The Recovering One

One morning, not long after his return to his cave, Zarathustra sprang up from his couch like a madman, crying with a frightful voice, and acting as if some one still lay on the couch who did not wish to rise. Zarathustra’s voice also resounded in such a manner that his animals came to him frightened, and out of all the neighbouring caves and lurking-places all the creatures slipped away—flying, fluttering, creeping or leaping, according to their variety of foot or wing. Zarathustra, however, spake these words:

One morning, not long after returning to his cave, Zarathustra sprang up from his couch like a madman. He cried out in a terrifying voice, acting as if someone still lay on the couch and refused to rise. His voice rang out so loudly that his animals came to him in fright. All the creatures in the nearby caves and hiding places slipped away, flying, fluttering, crawling, or leaping, depending on their feet or wings. But Zarathustra said:

Up, abysmal thought out of my depth! I am thy cock and morning dawn, thou overslept reptile: Up! Up! My voice shall soon crow thee awake!

Rise, bottomless thought from my depths! I am your rooster and your morning dawn, you oversleeping reptile. Up! Up! My voice will soon crow you awake!

Unbind the fetters of thine ears: listen! For I wish to hear thee! Up! Up! There is thunder enough to make the very graves listen!

Free your ears from their chains. Listen! For I want to hear you! Up! Up! There is enough thunder to make even the graves listen!

And rub the sleep and all the dimness and blindness out of thine eyes! Hear me also with thine eyes: my voice is a medicine even for those born blind.

And rub the sleep and all the dimness and blindness from your eyes! Hear me with your eyes too. My voice is medicine even for those born blind.

And once thou art awake, then shalt thou ever remain awake. It is not MY custom to awake great-grandmothers out of their sleep that I may bid them—sleep on!

And once you are awake, you will stay awake forever. It is not MY habit to wake great-grandmothers only to tell them to go back to sleep!

Thou stirrest, stretchest thyself, wheezest? Up! Up! Not wheeze, shalt thou,—but speak unto me! Zarathustra calleth thee, Zarathustra the godless!

Are you stirring, stretching, wheezing? Up! Up! Don't wheeze. Speak to me! Zarathustra is calling you, Zarathustra the godless!

I, Zarathustra, the advocate of living, the advocate of suffering, the advocate of the circuit—thee do I call, my most abysmal thought!

I am Zarathustra, the advocate of living, suffering, and the cycle. I call to you, my most profound thought!

Joy to me! Thou comest,—I hear thee! Mine abyss SPEAKETH, my lowest depth have I turned over into the light!

Joy to me! You are coming, I hear you! My abyss SPEAKS. I have brought my lowest depth into the light!

Joy to me! Come hither! Give me thy hand—ha! let be! aha!—Disgust, disgust, disgust—alas to me!

Joy to me! Come here! Give me your hand. Ha! Let go! Aha! Disgust, disgust, disgust. Woe is me!

Hardly, however, had Zarathustra spoken these words, when he fell down as one dead, and remained long as one dead. When however he again came to himself, then was he pale and trembling, and remained lying; and for long he would neither eat nor drink. This condition continued for seven days; his animals, however, did not leave him day nor night, except that the eagle flew forth to fetch food. And what it fetched and foraged, it laid on Zarathustra’s couch: so that Zarathustra at last lay among yellow and red berries, grapes, rosy apples, sweet-smelling herbage, and pine-cones. At his feet, however, two lambs were stretched, which the eagle had with difficulty carried off from their shepherds.

Hardly had Zarathustra spoken these words when he fell down as if dead and lay there for a long time. When he came to, he was pale and trembling, and he remained lying down. For a long time, he would neither eat nor drink. This condition lasted seven days. His animals did not leave him, day or night, except when the eagle flew out to fetch food. The eagle laid what it gathered on Zarathustra’s couch. At last, Zarathustra lay among yellow and red berries, grapes, rosy apples, fragrant herbs, and pine cones. At his feet lay two lambs, which the eagle had carried off from their shepherds with difficulty.

At last, after seven days, Zarathustra raised himself upon his couch, took a rosy apple in his hand, smelt it and found its smell pleasant. Then did his animals think the time had come to speak unto him.

At last, after seven days, Zarathustra sat up on his couch. He took a rosy apple in his hand and smelled it. He found its scent pleasant. Then his animals thought the time had come to speak to him.

“O Zarathustra,” said they, “now hast thou lain thus for seven days with heavy eyes: wilt thou not set thyself again upon thy feet?

“O Zarathustra,” they said, “you have lain like this for seven days with heavy eyes. Will you not get up again?

Step out of thy cave: the world waiteth for thee as a garden. The wind playeth with heavy fragrance which seeketh for thee; and all brooks would like to run after thee.

