my friend and maestro, Peter Gast—who was also one who had been born again, discovered that the phœnix music hovered over us, in lighter and brighter plumage than it had ever worn before. If, therefore, I now calculate from that day forward the sudden production of the book, under the most unlikely circumstances, in February 1883,—the last part, out of which I quoted a few lines in my preface, was written precisely in the hallowed hour when Richard Wagner gave up the ghost in Venice,—I come to the conclusion that the period of gestation covered eighteen months. This period of exactly eighteen months, might suggest, at least to Buddhists, that I am in reality a female elephant The interval was devoted to the Gaya Scienza, which contains hundreds of indications of the proximity of something unparalleled; for, after all, it shows the beginning of Zarathustra, since it presents Zarathustra's fundamental thought in the last aphorism but one of the fourth book. To this interval also belongs that Hymn to Life (for a mixed choir and orchestra), the score of which was published in Leipzig two years ago by E. W. Fritsch, and which gave perhaps no slight indication of my spiritual state during this year, in which the essentially yea-saying pathos, which I call the tragic pathos, completely filled me heart and limb. One day people will sing it to my memory. The text, let it be well understood, as there is some misunderstanding abroad on this point, is not by me; it was the astounding inspiration of a young Russian lady, Miss Lou von Salome, with whom I was then on friendly terms. He who is in any way able to make some sense of the last words of the poem, will divine why I preferred and admired it: there is greatness in them. Pain is not regarded as an objection to existence: "And if thou hast no bliss now left to crown me—Lead on! Thou hast thy Sorrow still."

I now want to tell the story of Zarathustra. I first conceived the work’s central idea, the Eternal Recurrence, in August 1881. It is the highest possible formula for saying yes to life. I wrote the idea on a sheet of paper, adding: "Six thousand feet beyond man and time." That day I was walking through the woods along Lake of Silvaplana. I stopped near Surlei, beside a huge rock that rose like a pyramid. It was then that the thought struck me. Looking back, I see that exactly two months before this inspiration, I had a sign of its coming. My tastes had changed suddenly and decisively, especially in music. Perhaps the whole of Zarathustra could be classified as music. In any case, the essential condition for writing it was a second birth of the art of hearing within me. I spent the spring of 1881 in Recoaro, a small mountain resort near Vicenza. There, my friend and maestro, Peter Gast, and I discovered that the phoenix music hovered over us. Its plumage was lighter and brighter than ever before. Gast, too, had been born again. If I count forward from that day, I arrive at the book’s sudden creation in February 1883, under the most unlikely circumstances. I quoted a few lines from its last part in my preface. That part was written at the very hour when Richard Wagner died in Venice. I conclude, then, that the period of gestation lasted eighteen months. This period of exactly eighteen months might suggest, at least to Buddhists, that I am really a female elephant. The intervening period was devoted to Gaya Scienza, which contains hundreds of signs that something unparalleled was near. After all, the book shows the beginning of Zarathustra. The second-to-last aphorism of its fourth book presents Zarathustra's central thought. To this same period belongs my Hymn to Life for mixed choir and orchestra. E. W. Fritsch published its score in Leipzig two years ago. It perhaps gave a strong indication of my spiritual state that year. The essentially life-affirming feeling I call the tragic pathos filled my heart and limbs completely. One day people will sing the hymn in my memory. Let it be clearly understood that I did not write the text of the hymn. There has been some misunderstanding about this. It was the astonishing inspiration of a young Russian woman, Miss Lou von Salome, with whom I was then on friendly terms. Anyone who can make some sense of the poem’s final words will understand why I preferred and admired it. There is greatness in those words. Pain is not treated as an objection to existence: "And if thou hast no bliss now left to crown me, lead on! Thou hast thy Sorrow still."

Maybe that my music is also great in this passage. (The last note of the oboe, by the bye, is C sharp, not C. The latter is a misprint.) During the following winter, I was living on that charmingly peaceful Gulf of Rapallo, not far from Genoa, which cuts inland between Chiavari and Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good; the winter was cold and exceptionally rainy; and the small albergo in which I lived was so close to the water that at night my sleep was disturbed if the sea was rough. These circumstances were surely the very reverse of favourable; and yet, in spite of it all, and as if in proof of my belief that everything decisive comes to life in defiance of every obstacle, it was precisely during this winter and in the midst of these unfavourable circumstances that my Zarathustra originated. In the morning I used to start out in a southerly direction up the glorious road to Zoagli, which rises up through a forest of pines and gives one a view far out to sea. In the afternoon, or as often as my health allowed, I walked round the whole bay from Santa Margherita to beyond Porto Fino. This spot affected me all the more deeply because it was so dearly loved by the Emperor Frederick III. In the autumn of 1886 I chanced to be there again when he was revisiting this small forgotten world of happiness for the last time. It was on these two roads that all Zarathustra came to me, above all, Zarathustra himself as a type—I ought rather to say that it was on these walks that he waylaid me.

