The Shadow

Scarcely however was the voluntary beggar gone in haste, and Zarathustra again alone, when he heard behind him a new voice which called out: “Stay! Zarathustra! Do wait! It is myself, forsooth, O Zarathustra, myself, thy shadow!” But Zarathustra did not wait; for a sudden irritation came over him on account of the crowd and the crowding in his mountains. “Whither hath my lonesomeness gone?” spake he.

The voluntary beggar had only just hurried away, leaving Zarathustra alone again, when he heard a new voice behind him: “Stop! Zarathustra! Wait! It is me, Zarathustra, your shadow!” But Zarathustra did not wait. The crowd and the crowding in his mountains had suddenly irritated him. “Where has my solitude gone?” he said.

“It is verily becoming too much for me; these mountains swarm; my kingdom is no longer of THIS world; I require new mountains.

“It really is becoming too much for me. These mountains are swarming. My kingdom is no longer of THIS world. I need new mountains.

My shadow calleth me? What matter about my shadow! Let it run after me! I—run away from it.”

Is my shadow calling me? What do I care about my shadow! Let it chase me! I will run away from it.”

Thus spake Zarathustra to his heart and ran away. But the one behind followed after him, so that immediately there were three runners, one after the other—namely, foremost the voluntary beggar, then Zarathustra, and thirdly, and hindmost, his shadow. But not long had they run thus when Zarathustra became conscious of his folly, and shook off with one jerk all his irritation and detestation.

Zarathustra said this to himself and ran away. But the one behind him followed, so there were soon three runners, one after another. The voluntary beggar was first, Zarathustra was second, and his shadow was last. But they had not run far when Zarathustra realized how foolish he was. With one jerk, he shook off all his irritation and disgust.

“What!” said he, “have not the most ludicrous things always happened to us old anchorites and saints?

“What!” he said, “haven’t the most ridiculous things always happened to us old hermits and saints?

Verily, my folly hath grown big in the mountains! Now do I hear six old fools’ legs rattling behind one another!

Truly, my foolishness has grown in the mountains! Now I hear the legs of six old fools rattling one after another!

But doth Zarathustra need to be frightened by his shadow? Also, methinketh that after all it hath longer legs than mine.”

But does Zarathustra need to be afraid of his shadow? Besides, I think it has longer legs than mine after all.”

Thus spake Zarathustra, and, laughing with eyes and entrails, he stood still and turned round quickly—and behold, he almost thereby threw his shadow and follower to the ground, so closely had the latter followed at his heels, and so weak was he. For when Zarathustra scrutinised him with his glance he was frightened as by a sudden apparition, so slender, swarthy, hollow and worn-out did this follower appear.

Thus spoke Zarathustra. Laughing with his eyes and his guts, he stopped and turned around quickly. He nearly knocked his shadow and follower to the ground, because the follower was so weak and had been following so closely. When Zarathustra looked closely at him, he was startled, as if he had suddenly seen a ghost. His follower looked so thin, dark, hollow, and worn out.

“Who art thou?” asked Zarathustra vehemently, “what doest thou here? And why callest thou thyself my shadow? Thou art not pleasing unto me.”

“Who are you?” Zarathustra asked fiercely. “What are you doing here? And why do you call yourself my shadow? I don't like you.”

“Forgive me,” answered the shadow, “that it is I; and if I please thee not—well, O Zarathustra! therein do I admire thee and thy good taste.

“Forgive me,” the shadow replied, “for being who I am. And if you do not like me, well, Zarathustra! I admire you and your good taste for that.

A wanderer am I, who have walked long at thy heels; always on the way, but without a goal, also without a home: so that verily, I lack little of being the eternally Wandering Jew, except that I am not eternal and not a Jew.

I am a wanderer who has followed close behind you for a long time. I am always on the road, but without a goal or a home. So, truly, I am almost the eternal Wandering Jew, except that I am not eternal and not a Jew.

What? Must I ever be on the way? Whirled by every wind, unsettled, driven about? O earth, thou hast become too round for me!

What? Must I always be on the move? Tossed by every wind, restless, driven from place to place? Oh earth, you have become too round for me!

On every surface have I already sat, like tired dust have I fallen asleep on mirrors and window-panes: everything taketh from me, nothing giveth; I become thin—I am almost equal to a shadow.

I have already sat on every surface. Like tired dust, I have fallen asleep on mirrors and windowpanes. Everything takes from me, and nothing gives. I am growing thin. I am almost like a shadow.

After thee, however, O Zarathustra, did I fly and hie longest; and though I hid myself from thee, I was nevertheless thy best shadow: wherever thou hast sat, there sat I also.

But you, Zarathustra, were the one I followed longest. Though I hid from you, I was still your best shadow. Wherever you sat, I sat too.

With thee have I wandered about in the remotest, coldest worlds, like a phantom that voluntarily haunteth winter roofs and snows.

I have wandered with you through the most remote, coldest worlds, like a ghost that chooses to haunt snowy winter rooftops.

