The Honey Sacrifice

—And again passed moons and years over Zarathustra’s soul, and he heeded it not; his hair, however, became white. One day when he sat on a stone in front of his cave, and gazed calmly into the distance—one there gazeth out on the sea, and away beyond sinuous abysses,—then went his animals thoughtfully round about him, and at last set themselves in front of him.

Again, months and years passed over Zarathustra’s soul, and he did not notice. His hair, however, turned white. One day he sat on a stone in front of his cave, gazing calmly into the distance. From there, he could see the sea and look beyond the winding abysses. His animals walked thoughtfully around him, then finally settled in front of him.

“O Zarathustra,” said they, “gazest thou out perhaps for thy happiness?”—“Of what account is my happiness!” answered he, “I have long ceased to strive any more for happiness, I strive for my work.”—“O Zarathustra,” said the animals once more, “that sayest thou as one who hath overmuch of good things. Liest thou not in a sky-blue lake of happiness?”—“Ye wags,” answered Zarathustra, and smiled, “how well did ye choose the simile! But ye know also that my happiness is heavy, and not like a fluid wave of water: it presseth me and will not leave me, and is like molten pitch.”—

“O Zarathustra,” they said, “are you perhaps looking out for your happiness?” “What does my happiness matter?” he answered. “I stopped striving for happiness long ago. I strive for my work.” “O Zarathustra,” the animals said again, “you speak as someone who has too much of a good thing. Aren’t you lying in a sky-blue lake of happiness?” “You jokers,” Zarathustra answered, smiling, “what a good comparison! But you also know that my happiness is heavy, unlike a flowing wave of water. It weighs on me and will not leave me. It is like molten pitch.”

Then went his animals again thoughtfully around him, and placed themselves once more in front of him. “O Zarathustra,” said they, “it is consequently FOR THAT REASON that thou thyself always becometh yellower and darker, although thy hair looketh white and flaxen? Lo, thou sittest in thy pitch!”—“What do ye say, mine animals?” said Zarathustra, laughing; “verily I reviled when I spake of pitch. As it happeneth with me, so is it with all fruits that turn ripe. It is the HONEY in my veins that maketh my blood thicker, and also my soul stiller.”—“So will it be, O Zarathustra,” answered his animals, and pressed up to him; “but wilt thou not to-day ascend a high mountain? The air is pure, and to-day one seeth more of the world than ever.”—“Yea, mine animals,” answered he, “ye counsel admirably and according to my heart: I will to-day ascend a high mountain! But see that honey is there ready to hand, yellow, white, good, ice-cool, golden-comb-honey. For know that when aloft I will make the honey sacrifice.”—

Then his animals walked thoughtfully around him again and stood before him once more. “O Zarathustra,” they said, “is that WHY you yourself keep growing yellower and darker, even though your hair looks white and flaxen? Look, you are sitting in your pitch!” “What are you saying, my animals?” Zarathustra said, laughing. “Truly, I spoke badly of myself when I spoke of pitch. What happens to me happens to all fruits as they ripen. It is the HONEY in my veins that makes my blood thicker and my soul quieter.” “So it must be, O Zarathustra,” his animals answered, pressing close to him. “But will you not climb a high mountain today? The air is clear, and today you can see more of the world than ever.” “Yes, my animals,” he answered, “your advice is excellent and just what my heart desires. I will climb a high mountain today! But make sure honey is ready there, yellow, white, good, ice-cold, golden honeycomb. For you should know that when I am up there, I will make the honey sacrifice.”

When Zarathustra, however, was aloft on the summit, he sent his animals home that had accompanied him, and found that he was now alone:—then he laughed from the bottom of his heart, looked around him, and spake thus:

When Zarathustra reached the summit, however, he sent the animals that had accompanied him home. Finding himself alone, he laughed from the bottom of his heart, looked around, and said:

That I spake of sacrifices and honey-sacrifices, it was merely a ruse in talking and verily, a useful folly! Here aloft can I now speak freer than in front of mountain-caves and anchorites’ domestic animals.

When I spoke of sacrifices and honey sacrifices, I was merely using a trick of speech. And truly, it was a useful folly! Up here, I can speak more freely than I can in front of mountain caves and hermits’ domestic animals.

What to sacrifice! I squander what is given me, a squanderer with a thousand hands: how could I call that—sacrificing?

What is there to sacrifice! I squander what is given to me. I am a squanderer with a thousand hands. How could I call that sacrifice?

And when I desired honey I only desired bait, and sweet mucus and mucilage, for which even the mouths of growling bears, and strange, sulky, evil birds, water:

And when I wanted honey, I only wanted bait, sweet mucus and sticky sap. Even growling bears and strange, sulky, evil birds have mouths that water for it:

—The best bait, as huntsmen and fishermen require it. For if the world be as a gloomy forest of animals, and a pleasure-ground for all wild huntsmen, it seemeth to me rather—and preferably—a fathomless, rich sea;

The best bait, as hunters and fishermen need it. For if the world is a gloomy forest of animals and a playground for all wild hunters, it seems to me instead, and preferably, a bottomless, abundant sea.

—A sea full of many-hued fishes and crabs, for which even the Gods might long, and might be tempted to become fishers in it, and casters of nets,—so rich is the world in wonderful things, great and small!

The world is like a sea full of colorful fish and crabs. Even the Gods might long for them and be tempted to cast nets and fish in that sea. The world is so rich in wonderful things, great and small!

Especially the human world, the human sea:—towards IT do I now throw out my golden angle-rod and say: Open up, thou human abyss!