Perhaps my music is also great in this passage. (By the way, the oboe’s last note is C sharp, not C. The C is a misprint.) The following winter, I was living on the charmingly peaceful Gulf of Rapallo, not far from Genoa. The gulf cuts inland between Chiavari and Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good, and the winter was cold and exceptionally rainy. The small albergo where I lived was so close to the water that rough seas disturbed my sleep at night. These circumstances were surely far from favorable. Yet it was precisely during this winter, amid all these unfavorable circumstances, that my Zarathustra came into being. It was as if this proved my belief that everything decisive comes to life in defiance of every obstacle. In the morning, I would head south along the glorious road up to Zoagli. The road rises through a pine forest and offers a view far out to sea. In the afternoon, or as often as my health allowed, I walked around the whole bay, from Santa Margherita to beyond Porto Fino. This place affected me all the more deeply because Emperor Frederick III loved it so dearly. In the autumn of 1886, I happened to be there again when he returned to this small, forgotten world of happiness for the last time. All of Zarathustra came to me on these two roads, above all Zarathustra himself as a type. I should rather say that on these walks he waylaid me.

In order to understand this type, you must first be quite clear concerning its fundamental physiological condition: this condition is what I call great healthiness. In regard to this idea I cannot make my meaning more plain or more personal than I have done already in one of the last aphorisms (No. 382) of the fifth book of the Gaya Scienza: "We new, nameless, and unfathomable creatures," so reads the passage, "we firstlings of a future still unproved—we who have a new end in view also require new means to that end, that is to say, a new healthiness, a stronger, keener, tougher, bolder, and merrier healthiness than any that has existed heretofore. He who longs to feel in his own soul the whole range of values and aims that have prevailed on earth until his day, and to sail round all the coasts of this ideal 'Mediterranean Sea'; who, from the adventures of his own inmost experience, would fain know how it feels to be a conqueror and discoverer of the ideal;—as also how it is with the artist, the saint, the legislator, the sage, the scholar, the man of piety and the godlike anchorite of yore;—such a man requires one thing above all for his purpose, and that is, great healthiness—such healthiness as he not only possesses, but also constantly acquires and must acquire, because he is continually sacrificing it again, and is compelled to sacrifice it! And now, therefore, after having been long on the way, we Argonauts of the ideal, whose pluck is greater than prudence would allow, and who are often shipwrecked and bruised, but, as I have said, healthier than people would like to admit, dangerously healthy, and for ever recovering our health—it would seem as if we had before us, as a reward for all our toils, a country still undiscovered, the horizon of which no one has yet seen, a beyond to every country and every refuge of the ideal that man has ever known, a world so overflowing with beauty, strangeness, doubt, terror, and divinity, that both our curiosity and our lust of possession are frantic with eagerness. Alas! how in the face of such vistas, and with such burning desire in our conscience and consciousness, could we still be content with the man of the present day? This is bad indeed; but, that we should regard his worthiest aims and hopes with ill-concealed amusement, or perhaps give them no thought at all, is inevitable. Another ideal now leads us on, a wonderful, seductive ideal, full of danger, the pursuit of which we should be loath to urge upon any one, because we are not so ready to acknowledge any one's right to it: the ideal of a spirit who plays ingenuously (that is to say, involuntarily, and as the outcome of superabundant energy and power) with everything that, hitherto, has been called holy, good, inviolable, and divine; to whom even the loftiest thing that the people have with reason made their measure of value would be no better than a danger, a decay, and an abasement, or at least a relaxation and temporary forgetfulness of self: the ideal of a humanly superhuman well-being and goodwill, which often enough will seem inhuman—as when, for instance, it stands beside all past earnestness on earth, and all past solemnities in hearing, speech, tone, look, morality, and duty, as their most lifelike and unconscious parody—but with which, nevertheless, great earnestness perhaps alone begins, the first note of interrogation is affixed, the fate of the soul changes, the hour hand moves, and tragedy begins."

To understand this type, you must first be clear about its basic physiological condition. I call this condition great healthiness. I can explain this idea no more clearly or personally than I already have in aphorism No. 382. It is one of the last aphorisms in the fifth book of the Gaya Scienza: “We new, nameless, and unfathomable creatures are the first to emerge from a future still untested. We have a new goal, and we also need new means to reach it. We need a new healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder, and more cheerful than any before it. “Suppose a person longs to feel within their own soul the whole range of values and goals that have prevailed on earth. Suppose they want to sail around all the coasts of this ideal ‘Mediterranean Sea.’ Through their own deepest experiences, they want to know what it feels like to conquer and discover the ideal. They also want to know what it feels like to be an artist, a saint, a legislator, a sage, a scholar, a devout person, or a godlike hermit of the past. Above all, such a person needs one thing for this purpose: great healthiness. They must not only possess this healthiness, but constantly gain it anew. They must do so because they keep sacrificing it again and are compelled to sacrifice it! “And now we Argonauts of the ideal have been on our way for a long time. Our courage is greater than prudence would allow, and we are often shipwrecked and battered. Yet, as I have said, we are healthier than people would like to admit. We are dangerously healthy and forever recovering our health. Now, as a reward for all our efforts, we seem to have an undiscovered country before us. No one has yet seen its horizon. It lies beyond every country and every refuge of the ideal that humanity has ever known. It is a world overflowing with beauty, strangeness, doubt, terror, and divinity. Our curiosity and our desire to possess it are frantic with eagerness. “Alas! With such vistas before us, and such burning desire in our conscience and consciousness, how could we still be content with the man of the present day? This is bad enough. But we cannot help regarding his worthiest goals and hopes with barely concealed amusement. Perhaps we give them no thought at all. Another ideal now leads us on. It is wonderful, seductive, and full of danger. We would be reluctant to urge anyone to pursue it, because we are not so ready to acknowledge anyone’s right to it: the ideal of a spirit who plays freely with everything so far called holy, good, inviolable, and divine. This play is involuntary. It arises from an abundance of energy and power. “To this spirit, even the loftiest thing people have rightly made their measure of value would be no better than a danger, a decline, and a lowering of oneself. Or at least it would be a relaxation and a temporary forgetting of oneself. This is the ideal of a humanly superhuman well-being and goodwill. Often enough, it will seem inhuman. For example, it stands beside all past earnestness on earth and all past solemnities in bearing, speech, tone, look, morality, and duty. It is their most lifelike and unconscious parody. Yet perhaps only with this ideal does great earnestness begin. Perhaps it is here that the first question mark is placed, the soul’s fate changes, the hour hand moves, and tragedy begins.”