Step out of your cave. The world is waiting for you like a garden. The wind plays with a heavy fragrance that seeks you, and all the streams would like to follow you.

All things long for thee, since thou hast remained alone for seven days—step forth out of thy cave! All things want to be thy physicians!

All things long for you because you have been alone for seven days. Come out of your cave! All things want to heal you!

Did perhaps a new knowledge come to thee, a bitter, grievous knowledge? Like leavened dough layest thou, thy soul arose and swelled beyond all its bounds.—”

Did you perhaps gain new knowledge, bitter and painful knowledge? You lay like leavened dough, and your soul rose and swelled beyond all its bounds.”

—O mine animals, answered Zarathustra, talk on thus and let me listen! It refresheth me so to hear your talk: where there is talk, there is the world as a garden unto me.

Oh, my animals, Zarathustra answered, keep talking like that and let me listen! Hearing you talk refreshes me. Wherever there is talk, the world is like a garden to me.

How charming it is that there are words and tones; are not words and tones rainbows and seeming bridges ‘twixt the eternally separated?

How wonderful that there are words and tones. Aren't they rainbows and apparent bridges between those who are eternally separated?

To each soul belongeth another world; to each soul is every other soul a back-world.

Each soul has its own world. To each soul, every other soul is a back-world.

Among the most alike doth semblance deceive most delightfully: for the smallest gap is most difficult to bridge over.

Appearances deceive most delightfully when things are most alike. For the smallest gap is the hardest to bridge.

For me—how could there be an outside-of-me? There is no outside! But this we forget on hearing tones; how delightful it is that we forget!

For me, how could anything be outside me? There is no outside! But we forget this when we hear sounds. How delightful it is to forget!

Have not names and tones been given unto things that man may refresh himself with them? It is a beautiful folly, speaking; therewith danceth man over everything.

Haven't things been given names and tones so that people may refresh themselves with them? Speaking is a beautiful folly. Through it, people dance over everything.

How lovely is all speech and all falsehoods of tones! With tones danceth our love on variegated rainbows.—

How lovely are all words and all the falsehoods of sound! With sounds, our love dances on multicolored rainbows.

—“O Zarathustra,” said then his animals, “to those who think like us, things all dance themselves: they come and hold out the hand and laugh and flee—and return.

“O Zarathustra,” his animals said, “for those who think as we do, all things dance on their own. They come, hold out their hands, laugh, and flee, then return.

Everything goeth, everything returneth; eternally rolleth the wheel of existence. Everything dieth, everything blossometh forth again; eternally runneth on the year of existence.

Everything goes, everything returns. The wheel of existence rolls forever. Everything dies, everything blossoms again. The year of existence goes on forever.

Everything breaketh, everything is integrated anew; eternally buildeth itself the same house of existence. All things separate, all things again greet one another; eternally true to itself remaineth the ring of existence.

Everything breaks apart, and everything comes together again. The same house of existence builds itself forever. All things separate, and all things greet one another again. The ring of existence remains forever true to itself.

Every moment beginneth existence, around every ‘Here’ rolleth the ball ‘There.’ The middle is everywhere. Crooked is the path of eternity.”—

Existence begins at every moment. Around every ‘Here’ rolls the ball called ‘There.’ The middle is everywhere. The path of eternity is crooked.”

—O ye wags and barrel-organs! answered Zarathustra, and smiled once more, how well do ye know what had to be fulfilled in seven days:—

“Oh, you jokers and barrel organs!” Zarathustra answered, smiling again. “How well you know what had to be fulfilled in seven days!”

—And how that monster crept into my throat and choked me! But I bit off its head and spat it away from me.

And how that monster crawled into my throat and choked me! But I bit off its head and spat it out.

And ye—ye have made a lyre-lay out of it? Now, however, do I lie here, still exhausted with that biting and spitting-away, still sick with mine own salvation.

And you, you have made a song out of it? But now I lie here, still exhausted from biting and spitting it out, still sick from my own salvation.

AND YE LOOKED ON AT IT ALL? O mine animals, are ye also cruel? Did ye like to look at my great pain as men do? For man is the cruellest animal.

AND YOU WATCHED IT ALL? Oh, my animals, are you cruel too? Did you enjoy watching me suffer, as people do? For humans are the cruelest animals.

At tragedies, bull-fights, and crucifixions hath he hitherto been happiest on earth; and when he invented his hell, behold, that was his heaven on earth.

So far, he has been happiest on earth at tragedies, bullfights, and crucifixions. And when he invented his hell, it was his heaven on earth.

When the great man crieth—: immediately runneth the little man thither, and his tongue hangeth out of his mouth for very lusting. He, however, calleth it his “pity.”

When the great man cries out, the little man immediately runs to him, his tongue hanging out with desire. But he calls it “pity.”

