On the Mount of Olives

Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly hand-shaking.

Winter, a bad guest, sits with me at home. His friendly handshake has turned my hands blue.

I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I run away from him; and when one runneth WELL, then one escapeth him!

I honor him, that bad guest, but I am glad to leave him alone. I gladly run away from him. And when you run WELL, you escape him!

With warm feet and warm thoughts do I run where the wind is calm—to the sunny corner of mine olive-mount.

With warm feet and warm thoughts, I run where the wind is calm, to the sunny corner of my olive mountain.

There do I laugh at my stern guest, and am still fond of him; because he cleareth my house of flies, and quieteth many little noises.

There I laugh at my stern guest, but I am still fond of him. He clears my house of flies and quiets many little noises.

For he suffereth it not if a gnat wanteth to buzz, or even two of them; also the lanes maketh he lonesome, so that the moonlight is afraid there at night.

For he cannot bear it if a gnat wants to buzz, or even two of them. He also makes the lanes so lonely that the moonlight is afraid there at night.

A hard guest is he,—but I honour him, and do not worship, like the tenderlings, the pot-bellied fire-idol.

He is a difficult guest, but I honor him. Unlike those soft people, I do not worship the pot-bellied fire idol.

Better even a little teeth-chattering than idol-adoration!—so willeth my nature. And especially have I a grudge against all ardent, steaming, steamy fire-idols.

Better to have my teeth chatter a little than to worship idols! That is my nature. And I especially dislike all those burning, steaming, steamy fire-idols.

Him whom I love, I love better in winter than in summer; better do I now mock at mine enemies, and more heartily, when winter sitteth in my house.

I love the one I love more in winter than in summer. And now, when winter sits in my house, I mock my enemies better and more heartily.

Heartily, verily, even when I CREEP into bed—: there, still laugheth and wantoneth my hidden happiness; even my deceptive dream laugheth.

Indeed, even when I CREEP into bed, my hidden happiness still laughs and plays there. Even my deceptive dream laughs.

I, a—creeper? Never in my life did I creep before the powerful; and if ever I lied, then did I lie out of love. Therefore am I glad even in my winter-bed.

Me, a creep? I have never crawled before the powerful. And if I ever lied, I lied out of love. So I am happy even in my winter bed.

A poor bed warmeth me more than a rich one, for I am jealous of my poverty. And in winter she is most faithful unto me.

A poor bed keeps me warmer than a rich one because I am jealous of my poverty. And she is most faithful to me in winter.

With a wickedness do I begin every day: I mock at the winter with a cold bath: on that account grumbleth my stern house-mate.

I begin every day with a bit of mischief. I mock the winter by taking a cold bath, and my stern housemate grumbles about it.

Also do I like to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let the heavens emerge from ashy-grey twilight.

I also like to tickle him with a candle, so that he may finally let the heavens emerge from the ashen-gray twilight.

For especially wicked am I in the morning: at the early hour when the pail rattleth at the well, and horses neigh warmly in grey lanes:—

For I am especially wicked in the morning, at the early hour when the bucket rattles at the well and horses neigh warmly in the gray lanes:

Impatiently do I then wait, that the clear sky may finally dawn for me, the snow-bearded winter-sky, the hoary one, the whitehead,—

Then I wait impatiently for the clear sky to finally dawn for me. I wait for the snow-bearded winter sky, the gray-haired one, the whitehead.

—The winter-sky, the silent winter-sky, which often stifleth even its sun!

The winter sky, the silent winter sky, which often smothers even its own sun!

Did I perhaps learn from it the long clear silence? Or did it learn it from me? Or hath each of us devised it himself?

Did I perhaps learn the long, clear silence from it? Or did it learn that silence from me? Or did each of us come up with it on our own?

Of all good things the origin is a thousandfold,—all good roguish things spring into existence for joy: how could they always do so—for once only!

All good things have a thousand origins. All good, mischievous things come into being out of joy. How could they always do so only once!

A good roguish thing is also the long silence, and to look, like the winter-sky, out of a clear, round-eyed countenance:—

A long silence is also a good, mischievous thing, as is looking out like a winter sky from a clear, round-eyed face:

—Like it to stifle one’s sun, and one’s inflexible solar will: verily, this art and this winter-roguishness have I learnt WELL!

To smother one’s own sun and one’s unbending solar will: truly, I have learned this art, this wintry trickery, WELL!

My best-loved wickedness and art is it, that my silence hath learned not to betray itself by silence.

My favorite trick and art is that my silence has learned not to give itself away by being silent.