Has any one at the end of the nineteenth century any distinct notion of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration? If not, I will describe it. If one had the smallest vestige of superstition left in one, it would hardly be possible completely to set aside the idea that one is the mere incarnation, mouthpiece, or medium of an almighty power. The idea of revelation, in the sense that something which profoundly convulses and upsets one becomes suddenly visible and audible with indescribable certainty and accuracy—describes the simple fact. One hears—one does not seek; one takes—one does not ask who gives: a thought suddenly flashes up like lightning, it comes with necessity, without faltering—I have never had any choice in the matter. There is an ecstasy so great that the immense strain of it is sometimes relaxed by a flood of tears, during which one's steps now involuntarily rush and anon involuntarily lag. There is the feeling that one is utterly out of hand, with the very distinct consciousness of an endless number of fine thrills and titillations descending to one's very toes;—there is a depth of happiness in which the most painful and gloomy parts do not act as antitheses to the rest, but are produced and required as necessary shades of colour in such an overflow of light. There is an instinct for rhythmic relations which embraces a whole world of forms (length, the need of a wide-embracing rhythm, is almost the measure of the force of an inspiration, a sort of counterpart to its pressure and tension). Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of freedom, of absoluteness, of power and divinity. The involuntary nature of the figures and similes is the most remarkable thing; one loses all perception of what is imagery and metaphor; everything seems to present itself as the readiest, the truest, and simplest means of expression. It actually seems, to use one of Zarathustra's own phrases, as if all things came to one, and offered themselves as similes. ("Here do all things come caressingly to thy discourse and flatter thee, for they would fain ride upon thy back. On every simile thou ridest here unto every truth. Here fly open unto thee all the speech and word shrines of the world, here would all existence become speech, here would all Becoming learn of thee how to speak.") This is my experience of inspiration. I do not doubt but that I should have to go back thousands of years before I could find another who could say to me: "It is mine also!"

Does anyone at the end of the nineteenth century have a clear idea of what poets of a stronger age meant by inspiration? If not, I will describe it. If you had even the slightest trace of superstition left, you could hardly dismiss one idea completely. You would think you were merely the incarnation, mouthpiece, or medium of an almighty power. The simple fact is best described as a revelation. Something that profoundly shakes and upsets you suddenly becomes visible and audible with indescribable certainty and precision. You hear, you do not seek. You take, you do not ask who gives. A thought suddenly flashes up like lightning. It comes necessarily, without hesitation. I have never had any choice in the matter. The ecstasy is so great that a flood of tears sometimes relieves its immense strain. As the tears flow, your steps involuntarily speed up and then slow down. You feel utterly out of control. At the same time, you are keenly aware of countless delicate thrills and tingles reaching down to your toes. The happiness is so deep that even its most painful and gloomy parts do not oppose the rest. Instead, they arise and are needed as necessary shades of color in such an overflow of light. There is an instinct for rhythmic relationships that embraces a whole world of forms. Length, the need for a sweeping rhythm, is almost a measure of the force of an inspiration. It is a kind of counterpart to the inspiration's pressure and tension. Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a stormy outburst of freedom, absoluteness, power, and divinity. The most remarkable thing is how figures of speech and similes come involuntarily. You lose all sense of what is imagery and metaphor. Everything seems to offer itself as the most immediate, truest, and simplest means of expression. To use one of Zarathustra's own phrases, it truly seems as if all things come to you and offer themselves as similes. ("Here all things come to caress your speech and flatter you, for they want to ride on your back. Here you ride on every simile toward every truth. Here all the world's shrines of speech and words fly open to you. Here all existence would become speech. Here all Becoming would learn from you how to speak.") This is my experience of inspiration. I have no doubt that I would have to go back thousands of years to find another who could say to me: "It is mine too!"