The little man, especially the poet—how passionately doth he accuse life in words! Hearken to him, but do not fail to hear the delight which is in all accusation!

How passionately the little man, especially the poet, accuses life in words! Listen to him, but be sure to hear the delight in every accusation!

Such accusers of life—them life overcometh with a glance of the eye. “Thou lovest me?” saith the insolent one; “wait a little, as yet have I no time for thee.”

Life overcomes such accusers with a single glance. “You love me?” says the insolent one. “Wait a little. I have no time for you yet.”

Towards himself man is the cruellest animal; and in all who call themselves “sinners” and “bearers of the cross” and “penitents,” do not overlook the voluptuousness in their plaints and accusations!

Man is the cruelest animal toward himself. And in all who call themselves “sinners,” “bearers of the cross,” and “penitents,” do not overlook the pleasure they take in their complaints and accusations!

And I myself—do I thereby want to be man’s accuser? Ah, mine animals, this only have I learned hitherto, that for man his baddest is necessary for his best,—

And do I myself mean to accuse humanity by saying this? Ah, my animals, so far I have learned only that humanity needs its worst for its best.

—That all that is baddest is the best POWER, and the hardest stone for the highest creator; and that man must become better AND badder:—

That all that is worst is the best POWER, and the hardest stone for the highest creator. And that man must become better AND worse.

Not to THIS torture-stake was I tied, that I know man is bad,—but I cried, as no one hath yet cried:

It was not the knowledge that man is bad that tied me to THIS torture stake. But I cried out as no one had ever cried before:

“Ah, that his baddest is so very small! Ah, that his best is so very small!”

“Ah, how small his worst is! Ah, how small his best is!”

The great disgust at man—IT strangled me and had crept into my throat: and what the soothsayer had presaged: “All is alike, nothing is worth while, knowledge strangleth.”

My great disgust at humanity had crept into my throat and was choking me. And the soothsayer had foretold: “All is the same, nothing is worthwhile, knowledge chokes.”

A long twilight limped on before me, a fatally weary, fatally intoxicated sadness, which spake with yawning mouth.

A long twilight limped on before me. It was a fatally weary, fatally intoxicated sadness that spoke with a yawning mouth.

“Eternally he returneth, the man of whom thou art weary, the small man”—so yawned my sadness, and dragged its foot and could not go to sleep.

“The small man you are weary of returns forever.” So my sadness yawned, dragged its feet, and could not sleep.

A cavern, became the human earth to me; its breast caved in; everything living became to me human dust and bones and mouldering past.

To me, the human earth became a cavern. Its chest had caved in. Everything living became human dust, bones, and a decaying past.

My sighing sat on all human graves, and could no longer arise: my sighing and questioning croaked and choked, and gnawed and nagged day and night:

My sighing sat on all human graves and could no longer rise. My sighing and questioning croaked and choked, gnawing and nagging day and night:

—“Ah, man returneth eternally! The small man returneth eternally!”

“Ah, man returns eternally! The small man returns eternally!”

Naked had I once seen both of them, the greatest man and the smallest man: all too like one another—all too human, even the greatest man!

I once saw them both naked, the greatest man and the smallest man. They were far too much alike. Even the greatest man was all too human!

All too small, even the greatest man!—that was my disgust at man! And the eternal return also of the smallest man!—that was my disgust at all existence!

Even the greatest man is far too small! That was why I felt disgust for humanity. And even the smallest man returns eternally! That was why I felt disgust for all existence.

Ah, Disgust! Disgust! Disgust!—Thus spake Zarathustra, and sighed and shuddered; for he remembered his sickness. Then did his animals prevent him from speaking further.

Ah, disgust! Disgust! Disgust! Zarathustra sighed and shuddered as he said this, because he remembered his sickness. Then his animals stopped him from speaking further.

“Do not speak further, thou convalescent!”—so answered his animals, “but go out where the world waiteth for thee like a garden.

“Do not speak any more, you who are recovering!” his animals replied. “But go outside, where the world waits for you like a garden.

Go out unto the roses, the bees, and the flocks of doves! Especially, however, unto the singing birds, to learn SINGING from them!

Go out to the roses, the bees, and the flocks of doves! Above all, go to the songbirds and learn SINGING from them!

For singing is for the convalescent; the sound ones may talk. And when the sound also want songs, then want they other songs than the convalescent.”

For singing is for those recovering from illness. Healthy people may talk. And when healthy people also want songs, they want different songs from those recovering.”

—“O ye wags and barrel-organs, do be silent!” answered Zarathustra, and smiled at his animals. “How well ye know what consolation I devised for myself in seven days!

“Oh, you jokers and barrel organs, please be quiet!” Zarathustra replied, smiling at his animals. “You know so well what comfort I came up with for myself in seven days!