Especially the human world, the human sea. Now I cast my golden fishing rod into it and say: Open up, human abyss!

Open up, and throw unto me thy fish and shining crabs! With my best bait shall I allure to myself to-day the strangest human fish!

Open up, and throw me your fish and shining crabs! Today, I will use my best bait to lure the strangest human fish to me!

—My happiness itself do I throw out into all places far and wide ‘twixt orient, noontide, and occident, to see if many human fish will not learn to hug and tug at my happiness;—

I cast my happiness far and wide, to the east, south, and west. I do this to see if many human fish will learn to cling to my happiness and tug at it.

Until, biting at my sharp hidden hooks, they have to come up unto MY height, the motleyest abyss-groundlings, to the wickedest of all fishers of men.

Until the most motley creatures of the abyss bite my sharp hidden hooks and must rise to MY height, to the wickedest of all fishers of men.

For THIS am I from the heart and from the beginning—drawing, hither-drawing, upward-drawing, upbringing; a drawer, a trainer, a training-master, who not in vain counselled himself once on a time: “Become what thou art!”

For this is what I have been, at heart and from the beginning: drawing others toward me, drawing them upward, raising them. I am a guide, a trainer, a master teacher. It was not for nothing that I once advised myself: “Become what you are!”

Thus may men now come UP to me; for as yet do I await the signs that it is time for my down-going; as yet do I not myself go down, as I must do, amongst men.

So men may now come UP to me, for I am still waiting for signs that it is time to go down. I have not yet gone down among men myself, as I must.

Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high mountains, no impatient one, no patient one; rather one who hath even unlearnt patience,—because he no longer “suffereth.”

So I wait here on high mountains, crafty and scornful. I am neither impatient nor patient. Rather, I have even unlearned patience because I no longer “suffer.”

For my fate giveth me time: it hath forgotten me perhaps? Or doth it sit behind a big stone and catch flies?

For my fate is giving me time. Perhaps it has forgotten me? Or is it sitting behind a big stone, catching flies?

And verily, I am well disposed to mine eternal fate, because it doth not hound and hurry me, but leaveth me time for merriment and mischief; so that I have to-day ascended this high mountain to catch fish.

And truly, I am happy with my eternal fate because it neither hounds nor rushes me. It leaves me time for fun and mischief, so today I climbed this high mountain to catch fish.

Did ever any one catch fish upon high mountains? And though it be a folly what I here seek and do, it is better so than that down below I should become solemn with waiting, and green and yellow—

Has anyone ever caught fish high in the mountains? What I seek and do here may be foolish. But it is better than waiting down below until I become solemn, and green and yellow.

—A posturing wrath-snorter with waiting, a holy howl-storm from the mountains, an impatient one that shouteth down into the valleys: “Hearken, else I will scourge you with the scourge of God!”

A posturing figure, snorting with rage at having to wait. A holy howling storm from the mountains, impatiently shouting down into the valleys: “Listen, or I will whip you with the whip of God!”

Not that I would have a grudge against such wrathful ones on that account: they are well enough for laughter to me! Impatient must they now be, those big alarm-drums, which find a voice now or never!

Not that I hold a grudge against those angry people for that. They amuse me well enough! Those big alarm drums must be impatient now. They must find their voice now or never!

Myself, however, and my fate—we do not talk to the Present, neither do we talk to the Never: for talking we have patience and time and more than time. For one day must it yet come, and may not pass by.

But my fate and I speak neither to the Present nor to the Never. We have patience and time, and more than time, to speak. For one day it must come, and it cannot pass us by.

What must one day come and may not pass by? Our great Hazar, that is to say, our great, remote human-kingdom, the Zarathustra-kingdom of a thousand years—

What must one day come and cannot be missed? Our great Hazar, our great, distant human kingdom, the thousand-year kingdom of Zarathustra.

How remote may such “remoteness” be? What doth it concern me? But on that account it is none the less sure unto me—, with both feet stand I secure on this ground;

How far away may such “remoteness” be? What does it matter to me? But it is no less certain to me for that. I stand firmly on this ground with both feet.

—On an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on this highest, hardest, primary mountain-ridge, unto which all winds come, as unto the storm-parting, asking Where? and Whence? and Whither?

On eternal ground, on hard, ancient rock, on this highest, hardest, ancient mountain ridge, where all winds come as to a place that divides storms, asking: Where? From where? To where?

Here laugh, laugh, my hearty, healthy wickedness! From high mountains cast down thy glittering scorn-laughter! Allure for me with thy glittering the finest human fish!

Laugh, laugh here, my hearty, healthy wickedness! From the high mountains, cast down your glittering, scornful laughter! Use your glitter to lure the finest human fish to me!

And whatever belongeth unto ME in all seas, my in-and-for-me in all things—fish THAT out for me, bring THAT up to me: for that do I wait, the wickedest of all fish-catchers.

And whatever belongs to ME in all the seas, my in-and-for-me in all things, fish THAT out for me. Bring THAT up to me. For that I wait, the wickedest of all fishers.

Out! out! my fishing-hook! In and down, thou bait of my happiness! Drip thy sweetest dew, thou honey of my heart! Bite, my fishing-hook, into the belly of all black affliction!

Out, out, my fishing hook! Go in and down, bait of my happiness! Drip your sweetest dew, honey of my heart! Bite into the belly of all black affliction, my fishing hook!

Look out, look out, mine eye! Oh, how many seas round about me, what dawning human futures! And above me—what rosy red stillness! What unclouded silence!

Look, look, my eye! Oh, how many seas surround me, how many human futures are dawning! And above me, what rosy red stillness! What cloudless silence!