For a few weeks afterwards I lay an invalid in Genoa. Then followed a melancholy spring in Rome, where I only just managed to live—and this was no easy matter. This city, which is absolutely unsuited to the poet-author of Zarathustra, and for the choice of which I was not responsible, made me inordinately miserable. I tried to leave it. I wanted to go to Aquila—the opposite of Rome in every respect, and actually founded in a spirit of hostility towards that city, just as I also shall found a city some day, as a memento of an atheist and genuine enemy of the Church, a person very closely related to me, the great Hohenstaufen, the Emperor Frederick II. But Fate lay behind it all: I had to return again to Rome. In the end I was obliged to be satisfied with the Piazza Barberini, after I had exerted myself in vain to find an anti-Christian quarter. I fear that on one occasion, to avoid bad smells as much as possible, I actually inquired at the Palazzo del Quirinale whether they could not provide a quiet room for a philosopher. In a chamber high above the Piazza just mentioned, from which one obtained a general view of Rome, and could hear the fountains plashing far below, the loneliest of all songs was composed—"The Night-Song." About this time I was obsessed by an unspeakably sad melody, the refrain of which I recognised in the affords, "dead through immortality," ... In the summer, finding myself once more in the sacred place where the first thought of Zarathustra flashed like a light across my mind, I conceived the second part. Ten days sufficed. Neither for the second, the first, nor the third part, have I required a day longer. In the ensuing winter, beneath the halcyon sky of Nice, which then for the first time poured its light into my life, I found the third Zarathustra—and came to the end of my task: the whole having occupied me scarcely a year. Many hidden corners and heights in the country round about Nice are hallowed for me by moments that I can never forget. That decisive chapter, entitled "Old and New Tables," was composed during the arduous ascent from the station to Eza—that wonderful Moorish village in the rocks. During those moments when my creative energy flowed most plentifully, my muscular activity was always greatest. The body is inspired: let us waive the question of "soul." I might often have been seen dancing in those days, and I could then walk for seven or eight hours on end over the hills without a suggestion of fatigue. I slept well and laughed a good deal—I was perfectly robust and patient.

For a few weeks afterward, I lay ill in Genoa. Then came a melancholy spring in Rome, where I barely managed to stay alive. That was no easy matter. The city was utterly unsuited to the poet and author of Zarathustra, and I had not chosen to go there. It made me terribly miserable. I tried to leave. I wanted to go to Aquila, the opposite of Rome in every respect. Aquila was actually founded in a spirit of hostility toward Rome. I too will one day found a city as a memorial to an atheist and genuine enemy of the Church. He is someone very close to me: the great Hohenstaufen, Emperor Frederick II. But Fate was behind it all. I had to return to Rome. In the end, after trying in vain to find an anti-Christian quarter, I had to settle for the Piazza Barberini. I fear that once, to avoid bad smells as much as possible, I actually asked at the Palazzo del Quirinale whether they could provide a quiet room for a philosopher. In a room high above the Piazza Barberini, I composed the loneliest of all songs, "The Night-Song." From there I could see Rome spread out below and hear the fountains splashing far beneath me. Around this time, I was haunted by an unspeakably sad melody. I recognized its refrain in the words "dead through immortality," ... That summer, I found myself once more in the sacred place where the first thought of Zarathustra had flashed through my mind. There I conceived the second part. Ten days were enough. I needed no longer than that for the first, second, or third part. The following winter, under the peaceful sky of Nice, I found the third Zarathustra and finished my task. It was the first time that sky had cast its light into my life. The whole work had taken me scarcely a year. Many hidden corners and heights in the countryside around Nice are sacred to me because of moments I can never forget. I composed that decisive chapter, "Old and New Tables," during the difficult climb from the station to Eza, that wonderful Moorish village among the rocks. When my creative energy flowed most freely, my muscles were always most active. The body is inspired. Let us set aside the question of the "soul." I might often have been seen dancing in those days. I could walk for seven or eight hours at a stretch over the hills without the slightest hint of fatigue. I slept well and laughed a great deal. I was perfectly healthy and patient.

With the exception of these periods of industry lasting ten days, the years I spent during the production of Zarathustra, and thereafter, were for me years of unparalleled distress. A man pays dearly for being immortal: to this end he must die many times over during his life. There is such a thing as what I call the rancour of greatness: everything great, whether a work or a deed, once it is completed, turns immediately against its author. The very fact that he is its author makes him weak at this time. He can no longer endure his deed. He can no longer look it full in the face. To have something at one's back which one could never have willed, something to which the knot of human destiny is attached—and to be forced thenceforward to bear it on one's shoulders! Why, it almost crushes one! The rancour of greatness! A somewhat different experience is the uncanny silence that reigns about one. Solitude has seven skins which nothing can penetrate. One goes among men; one greets friends: but these things are only new deserts, the looks of those one meets no longer bear a greeting. At the best one encounters a sort of revolt. This feeling of revolt, I suffered, in varying degrees of intensity, at the hands of almost every one who came near me; it would seem that nothing inflicts a deeper wound than suddenly to make one's distance felt. Those noble natures are scarce who know not how to live unless they can revere. A third thing is the absurd susceptibility of the skin to small pin-pricks, a kind of helplessness in the presence of all small things. This seems to me a necessary outcome of the appalling expenditure of all defensive forces, which is the first condition of every creative act, of every act which proceeds from the most intimate, most secret, and most concealed recesses of a man's being. The small defensive forces are thus, as it were, suspended, and no fresh energy reaches them. I even think it probable that one does not digest so well, that one is less willing to move, and that one is much too open to sensations of coldness and suspicion; for, in a large number of cases, suspicion is merely a blunder in etiology. On one occasion when I felt like this I became conscious of the proximity of a herd of cows, some time before I could possibly have seen it with my eyes, simply owing to a return in me of milder and more humane sentiments: they communicated warmth to me....

