The Leech

And Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further and lower down, through forests and past moory bottoms; as it happeneth, however, to every one who meditateth upon hard matters, he trod thereby unawares upon a man. And lo, there spurted into his face all at once a cry of pain, and two curses and twenty bad invectives, so that in his fright he raised his stick and also struck the trodden one. Immediately afterwards, however, he regained his composure, and his heart laughed at the folly he had just committed.

Zarathustra walked on thoughtfully, farther down through forests and past marshy hollows. As happens to everyone pondering difficult matters, he stepped on a man without noticing him. Suddenly, a cry of pain, two curses, and twenty insults burst into his face. Startled, he raised his stick and struck the man he had stepped on. But he immediately regained his composure, and his heart laughed at the foolish thing he had just done.

“Pardon me,” said he to the trodden one, who had got up enraged, and had seated himself, “pardon me, and hear first of all a parable.

“Forgive me,” he said to the man he had stepped on. The man had gotten up in a rage and sat down. “Forgive me, and first listen to a parable.

As a wanderer who dreameth of remote things on a lonesome highway, runneth unawares against a sleeping dog, a dog which lieth in the sun:

Like a wanderer dreaming of distant things on a lonely road, who accidentally runs into a sleeping dog lying in the sun:

—As both of them then start up and snap at each other, like deadly enemies, those two beings mortally frightened—so did it happen unto us.

Just as two terrified creatures suddenly leap up and snap at each other like deadly enemies, so it happened to us.

And yet! And yet—how little was lacking for them to caress each other, that dog and that lonesome one! Are they not both—lonesome ones!”

And yet! And yet, the dog and the lonely one almost caressed each other! Aren’t they both lonely?”

—“Whoever thou art,” said the trodden one, still enraged, “thou treadest also too nigh me with thy parable, and not only with thy foot!

“Whoever you are,” said the man who had been stepped on, still angry, “you come too close to me with your parable, not just with your foot!

Lo! am I then a dog?”—And thereupon the sitting one got up, and pulled his naked arm out of the swamp. For at first he had lain outstretched on the ground, hidden and indiscernible, like those who lie in wait for swamp-game.

Look! Am I a dog, then?” At that, the seated man got up and pulled his bare arm out of the swamp. At first, he had been stretched out on the ground, hidden from sight, like someone lying in wait for swamp game.

“But whatever art thou about!” called out Zarathustra in alarm, for he saw a deal of blood streaming over the naked arm,—“what hath hurt thee? Hath an evil beast bit thee, thou unfortunate one?”

“But what on earth are you doing?” Zarathustra cried in alarm, because he saw a great deal of blood streaming over the bare arm. “What hurt you? Did a wild animal bite you, you poor soul?”

The bleeding one laughed, still angry, “What matter is it to thee!” said he, and was about to go on. “Here am I at home and in my province. Let him question me whoever will: to a dolt, however, I shall hardly answer.”

The bleeding man laughed, still angry. “What’s it to you?” he said, and was about to continue. “I am at home here, on my own ground. Anyone may question me, but I will hardly answer a fool.”

“Thou art mistaken,” said Zarathustra sympathetically, and held him fast; “thou art mistaken. Here thou art not at home, but in my domain, and therein shall no one receive any hurt.

“You’re mistaken,” Zarathustra said sympathetically, holding him firmly. “You’re mistaken. You’re not at home here, but in my domain, and no one will be harmed here.”

Call me however what thou wilt—I am who I must be. I call myself Zarathustra.

Call me whatever you want. I am who I must be. I call myself Zarathustra.

Well! Up thither is the way to Zarathustra’s cave: it is not far,—wilt thou not attend to thy wounds at my home?

Well! The path up there leads to Zarathustra’s cave. It’s not far. Won’t you tend to your wounds at my home?

It hath gone badly with thee, thou unfortunate one, in this life: first a beast bit thee, and then—a man trod upon thee!”—

Life has treated you badly, you unfortunate one. First a beast bit you, and then a man stepped on you!”

When however the trodden one had heard the name of Zarathustra he was transformed. “What happeneth unto me!” he exclaimed, “WHO preoccupieth me so much in this life as this one man, namely Zarathustra, and that one animal that liveth on blood, the leech?

But when the man who had been stepped on heard Zarathustra’s name, he was transformed. “What is happening to me!” he exclaimed, “WHO occupies my thoughts so much in this life as this one man, Zarathustra, and that one animal that lives on blood, the leech?

For the sake of the leech did I lie here by this swamp, like a fisher, and already had mine outstretched arm been bitten ten times, when there biteth a still finer leech at my blood, Zarathustra himself!

I lay here by this swamp like a fisherman, hoping to catch a leech. My outstretched arm had already been bitten ten times when an even finer leech bit me: Zarathustra himself!

O happiness! O miracle! Praised be this day which enticed me into the swamp! Praised be the best, the livest cupping-glass, that at present liveth; praised be the great conscience-leech Zarathustra!”—

Oh, what happiness! What a miracle! Praise this day for drawing me into the swamp! Praise the best, liveliest cupping glass alive today! Praise the great conscience-leech Zarathustra!”

