The Ugliest Man

—And again did Zarathustra’s feet run through mountains and forests, and his eyes sought and sought, but nowhere was he to be seen whom they wanted to see—the sorely distressed sufferer and crier. On the whole way, however, he rejoiced in his heart and was full of gratitude. “What good things,” said he, “hath this day given me, as amends for its bad beginning! What strange interlocutors have I found!

And once again, Zarathustra ran through mountains and forests. His eyes searched and searched, but he could not find the man he wanted to see, the suffering man who had cried out in great distress. All along the way, however, his heart rejoiced, and he was full of gratitude. “What good things this day has given me to make up for its bad beginning!” he said. “What strange people I have found to talk with!

At their words will I now chew a long while as at good corn; small shall my teeth grind and crush them, until they flow like milk into my soul!”—

I will now chew on their words for a long time, as if they were good grain. My teeth will grind and crush them into fine pieces, until they flow like milk into my soul!”

When, however, the path again curved round a rock, all at once the landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered into a realm of death. Here bristled aloft black and red cliffs, without any grass, tree, or bird’s voice. For it was a valley which all animals avoided, even the beasts of prey, except that a species of ugly, thick, green serpent came here to die when they became old. Therefore the shepherds called this valley: “Serpent-death.”

But when the path curved around another rock, the landscape suddenly changed. Zarathustra entered a realm of death. Black and red cliffs rose sharply into the sky. There was no grass, no tree, and no bird’s song. All animals avoided the valley, even beasts of prey. Only one species came there: ugly, thick, green serpents, which came to die when they grew old. So the shepherds called the valley “Serpent-death.”

Zarathustra, however, became absorbed in dark recollections, for it seemed to him as if he had once before stood in this valley. And much heaviness settled on his mind, so that he walked slowly and always more slowly, and at last stood still. Then, however, when he opened his eyes, he saw something sitting by the wayside shaped like a man, and hardly like a man, something nondescript. And all at once there came over Zarathustra a great shame, because he had gazed on such a thing. Blushing up to the very roots of his white hair, he turned aside his glance, and raised his foot that he might leave this ill-starred place. Then, however, became the dead wilderness vocal: for from the ground a noise welled up, gurgling and rattling, as water gurgleth and rattleth at night through stopped-up water-pipes; and at last it turned into human voice and human speech:—it sounded thus:

Zarathustra, however, became lost in dark memories, for he felt as if he had stood in this valley before. His mind grew heavy, and he walked more and more slowly. At last he stopped. But when he opened his eyes, he saw something sitting by the roadside. It was shaped like a man, yet hardly like a man, something hard to describe. Suddenly, Zarathustra felt great shame at having looked upon such a thing. Blushing to the roots of his white hair, he looked away. He lifted his foot to leave this ill-fated place. But then the dead wilderness found a voice. A noise rose from the ground, gurgling and rattling like water passing through blocked pipes at night. At last, it became a human voice speaking human words. This is what it said:

“Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Read my riddle! Say, say! WHAT IS THE REVENGE ON THE WITNESS?

“Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Solve my riddle! Tell me, tell me! WHAT IS THE REVENGE ON THE WITNESS?

I entice thee back; here is smooth ice! See to it, see to it, that thy pride doth not here break its legs!

I lure you back. The ice is smooth here! Take care, take care that your pride doesn't break its legs here!

Thou thinkest thyself wise, thou proud Zarathustra! Read then the riddle, thou hard nut-cracker,—the riddle that I am! Say then: who am I!”

You think you’re wise, proud Zarathustra! Then solve the riddle, you tough nutcracker. Solve the riddle that I am! Tell me, then: who am I!”

—When however Zarathustra had heard these words,—what think ye then took place in his soul? PITY OVERCAME HIM; and he sank down all at once, like an oak that hath long withstood many tree-fellers,—heavily, suddenly, to the terror even of those who meant to fell it. But immediately he got up again from the ground, and his countenance became stern.

But when Zarathustra heard these words, what do you think happened in his soul? PITY OVERCAME HIM. He suddenly sank down, like an oak that has long resisted many woodcutters. The oak falls heavily and suddenly, terrifying even those who meant to cut it down. But Zarathustra immediately got up from the ground, and his face grew stern.

“I know thee well,” said he, with a brazen voice, “THOU ART THE MURDERER OF GOD! Let me go.

“I know you well,” he said in a harsh voice. “YOU ARE THE MURDERER OF GOD! Let me go.

Thou couldst not ENDURE him who beheld THEE,—who ever beheld thee through and through, thou ugliest man. Thou tookest revenge on this witness!”

You could not ENDURE the one who saw YOU, who always saw right through you, you ugliest man. You took revenge on this witness!”

Thus spake Zarathustra and was about to go; but the nondescript grasped at a corner of his garment and began anew to gurgle and seek for words. “Stay,” said he at last—

Zarathustra finished speaking and was about to leave. But the nondescript grabbed a corner of his garment and again began to gurgle and search for words. “Wait,” he said at last.