Apart from these ten-day periods of intense work, the years when I was writing Zarathustra, and the years afterward, were years of unparalleled distress for me. A person pays dearly for immortality. To become immortal, one must die many times in life. There is something I call the resentment of greatness. Once completed, everything great, whether a work or a deed, immediately turns against its creator. The very fact that he created it makes him weak at that moment. He can no longer bear what he has done. He can no longer look it straight in the face. Something is behind him that he could never have willed. The knot of human destiny is tied to it, and from then on he must carry it on his shoulders! It almost crushes him! The resentment of greatness! A somewhat different experience is the eerie silence that surrounds one. Solitude has seven layers that nothing can penetrate. One goes among people and greets friends, but these are only new deserts. The looks of those one meets no longer offer a greeting. At best, one encounters a kind of resistance. I felt this resistance, with varying intensity, from almost everyone who came near me. It seems that nothing wounds people more deeply than suddenly making them feel how far apart you are. Noble people who cannot live without someone to revere are rare. A third experience is the skin's absurd sensitivity to tiny pinpricks, a kind of helplessness in the face of small things. To me, this seems a necessary result of the tremendous expenditure of all one's defensive forces. Such expenditure is the first condition of every creative act, every act arising from the deepest, most secret, most hidden parts of a person's being. The minor defenses are, so to speak, suspended, and no fresh energy reaches them. I even think that one probably digests less well, is less willing to move, and is far too open to feelings of coldness and suspicion. For in many cases, suspicion is merely a mistake about the cause of a feeling. Once, when I felt this way, I became aware that a herd of cows was nearby. I knew this some time before I could possibly have seen the cows. I knew it simply because milder, more humane feelings returned to me: they brought me warmth....

This work stands alone. Do not let us mention the poets in the same breath; nothing perhaps has ever been produced out of such a superabundance of strength. My concept "Dionysian" here became the highest deed; compared with it everything that other men have done seems poor and limited. The fact that a Goethe or a Shakespeare would not for an instant have known how to take breath in this atmosphere of passion and of the heights; the fact that by the side of Zarathustra, Dante is no more than a believer, and not one who first creates the truth—that is to say, not a world-ruling spirit, a Fate; the fact that the poets of the Veda were priests and not even fit to unfasten Zarathustra's sandal—all this is the least of things, and gives no idea of the distance, of the azure solitude, in which this work dwells. Zarathustra has an eternal right to say: "I draw around me circles and holy boundaries. Ever fewer are they that mount with me to ever loftier heights. I build me a mountain range of ever holier mountains." If all the spirit and goodness of every great soul were collected together, the whole could not create a single one of Zarathustra's discourses. The ladder upon which he rises and descends is of boundless length; he has seen further, he has willed further, and gone further than any other man. There is contradiction in every word that he utters, this most yea-saying of all spirits. Through him all contradictions are bound up into a new unity. The loftiest and the basest powers of human nature, the sweetest, the lightest, and the most terrible, rush forth from out one spring with everlasting certainty. Until his coming no one knew what was height, or depth, and still less what was truth. There is not a single passage in this revelation of truth which had already been anticipated and divined by even the greatest among men. Before Zarathustra there was no wisdom, no probing of the soul, no art of speech: in his book, the most familiar and most vulgar thing utters unheard-of words. The sentence quivers with passion. Eloquence has become music. Forks of lightning are hurled towards futures of which no one has ever dreamed before. The most powerful use of parables that has yet existed is poor beside it, and mere child's-play compared with this return of language to the nature of imagery. See how Zarathustra goes down from the mountain and speaks the kindest words to every one! See with what delicate fingers he touches his very adversaries, the priests, and how he suffers with them from themselves! Here, at every moment, man is overcome, and the concept "Superman" becomes the greatest reality,—out of sight, almost far away beneath him, lies all that which heretofore has been called great in man. The halcyonic brightness, the light feet, the presence of wickedness and exuberance throughout, and all that is the essence of the type Zarathustra, was never dreamt of before as a prerequisite of greatness. In precisely these limits of space and in this accessibility to opposites Zarathustra feels himself the highest of all living things: and when you hear how he defines this highest, you will give up trying to find his equal.