With thee have I pushed into all the forbidden, all the worst and the furthest: and if there be anything of virtue in me, it is that I have had no fear of any prohibition.

With you, I have ventured into all that is forbidden, all that is worst and furthest. And if there is any virtue in me, it is that I have feared no prohibition.

With thee have I broken up whatever my heart revered; all boundary-stones and statues have I o’erthrown; the most dangerous wishes did I pursue,—verily, beyond every crime did I once go.

With you, I have shattered everything my heart revered. I have toppled all boundary stones and statues. I pursued the most dangerous desires. Indeed, I once went beyond every crime.

With thee did I unlearn the belief in words and worths and in great names. When the devil casteth his skin, doth not his name also fall away? It is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps—skin.

With you, I unlearned my belief in words, values, and great names. When the devil sheds his skin, doesn’t his name fall away too? His name is also skin. The devil himself is perhaps only skin.

‘Nothing is true, all is permitted’: so said I to myself. Into the coldest water did I plunge with head and heart. Ah, how oft did I stand there naked on that account, like a red crab!

‘Nothing is true, all is permitted’: that is what I told myself. I plunged into the coldest water with my head and heart. Ah, how often that left me standing naked, like a red crab!

Ah, where have gone all my goodness and all my shame and all my belief in the good! Ah, where is the lying innocence which I once possessed, the innocence of the good and of their noble lies!

Ah, where have all my goodness, all my shame, and all my belief in the good gone! Ah, where is the false innocence I once had, the innocence of good people and their noble lies!

Too oft, verily, did I follow close to the heels of truth: then did it kick me on the face. Sometimes I meant to lie, and behold! then only did I hit—the truth.

Too often, I followed close on the heels of truth, only for it to kick me in the face. Sometimes I meant to lie, and then, to my surprise, I hit on the truth.

Too much hath become clear unto me: now it doth not concern me any more. Nothing liveth any longer that I love,—how should I still love myself?

Too much has become clear to me. Now it no longer concerns me. Nothing I love is still alive. How could I still love myself?

‘To live as I incline, or not to live at all’: so do I wish; so wisheth also the holiest. But alas! how have I still—inclination?

‘To live as I choose, or not live at all’: that is what I want. The holiest want the same. But alas! How can I still have any desire?

Have I—still a goal? A haven towards which MY sail is set?

Do I still have a goal? A harbor that MY sail is set toward?

A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth WHITHER he saileth, knoweth what wind is good, and a fair wind for him.

A good wind? Ah, only someone who knows WHERE he is sailing knows which wind is good and favorable for him.

What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an unstable will; fluttering wings; a broken backbone.

What do I have left? A weary, flippant heart, an unstable will, fluttering wings, and a broken backbone.

This seeking for MY home: O Zarathustra, dost thou know that this seeking hath been MY home-sickening; it eateth me up.

This search for MY home: Oh, Zarathustra, do you know that searching has made me homesick? It is eating me up.

‘WHERE is—MY home?’ For it do I ask and seek, and have sought, but have not found it. O eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal—in-vain!”

‘WHERE is MY home?’ That is what I ask and seek. I have searched for it, but I have not found it. O eternal everywhere, O eternal nowhere, O eternal in vain!”

Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra’s countenance lengthened at his words. “Thou art my shadow!” said he at last sadly.

Thus spoke the shadow, and Zarathustra’s face grew longer at his words. “You are my shadow!” he said at last, sadly.

“Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and wanderer! Thou hast had a bad day: see that a still worse evening doth not overtake thee!

“Your danger is great, you free spirit and wanderer! You have had a bad day. Make sure an even worse evening does not overtake you!

To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth at last even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how captured criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they enjoy their new security.

To restless people like you, even a prisoner seems fortunate in the end. Have you ever seen how captured criminals sleep? They sleep peacefully. They enjoy their new security.

Beware lest in the end a narrow faith capture thee, a hard, rigorous delusion! For now everything that is narrow and fixed seduceth and tempteth thee.

Beware that a narrow faith does not capture you in the end, a harsh, rigid delusion! For now, everything narrow and fixed draws and tempts you.

Thou hast lost thy goal. Alas, how wilt thou forego and forget that loss? Thereby—hast thou also lost thy way!

You have lost your goal. Alas, how will you let go of it and forget that loss? Because of this, you have also lost your way!

Thou poor rover and rambler, thou tired butterfly! wilt thou have a rest and a home this evening? Then go up to my cave!

You poor wanderer, you tired butterfly! Would you like a rest and a home this evening? Then come up to my cave!

Thither leadeth the way to my cave. And now will I run quickly away from thee again. Already lieth as it were a shadow upon me.

That way leads to my cave. And now I will quickly run away from you again. Already, it is as if a shadow has fallen over me.

I will run alone, so that it may again become bright around me. Therefore must I still be a long time merrily upon my legs. In the evening, however, there will be—dancing with me!”—

I will run alone so that it may grow bright around me again. So I must stay happily on my feet for a long time yet. But in the evening, there will be dancing with me!”

Thus spake Zarathustra.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.