—“Stay! Do not pass by! I have divined what axe it was that struck thee to the ground: hail to thee, O Zarathustra, that thou art again upon thy feet!

“Wait! Don’t pass by! I’ve figured out what axe struck you down. Hail to you, Zarathustra, for you are back on your feet!

Thou hast divined, I know it well, how the man feeleth who killed him,—the murderer of God. Stay! Sit down here beside me; it is not to no purpose.

I know well that you have guessed how the man who killed God feels. He is the murderer of God. Wait! Sit down here beside me. There is a reason for it.

To whom would I go but unto thee? Stay, sit down! Do not however look at me! Honour thus—mine ugliness!

Who else would I go to but you? Stay, sit down! But do not look at me! Show respect for my ugliness in this way!

They persecute me: now art THOU my last refuge. NOT with their hatred, NOT with their bailiffs;—Oh, such persecution would I mock at, and be proud and cheerful!

They persecute me. Now you are my last refuge. But not with their hatred or their bailiffs. Oh, I would laugh at that kind of persecution and be proud and cheerful!

Hath not all success hitherto been with the well-persecuted ones? And he who persecuteth well learneth readily to be OBSEQUENT—when once he is—put behind! But it is their PITY—

Hasn't all success so far belonged to those who were well persecuted? And anyone who persecutes well readily learns to be OBSEQUIOUS once he is put behind others. But it is their PITY...

—Their pity is it from which I flee away and flee to thee. O Zarathustra, protect me, thou, my last refuge, thou sole one who divinedst me:

I am fleeing from their pity, and I have come to you. Oh, Zarathustra, protect me. You are my last refuge, the only one who understood me:

—Thou hast divined how the man feeleth who killed HIM. Stay! And if thou wilt go, thou impatient one, go not the way that I came. THAT way is bad.

You have guessed how the man who killed him feels. Wait! And if you must go, you impatient one, do not go the way I came. That way is bad.

Art thou angry with me because I have already racked language too long? Because I have already counselled thee? But know that it is I, the ugliest man,

Are you angry with me because I have already strained language for too long? Because I have already advised you? But know that I am the ugliest man,

—Who have also the largest, heaviest feet. Where I have gone, the way is bad. I tread all paths to death and destruction.

Who also have the biggest, heaviest feet. Wherever I have gone, the path is bad. I trample all paths to death and destruction.

But that thou passedst me by in silence, that thou blushedst—I saw it well: thereby did I know thee as Zarathustra.

But you passed me by in silence, and you blushed. I saw it clearly, and that is how I recognized you as Zarathustra.

Every one else would have thrown to me his alms, his pity, in look and speech. But for that—I am not beggar enough: that didst thou divine.

Everyone else would have offered me charity and pity in their looks and words. But I am not enough of a beggar to accept them. You understood that.

For that I am too RICH, rich in what is great, frightful, ugliest, most unutterable! Thy shame, O Zarathustra, HONOURED me!

For that, I am too RICH, rich in what is great, frightening, ugliest, and most unspeakable! Your shame, O Zarathustra, HONORED me!

With difficulty did I get out of the crowd of the pitiful,—that I might find the only one who at present teacheth that ‘pity is obtrusive’— thyself, O Zarathustra!

I struggled to get away from the crowd of those who pity others, so I could find you, Zarathustra. You alone now teach that ‘pity is intrusive’!

—Whether it be the pity of a God, or whether it be human pity, it is offensive to modesty. And unwillingness to help may be nobler than the virtue that rusheth to do so.

Whether it comes from a God or a human, pity offends modesty. And refusing to help may be nobler than the virtue that rushes to help.

THAT however—namely, pity—is called virtue itself at present by all petty people:—they have no reverence for great misfortune, great ugliness, great failure.

But today, all petty people call pity virtue itself. They have no reverence for great misfortune, great ugliness, or great failure.

Beyond all these do I look, as a dog looketh over the backs of thronging flocks of sheep. They are petty, good-wooled, good-willed, grey people.

I look beyond all of them, like a dog looking over the backs of crowded flocks of sheep. They are petty, good-willed, gray people with good wool.

As the heron looketh contemptuously at shallow pools, with backward-bent head, so do I look at the throng of grey little waves and wills and souls.

Just as a heron looks down on shallow pools with its head bent back, I look down on the crowd of little gray waves, wills, and souls.

Too long have we acknowledged them to be right, those petty people: SO we have at last given them power as well;—and now do they teach that ‘good is only what petty people call good.’

For too long, we have agreed that these petty people are right. So we have finally given them power too. And now they teach that ‘good is only what petty people call good.’

And ‘truth’ is at present what the preacher spake who himself sprang from them, that singular saint and advocate of the petty people, who testified of himself: ‘I—am the truth.’

And ‘truth’ is now what the preacher said, the preacher who came from among them. He was that strange saint and defender of the petty people, who said of himself: ‘I am the truth.’