This work stands alone. Let us not even mention the poets alongside it. Perhaps nothing has ever been produced from such an abundance of strength. Here my concept of the "Dionysian" became the highest achievement. Compared with it, everything other people have done seems poor and limited. Goethe or Shakespeare could not have breathed for an instant in this atmosphere of passion and lofty heights. Beside Zarathustra, Dante is merely a believer, not someone who first creates the truth. He is not a world-ruling spirit, a Fate. The poets of the Veda were priests, not even fit to unfasten Zarathustra's sandal. Yet all this is the least of it. It gives no idea of the distance, the azure solitude, in which this work lives. Zarathustra has an eternal right to say: "I draw circles and sacred boundaries around me. Fewer and fewer people climb with me to ever greater heights. I build myself a mountain range of ever more sacred mountains." If all the spirit and goodness of every great soul were gathered together, they could not create a single one of Zarathustra's discourses. The ladder he climbs and descends is endlessly long. He has seen further, willed further, and gone further than anyone else. This most life-affirming of all spirits speaks in contradictions with every word. Through him, all contradictions are joined in a new unity. The highest and lowest powers of human nature flow from a single spring with eternal certainty. So do the sweetest, lightest, and most terrible powers. Before he came, no one knew what height or depth was, much less truth. Not one passage in this revelation of truth had been anticipated or glimpsed, even by the greatest people. Before Zarathustra there was no wisdom, no probing of the soul, no art of speech. In his book, the most familiar and ordinary thing speaks unheard-of words. Every sentence trembles with passion. Eloquence has become music. Lightning bolts are hurled toward futures no one has ever dreamed of before. The most powerful use of parables yet known is poor beside it. It is mere child's play compared with this return of language to its imagery. See how Zarathustra comes down from the mountain and speaks the kindest words to everyone! See how delicately he touches even his enemies, the priests, and how he suffers with them from what they are! Here, at every moment, humanity is overcome, and the concept of the "Superman" becomes the greatest reality. All that has been called great in humanity until now lies almost out of sight, far beneath him. The serene brightness, the light feet, the wickedness and exuberance present throughout, all that belongs to the essence of the Zarathustra type, had never before been imagined as a requirement for greatness. It is precisely within these limits of space and in this openness to opposites that Zarathustra feels himself the highest of all living things. And when you hear how he defines this highest, you will give up trying to find his equal.

"The soul which hath the longest ladder and can step down deepest,

"The soul that has the longest ladder and can climb down the deepest,

"The vastest soul that can run and stray and rove furthest in its own domain,

"The greatest soul, which can run, wander, and roam furthest within its own realm,

"The most necessary soul, that out of desire flingeth itself to chance,

"The most necessary soul, which throws itself into chance out of desire,

"The stable soul that plungeth into Becoming, the possessing soul that must needs taste of willing and longing,

"The stable soul that plunges into Becoming, the soul that possesses and must taste willing and longing,

"The soul that flyeth from itself, and over-taketh itself in the widest circle,

"The soul that flees from itself and catches up with itself in the widest circle,

"The wisest soul that folly exhorteth most sweetly,

"The wisest soul, whom folly urges on most sweetly,

"The most self-loving soul, in whom all things have their rise, their ebb and flow."

"The most self-loving soul, in whom all things arise, ebb, and flow."

But this is the very idea of Dionysus. Another consideration leads to this idea. The psychological problem presented by the type of Zarathustra is, how can he, who in an unprecedented manner says no, and acts no, in regard to all that which has been affirmed hitherto, remain nevertheless a yea-saying spirit? how can he who bears the heaviest destiny on his shoulders and whose very life-task is a fatality, yet be the brightest and the most transcendental of spirits—for Zarathustra is a dancer? how can he who has the hardest and most terrible grasp of reality, and who has thought the most "abysmal thoughts," nevertheless avoid conceiving these things as objections to existence, or even as objections to the eternal recurrence of existence?—how is it that on the contrary he finds reasons for being himself the eternal affirmation of all things, "the tremendous and unlimited saying of Yea and Amen"?... "Into every abyss do I bear the benediction of my yea to Life." ... But this, once more, is precisely the idea of Dionysus.

But this is exactly the idea of Dionysus. Another line of thought leads to the same idea. The type of Zarathustra presents a psychological problem. He says no, and acts no, in a way never seen before, toward everything affirmed until now. How can he nevertheless remain a spirit who says yes? He bears the heaviest destiny on his shoulders, and his very life’s task is a fate. Yet how can he be the brightest and most transcendent of spirits? For Zarathustra is a dancer. He has the hardest and most terrible grasp of reality, and he has thought the most "abysmal thoughts." Yet how can he avoid seeing these things as objections to existence, or even to its eternal recurrence? How, on the contrary, does he find reasons for being himself the eternal affirmation of all things, "the tremendous and unlimited saying of Yea and Amen"?... "Into every abyss do I bear the benediction of my yea to Life." ... But this, once again, is exactly the idea of Dionysus.

What language will such a spirit speak, when he speaks unto his soul? The language of the dithyramb. I am the inventor of the dithyramb. Hearken unto the manner in which Zarathustra speaks to his soul Before Sunrise (iii. 48). Before my time such emerald joys and divine tenderness had found no tongue. Even the profoundest melancholy of such a Dionysus takes shape as a dithyramb. As an example of this I take "The Night-Song,"—the immortal plaint of one who, thanks to his superabundance of light and power, thanks to the sun within him, is condemned never to love.