Thus spake the trodden one, and Zarathustra rejoiced at his words and their refined reverential style. “Who art thou?” asked he, and gave him his hand, “there is much to clear up and elucidate between us, but already methinketh pure clear day is dawning.”

Thus spoke the trampled man, and Zarathustra rejoiced at his words and their refined, reverent style. “Who are you?” he asked, offering him his hand. “There is much for us to clear up and explain, but I think a bright, clear day is already dawning.”

“I am THE SPIRITUALLY CONSCIENTIOUS ONE,” answered he who was asked, “and in matters of the spirit it is difficult for any one to take it more rigorously, more restrictedly, and more severely than I, except him from whom I learnt it, Zarathustra himself.

“I am THE SPIRITUALLY CONSCIENTIOUS ONE,” answered the man who had been asked. “In matters of the spirit, hardly anyone is more rigorous, more restrained, or stricter than I am. Only Zarathustra himself is, and I learned it from him.”

Better know nothing than half-know many things! Better be a fool on one’s own account, than a sage on other people’s approbation! I—go to the basis:

Better to know nothing than to half-know many things! Better to be a fool on your own terms than a wise person because others approve! I go to the foundation:

—What matter if it be great or small? If it be called swamp or sky? A handbreadth of basis is enough for me, if it be actually basis and ground!

What does it matter whether it is big or small? Whether it is called swamp or sky? A handbreadth of foundation is enough for me, as long as it is truly a foundation and solid ground!

—A handbreadth of basis: thereon can one stand. In the true knowing-knowledge there is nothing great and nothing small.”

A handbreadth of ground is enough to stand on. In true knowing-knowledge, nothing is great and nothing is small.”

“Then thou art perhaps an expert on the leech?” asked Zarathustra; “and thou investigatest the leech to its ultimate basis, thou conscientious one?”

“Then perhaps you are an expert on leeches?” asked Zarathustra. “And do you study the leech down to its most fundamental nature, you conscientious one?”

“O Zarathustra,” answered the trodden one, “that would be something immense; how could I presume to do so!

“Oh, Zarathustra,” answered the one who had been trampled, “that would be an enormous thing. How could I dare to do it!

That, however, of which I am master and knower, is the BRAIN of the leech:—that is MY world!

But what I know and have mastered is the BRAIN of the leech. That is MY world!

And it is also a world! Forgive it, however, that my pride here findeth expression, for here I have not mine equal. Therefore said I: ‘here am I at home.’

And it is also a world! But forgive me for expressing my pride here, for here I have no equal. That is why I said: ‘here I am at home.’

How long have I investigated this one thing, the brain of the leech, so that here the slippery truth might no longer slip from me! Here is MY domain!

How long I have studied this one thing, the leech’s brain, so that the slippery truth might no longer slip away from me! This is MY domain!

—For the sake of this did I cast everything else aside, for the sake of this did everything else become indifferent to me; and close beside my knowledge lieth my black ignorance.

For this, I cast everything else aside. For this, everything else became unimportant to me. And close beside my knowledge lies my black ignorance.

My spiritual conscience requireth from me that it should be so—that I should know one thing, and not know all else: they are a loathing unto me, all the semi-spiritual, all the hazy, hovering, and visionary.

My spiritual conscience demands that I know one thing and remain ignorant of everything else. I loathe all the half-spiritual, all the vague, drifting, and visionary people.

Where mine honesty ceaseth, there am I blind, and want also to be blind. Where I want to know, however, there want I also to be honest—namely, severe, rigorous, restricted, cruel and inexorable.

Where my honesty ends, I am blind, and I want to be blind. But where I want to know, I also want to be honest. That means being severe, rigorous, restrained, cruel, and relentless.

Because THOU once saidest, O Zarathustra: ‘Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life’;—that led and allured me to thy doctrine. And verily, with mine own blood have I increased mine own knowledge!”

Because you once said, O Zarathustra, ‘Spirit is life that cuts into life itself’, I was drawn to your teaching. And truly, I have increased my own knowledge with my own blood!”

—“As the evidence indicateth,” broke in Zarathustra; for still was the blood flowing down on the naked arm of the conscientious one. For there had ten leeches bitten into it.

“As the evidence shows,” Zarathustra interrupted, for blood was still flowing down the conscientious man’s bare arm. Ten leeches had bitten into his arm.

“O thou strange fellow, how much doth this very evidence teach me—namely, thou thyself! And not all, perhaps, might I pour into thy rigorous ear!

“Oh, strange fellow, how much this evidence, you yourself, teaches me! And perhaps I cannot tell you all of it, with your exacting ear!

Well then! We part here! But I would fain find thee again. Up thither is the way to my cave: to-night shalt thou there be my welcome guest!

Well then! We part here! But I would like to see you again. The path up there leads to my cave. You are welcome to stay there tonight!

Fain would I also make amends to thy body for Zarathustra treading upon thee with his feet: I think about that. Just now, however, a cry of distress calleth me hastily away from thee.”

I would also like to make amends to your body for Zarathustra stepping on you. I am thinking about that. But right now, a cry for help calls me away from you in haste.”

Thus spake Zarathustra.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.