That I have to sing once more—THAT consolation did I devise for myself, and THIS convalescence: would ye also make another lyre-lay thereof?”

Having to sing once more is the comfort I devised for myself, and my way of recovering. Would you make another song of it, too?”

—“Do not talk further,” answered his animals once more; “rather, thou convalescent, prepare for thyself first a lyre, a new lyre!

“Do not speak any further,” his animals replied once more. “Instead, as you recover, first make yourself a lyre, a new lyre!

For behold, O Zarathustra! For thy new lays there are needed new lyres.

For look, Zarathustra! Your new songs need new lyres.

Sing and bubble over, O Zarathustra, heal thy soul with new lays: that thou mayest bear thy great fate, which hath not yet been any one’s fate!

Sing and bubble over, Zarathustra. Heal your soul with new songs, so that you can bear your great fate, a fate no one has ever faced before!

For thine animals know it well, O Zarathustra, who thou art and must become: behold, THOU ART THE TEACHER OF THE ETERNAL RETURN,—that is now THY fate!

For your animals know well who you are and who you must become, Zarathustra. Look, YOU ARE THE TEACHER OF THE ETERNAL RETURN. That is now YOUR fate!

That thou must be the first to teach this teaching—how could this great fate not be thy greatest danger and infirmity!

You must be the first to teach this teaching. How could this great fate not be your greatest danger and weakness!

Behold, we know what thou teachest: that all things eternally return, and ourselves with them, and that we have already existed times without number, and all things with us.

Look, we know what you teach: all things return forever, and we return with them. We have already existed countless times, and so have all things.

Thou teachest that there is a great year of Becoming, a prodigy of a great year; it must, like a sand-glass, ever turn up anew, that it may anew run down and run out:—

You teach that there is a great year of Becoming, a wondrous great year. Like an hourglass, it must be turned over again and again, so that it can run down and empty itself again.

—So that all those years are like one another in the greatest and also in the smallest, so that we ourselves, in every great year, are like ourselves in the greatest and also in the smallest.

So that all those years are alike in the greatest and smallest details. And so that, in every great year, we ourselves are the same in the greatest and smallest details.

And if thou wouldst now die, O Zarathustra, behold, we know also how thou wouldst then speak to thyself:—but thine animals beseech thee not to die yet!

And if you were to die now, Zarathustra, we also know what you would say to yourself. But your animals beg you not to die yet!

Thou wouldst speak, and without trembling, buoyant rather with bliss, for a great weight and worry would be taken from thee, thou patientest one!—

You would speak without trembling, joyful instead, because a great weight and worry would be lifted from you, most patient one!

‘Now do I die and disappear,’ wouldst thou say, ‘and in a moment I am nothing. Souls are as mortal as bodies.

‘Now I die and disappear,’ you would say, ‘and in a moment I am nothing. Souls are as mortal as bodies.

But the plexus of causes returneth in which I am intertwined,—it will again create me! I myself pertain to the causes of the eternal return.

But the web of causes in which I am entangled returns. It will create me again! I myself am among the causes of the eternal return.

I come again with this sun, with this earth, with this eagle, with this serpent—NOT to a new life, or a better life, or a similar life:

I come back with this sun, this earth, this eagle, and this serpent. I do NOT return to a new life, a better life, or a similar life:

—I come again eternally to this identical and selfsame life, in its greatest and its smallest, to teach again the eternal return of all things,—

I return eternally to this same life, in its greatest and smallest details, to teach again the eternal return of all things.

—To speak again the word of the great noontide of earth and man, to announce again to man the Superman.

To speak again of the great noon of earth and humanity, and to announce the Superman to humanity again.

I have spoken my word. I break down by my word: so willeth mine eternal fate—as announcer do I succumb!

I have spoken my word. I am brought down by my word. That is what my eternal fate demands: I perish as a herald!

The hour hath now come for the down-goer to bless himself. Thus—ENDETH Zarathustra’s down-going.’”—

The time has come for the one going down to bless himself. Thus ENDS Zarathustra’s going down.’”

When the animals had spoken these words they were silent and waited, so that Zarathustra might say something to them: but Zarathustra did not hear that they were silent. On the contrary, he lay quietly with closed eyes like a person sleeping, although he did not sleep; for he communed just then with his soul. The serpent, however, and the eagle, when they found him silent in such wise, respected the great stillness around him, and prudently retired.

When the animals had finished speaking, they fell silent and waited for Zarathustra to say something. But Zarathustra did not notice their silence. Instead, he lay quietly with his eyes closed, like someone asleep. Although he was not sleeping, he was communing with his soul. When the serpent and the eagle found him lying so quietly, they respected the deep stillness around him and quietly withdrew.