That immodest one hath long made the petty people greatly puffed up,—he who taught no small error when he taught: ‘I—am the truth.’

That arrogant man has long made petty people very proud of themselves. He taught a great error when he said: ‘I am the truth.’

Hath an immodest one ever been answered more courteously?—Thou, however, O Zarathustra, passedst him by, and saidst: ‘Nay! Nay! Three times Nay!’

Has anyone who was so immodest ever been answered more courteously? But you, Zarathustra, passed him by and said: ‘No! No! Three times no!’

Thou warnedst against his error; thou warnedst—the first to do so—against pity:—not every one, not none, but thyself and thy type.

You warned against his error. You were the first to warn against pity, not everyone, not no one, but you and your kind.

Thou art ashamed of the shame of the great sufferer; and verily when thou sayest: ‘From pity there cometh a heavy cloud; take heed, ye men!’

You are ashamed of the great sufferer’s shame. And truly, when you say: ‘A heavy cloud comes from pity. Beware, you men!’

—When thou teachest: ‘All creators are hard, all great love is beyond their pity:’ O Zarathustra, how well versed dost thou seem to me in weather-signs!

When you teach, ‘All creators are hard, and all great love is beyond their pity,’ O Zarathustra, you seem to me so skilled at reading signs of the weather!

Thou thyself, however,—warn thyself also against THY pity! For many are on their way to thee, many suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning, freezing ones—

But you must also beware of YOUR pity! For many are coming to you, suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning, and freezing.

I warn thee also against myself. Thou hast read my best, my worst riddle, myself, and what I have done. I know the axe that felleth thee.

I also warn you against myself. You have read my best and worst riddle: myself and what I have done. I know the axe that cuts you down.

But he—HAD TO die: he looked with eyes which beheld EVERYTHING,—he beheld men’s depths and dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness.

But he HAD TO die. His eyes saw EVERYTHING. He saw the depths and dregs of human beings, all his hidden shame and ugliness.

His pity knew no modesty: he crept into my dirtiest corners. This most prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one had to die.

His pity knew no restraint. He crept into my dirtiest corners. This man, so nosy, intrusive, and full of pity, had to die.

He ever beheld ME: on such a witness I would have revenge—or not live myself.

He was always watching ME. I would take revenge on such a witness, or I could not go on living.

The God who beheld everything, AND ALSO MAN: that God had to die! Man cannot ENDURE it that such a witness should live.”

The God who saw everything, INCLUDING MAN, had to die! Man cannot BEAR to have such a witness alive.”

Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra however got up, and prepared to go on: for he felt frozen to the very bowels.

This is what the ugliest man said. But Zarathustra got up and prepared to move on, because he felt frozen to his very core.

“Thou nondescript,” said he, “thou warnedst me against thy path. As thanks for it I praise mine to thee. Behold, up thither is the cave of Zarathustra.

“You nondescript,” he said, “you warned me against taking your path. In thanks, I recommend mine to you. Look, up there is Zarathustra’s cave.

My cave is large and deep and hath many corners; there findeth he that is most hidden his hiding-place. And close beside it, there are a hundred lurking-places and by-places for creeping, fluttering, and hopping creatures.

My cave is large and deep, with many corners. Even the most hidden person can find a hiding place there. Close beside the cave are a hundred hiding places and secluded spots for creatures that creep, flutter, and hop.

Thou outcast, who hast cast thyself out, thou wilt not live amongst men and men’s pity? Well then, do like me! Thus wilt thou learn also from me; only the doer learneth.

You outcast, you who have cast yourself out, will you not live among people and accept their pity? Well then, do as I do! In this way you will also learn from me. Only those who act learn.

And talk first and foremost to mine animals! The proudest animal and the wisest animal—they might well be the right counsellors for us both!”—

And talk to my animals first of all! The proudest animal and the wisest animal might well be the right advisers for us both!”

Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more thoughtfully and slowly even than before: for he asked himself many things, and hardly knew what to answer.

So Zarathustra spoke and went on his way, even more thoughtful and slow than before. For he asked himself many questions and hardly knew how to answer them.

“How poor indeed is man,” thought he in his heart, “how ugly, how wheezy, how full of hidden shame!

“How poor human beings are,” he thought, “how ugly, how wheezy, how full of hidden shame!

They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how great must that self-love be! How much contempt is opposed to it!

They tell me that people love themselves. Ah, how great that self-love must be! How much contempt stands against it!

Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath despised himself,—a great lover methinketh he is, and a great despiser.

Even this man has loved himself, just as he has despised himself. I think he is a great lover and a great despiser.

No one have I yet found who more thoroughly despised himself: even THAT is elevation. Alas, was THIS perhaps the higher man whose cry I heard?

I have never met anyone who despised himself more completely. Even THAT is a kind of elevation. Alas, was THIS perhaps the higher man whose cry I heard?

I love the great despisers. Man is something that hath to be surpassed.”—

I love those who deeply despise. Humanity is something that must be surpassed.”