Clattering with diction and dice, I outwit the solemn assistants: all those stern watchers, shall my will and purpose elude.

Clattering with words and dice, I outwit the solemn assistants. My will and purpose will escape all those stern watchers.

That no one might see down into my depth and into mine ultimate will—for that purpose did I devise the long clear silence.

So that no one could see into my depths or my ultimate will, I devised the long, clear silence.

Many a shrewd one did I find: he veiled his countenance and made his water muddy, that no one might see therethrough and thereunder.

I met many a shrewd person who hid his face and muddied his water. He did this so no one could see through the water or beneath it.

But precisely unto him came the shrewder distrusters and nut-crackers: precisely from him did they fish his best-concealed fish!

But the shrewder skeptics and nutcrackers came to him in particular. They fished his best-hidden fish out of him!

But the clear, the honest, the transparent—these are for me the wisest silent ones: in them, so PROFOUND is the depth that even the clearest water doth not—betray it.—

But to me, the clear, honest, and transparent people are the wisest among the silent ones. Their depth is so PROFOUND that even the clearest water does not reveal it.

Thou snow-bearded, silent, winter-sky, thou round-eyed whitehead above me! Oh, thou heavenly simile of my soul and its wantonness!

You silent winter sky with your snowy beard, you round-eyed, white-haired head above me! Oh, you heavenly image of my soul and its wildness!

And MUST I not conceal myself like one who hath swallowed gold—lest my soul should be ripped up?

And MUST I not hide like someone who has swallowed gold, so that my soul will not be ripped open?

MUST I not wear stilts, that they may OVERLOOK my long legs—all those enviers and injurers around me?

MUST I wear stilts so that all those envious people and those who hurt me may OVERLOOK my long legs?

Those dingy, fire-warmed, used-up, green-tinted, ill-natured souls—how COULD their envy endure my happiness!

Those grimy, fire-warmed, worn-out, green-tinged, bad-tempered souls. How COULD their envy bear my happiness!

Thus do I show them only the ice and winter of my peaks—and NOT that my mountain windeth all the solar girdles around it!

So I show them only the ice and winter of my peaks. I do NOT show them that my mountain wraps itself in all the belts of the sun!

They hear only the whistling of my winter-storms: and know NOT that I also travel over warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south-winds.

They hear only the whistling of my winter storms. They do not know that I also travel over warm seas, like longing, heavy, hot south winds.

They commiserate also my accidents and chances:—but MY word saith: “Suffer the chance to come unto me: innocent is it as a little child!”

They also pity me for my mishaps and the things that happen to me. But I say: “Let chance come to me. It is as innocent as a little child!”

How COULD they endure my happiness, if I did not put around it accidents, and winter-privations, and bear-skin caps, and enmantling snowflakes!

How could they bear my happiness if I did not surround it with mishaps, winter hardships, bearskin caps, and a blanket of snowflakes!

—If I did not myself commiserate their PITY, the pity of those enviers and injurers!

If I did not myself feel sorry for their PITY, the pity of those envious people who hurt others!

—If I did not myself sigh before them, and chatter with cold, and patiently LET myself be swathed in their pity!

If I didn’t sigh in front of them, shiver with cold, and patiently LET them wrap me in their pity!

This is the wise waggish-will and good-will of my soul, that it CONCEALETH NOT its winters and glacial storms; it concealeth not its chilblains either.

This is my soul’s wise, playful goodwill: it DOES NOT HIDE its winters and icy storms. It does not hide its chilblains either.

To one man, lonesomeness is the flight of the sick one; to another, it is the flight FROM the sick ones.

For one man, solitude is the escape of a sick person. For another, it is an escape FROM sick people.

Let them HEAR me chattering and sighing with winter-cold, all those poor squinting knaves around me! With such sighing and chattering do I flee from their heated rooms.

Let all those poor, squinting scoundrels around me HEAR me sighing and chattering from the winter cold! I sigh and chatter like this as I flee their heated rooms.

Let them sympathise with me and sigh with me on account of my chilblains: “At the ice of knowledge will he yet FREEZE TO DEATH!”—so they mourn.

Let them sympathize and sigh with me over my chilblains. “He will yet FREEZE TO DEATH in the ice of knowledge!” they lament.

Meanwhile do I run with warm feet hither and thither on mine olive-mount: in the sunny corner of mine olive-mount do I sing, and mock at all pity.—

Meanwhile, I run back and forth on my olive mountain, my feet warm. In its sunny corner, I sing and mock all pity.

Thus sang Zarathustra.

This is how Zarathustra sang.