What language does such a spirit speak when he speaks to his soul? The language of the dithyramb. I am the inventor of the dithyramb. Listen to how Zarathustra speaks to his soul in Before Sunrise (iii. 48). Before my time, such emerald joys and divine tenderness had never found a voice. Even the deepest melancholy of such a Dionysus takes the form of a dithyramb. As an example, I offer "The Night-Song," the immortal lament of one condemned never to love. He is condemned because of his overflowing light and power, because of the sun within him.

"It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul too is a gushing spring.

"It is night. Now all the gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul, too, is a gushing spring.

"It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too is the song of a lover.

"It is night: only now do all lovers burst into song. My soul, too, is a lover's song.

"Something unquenched and unquenchable is within me, that would raise its voice. A craving for love is within me, which itself speaketh the language of love.

"Something within me remains unquenched and cannot be quenched. It wants to speak out. A longing for love is within me, and that longing itself speaks the language of love.

"Light am I: would that I were night! But this is my loneliness, that I am begirt with light.

"I am light. If only I were night! But I am lonely because I am surrounded by light.

"Alas, why am I not dark and like unto the night! How joyfully would I then suck at the breasts of light!

"Oh, why am I not dark like the night! How joyfully I would suck at the breasts of light then!

"And even you would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms on high! and be blessed in the gifts of your light.

"Even you, little twinkling stars and glowworms high above, I would bless! And I would be blessed by the gifts of your light.

"But in mine own light do I live, ever back into myself do I drink the flames I send forth.

"But I live in my own light, and I always drink back the flames I send out.

"I know not the happiness of the hand stretched forth to grasp; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than taking.

"I do not know the happiness of reaching out to grasp something. And I have often dreamed that stealing must be more blessed than taking.

"Wretched am I that my hand may never rest from giving: an envious fate is mine that I see expectant eyes and nights made bright with longing.

"Miserable am I because my hand can never stop giving. Envy is my fate, for I see expectant eyes and nights made bright with longing.

"Oh, the wretchedness of all them that give! Oh, the clouds that cover the face of my sun! That craving for desire! that burning hunger at the end of the feast!

"Oh, the misery of all who give! Oh, the clouds that cover the face of my sun! That longing to desire! That burning hunger at the end of the feast!

"They take what I give them; but do I touch their soul? A gulf is there 'twixt giving and taking; and the smallest gulf is the last to be bridged.

"They take what I give them, but do I touch their soul? There is a gap between giving and taking. And the smallest gap is the last to be bridged.

"An appetite is born from out my beauty: would that I might do harm to them that I fill with light; would that I might rob them of the gifts I have given:—thus do I thirst for wickedness.

"A desire springs from my beauty: I wish I could harm those I fill with light. I wish I could take back the gifts I have given them. This is how I thirst for wickedness.

"To withdraw my hand when their hand is ready stretched forth like the waterfall that wavers, wavers even in its fall:—thus do I thirst for wickedness.

"To pull my hand away when their hand is already outstretched, like a waterfall that wavers even as it falls: this is how I thirst for wickedness.

"For such vengeance doth my fulness yearn: to such tricks doth my loneliness give birth.

"My fullness longs for such vengeance. My loneliness gives birth to such tricks.

"My joy in giving died with the deed. By its very fulness did my virtue grow weary of itself.

"My joy in giving died once I had given. My virtue grew tired of itself because it was so full.

"He who giveth risketh to lose his shame; he that is ever distributing groweth callous in hand and heart therefrom.

"Anyone who gives risks losing their sense of shame. Anyone who is always giving becomes callous in hand and heart from it.

"Mine eyes no longer melt into tears at the sight of the suppliant's shame; my hand hath become too hard to feel the quivering of laden hands.

"My eyes no longer fill with tears at the sight of a beggar's shame. My hand has grown too hard to feel the trembling of burdened hands.

"Whither have ye fled, the tears of mine eyes and the bloom of my heart? Oh, the solitude of all givers! Oh, the silence of all beacons!

"Where have you gone, tears of my eyes and bloom of my heart? Oh, the loneliness of all who give! Oh, the silence of all beacons!

"Many are the suns that circle in barren space; to all that is dark do they speak with their light—to me alone are they silent.

"Many suns circle in empty space. They speak with their light to all that is dark, but to me alone they are silent.

"Alas, this is the hatred of light for that which shineth: pitiless it runneth its course.

"Alas, this is light's hatred for what shines: it runs its course without pity.

"Unfair in its inmost heart to that which shineth; cold toward suns,—thus doth every sun go its way.

“Unfair at heart to all that shines, cold toward other suns, every sun goes its own way.”

"Like a tempest do the suns fly over their course: for such is their way. Their own unswerving will do they follow: that is their coldness.

"The suns race along their paths like a storm, for that is their way. They follow their own unwavering will. That is their coldness.

"Alas, it is ye alone, ye creatures of gloom, ye spirits of the night, that take your warmth from that which shineth. Ye alone suck your milk and comfort from the udders of light.

"Alas, you alone, creatures of gloom and spirits of the night, draw your warmth from what shines. You alone suck milk and comfort from the udders of light.

"Alas, about me there is ice, my hand burneth itself against ice!

"Alas, ice surrounds me, and my hand burns against it!

"Alas, within me is a thirst that thirsteth for your thirst!

"Oh, I have a thirst for your thirst!

"It is night: woe is me, that I must needs be light! And thirst after darkness! And loneliness!

"It is night. Alas, I must be light! And I thirst for darkness! And for loneliness!

"It is night: now doth my longing burst forth like a spring,—for speech do I long.

"It is night: now my longing bursts forth like a spring. I long to speak.

"It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul too is a gushing spring.

"It is night: now all the gushing springs raise their voices. My soul, too, is a gushing spring.

"It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too is the song of a lover."

"It is night: only now do all lovers burst into song. And my soul, too, is a lover's song."

Such things have never been written, never been felt, never been suffered: only a God, only Dionysus suffers in this way. The reply to such a dithyramb on the sun's solitude in light would be Ariadne. ... Who knows, but I, who Ariadne is! To all such riddles no one heretofore had ever found an answer; I doubt even whether any one had ever seen a riddle here. One day Zarathustra severely determines his life-task—and it is also mine. Let no one misunderstand its meaning. It's a yea-saying to the point of justifying, to the point of redeeming even all that is past.

Such things have never been written, never been felt, never been suffered: only a God, only Dionysus suffers this way. The answer to such a song of praise for the sun's solitude in light would be Ariadne. ... Who but I knows who Ariadne is! Until now, no one had ever found an answer to any such riddle. I even doubt whether anyone had ever seen a riddle here. One day Zarathustra clearly defines his life's task, which is also mine. Let no one misunderstand what this task means. It means saying yes to everything, even to the point of justifying and redeeming all that is past.

"I walk among men as among fragments of the future: of that future which I see.

"I walk among people as if they were fragments of the future I see.

"And all my creativeness and effort is but this, that I may be able to think and recast all these fragments and riddles and dismal accidents into one piece.

"And all my creativity and effort serve one purpose: to think through all these fragments, riddles, and bleak accidents and reshape them into a single whole.

"And how could I bear to be a man, if man were not also a poet, a riddle reader, and a redeemer of chance!

"And how could I bear to be human if humans were not also poets, solvers of riddles, and redeemers of chance!

"To redeem all the past, and to transform every 'it was' into 'thus would I have it'—that alone would be my salvation!"

"To redeem all the past and turn every 'it was' into 'that is how I would want it': that alone would be my salvation!"

In another passage he defines as strictly as possible what to him alone "man" can be,—not a subject for love nor yet for pity—Zarathustra became master even of his loathing of man: man is to him a thing unshaped, raw material, an ugly stone that needs the sculptor's chisel.

In another passage, he defines as precisely as possible what "man" alone can be for him. Man is not someone to love or pity. Zarathustra even overcame his loathing of man. To him, man is something unformed, raw material, an ugly stone that needs a sculptor's chisel.

"No longer to will, no longer to value, no longer to create! Oh, that this great weariness may never be mine!

"No longer to desire, no longer to value, no longer to create! Oh, may I never feel this great weariness!

"Even in the lust of knowledge, I feel only the joy of my will to beget and to grow; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because my procreative will is in it.

"Even in my desire for knowledge, I feel only the joy of my will to create and grow. And if there is innocence in my knowledge, it is because my will to create is part of it.

"Away from God and gods did this will lure me: what would there be to create if there were gods?

"This will drew me away from God and gods. What would there be to create if there were gods?

"But to man doth it ever drive me anew, my burning, creative will. Thus driveth it the hammer to the stone.

"But my burning, creative will always drives me back to humanity. It drives me as a hammer is driven against stone.

"Alas, ye men, within the stone there sleepeth an image for me, the image of all my dreams! Alas, that it should have to sleep in the hardest and ugliest stone!

"Alas, men, an image sleeps within the stone for me, the image of all my dreams! Alas, it must sleep in the hardest and ugliest stone!

"Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone the fragments fly: what's that to me?

Now my hammer strikes its prison ruthlessly. Fragments fly from the stone. What do I care?

"I will finish it: for a shadow came unto me—the stillest and lightest thing on earth once came unto me!

"I will finish it, because a shadow came to me. Once, the stillest and lightest thing on earth came to me!

"The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Alas, my brethren! What are the—gods to me now?"

"The beauty of the Superman came to me like a shadow. Alas, my brothers! What do the gods mean to me now?"

Let me call attention to one last point of view. The line in italics is my pretext for this remark. A Dionysian life-task needs the hardness of the hammer, and one of its first essentials is without doubt the joy even of destruction. The command, "Harden yourselves!" and the deep conviction that all creators are hard, is the really distinctive sign of a Dionysian nature.

Let me draw attention to one last perspective. The italicized line gives me an occasion to make this point. A Dionysian life-task requires the hardness of a hammer. One of its first essentials is undoubtedly the joy even of destruction. The command, "Harden yourselves!" and the deep conviction that all creators are hard, are the true distinguishing marks of a Dionysian nature.