The Drunken Song

Meanwhile one after another had gone out into the open air, and into the cool, thoughtful night; Zarathustra himself, however, led the ugliest man by the hand, that he might show him his night-world, and the great round moon, and the silvery water-falls near his cave. There they at last stood still beside one another; all of them old people, but with comforted, brave hearts, and astonished in themselves that it was so well with them on earth; the mystery of the night, however, came nigher and nigher to their hearts. And anew Zarathustra thought to himself: “Oh, how well do they now please me, these higher men!”—but he did not say it aloud, for he respected their happiness and their silence.—

Meanwhile, one by one, they went outside into the cool, thoughtful night. Zarathustra led the ugliest man by the hand to show him his night world, the great round moon, and the silvery waterfalls near his cave. At last, they all stood together beside the waterfalls. They were all old, but their hearts were comforted and brave. They were amazed that life on earth felt so good to them. And the mystery of the night drew closer and closer to their hearts. Once again Zarathustra thought to himself, “Oh, how pleased I am with these higher men now!” But he did not say it aloud, because he respected their happiness and their silence.

Then, however, there happened that which in this astonishing long day was most astonishing: the ugliest man began once more and for the last time to gurgle and snort, and when he had at length found expression, behold! there sprang a question plump and plain out of his mouth, a good, deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all who listened to him.

Then, however, the most astonishing thing in that astonishingly long day happened. The ugliest man began to gurgle and snort once more, for the last time. At last he found his voice, and out of his mouth came a plain, straightforward question. It was a good, deep, clear question that moved the hearts of all who heard him.

“My friends, all of you,” said the ugliest man, “what think ye? For the sake of this day—I am for the first time content to have lived mine entire life.

“My friends, all of you,” said the ugliest man, “what do you think? Because of this day, I am content for the first time to have lived my entire life.

And that I testify so much is still not enough for me. It is worth while living on the earth: one day, one festival with Zarathustra, hath taught me to love the earth.

And even saying all this is not enough for me. Life on earth is worth living. One day, one festival with Zarathustra, has taught me to love the earth.

‘Was THAT—life?’ will I say unto death. ‘Well! Once more!’

‘Was THAT life?’ I will say to death. ‘Well! Once more!’

My friends, what think ye? Will ye not, like me, say unto death: ‘Was THAT—life? For the sake of Zarathustra, well! Once more!’”—

My friends, what do you think? Will you not say to death, as I do: ‘Was THAT life? For Zarathustra’s sake, all right! Once more!’”

Thus spake the ugliest man; it was not, however, far from midnight. And what took place then, think ye? As soon as the higher men heard his question, they became all at once conscious of their transformation and convalescence, and of him who was the cause thereof: then did they rush up to Zarathustra, thanking, honouring, caressing him, and kissing his hands, each in his own peculiar way; so that some laughed and some wept. The old soothsayer, however, danced with delight; and though he was then, as some narrators suppose, full of sweet wine, he was certainly still fuller of sweet life, and had renounced all weariness. There are even those who narrate that the ass then danced: for not in vain had the ugliest man previously given it wine to drink. That may be the case, or it may be otherwise; and if in truth the ass did not dance that evening, there nevertheless happened then greater and rarer wonders than the dancing of an ass would have been. In short, as the proverb of Zarathustra saith: “What doth it matter!”

Thus spoke the ugliest man, and it was nearly midnight. And what do you think happened then? As soon as the higher men heard his question, they suddenly became aware of their transformation and recovery. They also recognized the man who had brought it about. They rushed to Zarathustra, thanking, honoring, and caressing him, and kissing his hands, each in his own way. Some laughed and some wept. The old soothsayer, meanwhile, danced with delight. Some say he was full of sweet wine. But he was certainly even fuller of sweet life, and had put aside all weariness. Some even say that the ass danced too. The ugliest man had not given it wine to drink for nothing. That may be true, or it may not. But even if the ass did not dance that evening, greater and rarer wonders happened then. In short, as Zarathustra’s proverb says: “What does it matter!”

When, however, this took place with the ugliest man, Zarathustra stood there like one drunken: his glance dulled, his tongue faltered and his feet staggered. And who could divine what thoughts then passed through Zarathustra’s soul? Apparently, however, his spirit retreated and fled in advance and was in remote distances, and as it were “wandering on high mountain-ridges,” as it standeth written, “‘twixt two seas,

When this happened to the ugliest man, however, Zarathustra stood there as if drunk. His gaze grew dull, his tongue faltered, and his feet staggered. And who could guess what thoughts passed through Zarathustra’s soul then? Apparently, however, his spirit withdrew and fled ahead into the distance. It was, as it is written, “wandering along high mountain ridges,” “‘between two seas,

—Wandering ‘twixt the past and the future as a heavy cloud.” Gradually, however, while the higher men held him in their arms, he came back to himself a little, and resisted with his hands the crowd of the honouring and caring ones; but he did not speak. All at once, however, he turned his head quickly, for he seemed to hear something: then laid he his finger on his mouth and said: “COME!”

Wandering between the past and the future like a heavy cloud.” Gradually, though, he came to himself a little as the higher men held him in their arms. He pushed back with his hands against the crowd who honored and cared for him, but he did not speak. Suddenly, though, he turned his head quickly, as if he heard something. Then he put his finger to his lips and said: “COME!”

And immediately it became still and mysterious round about; from the depth however there came up slowly the sound of a clock-bell. Zarathustra listened thereto, like the higher men; then, however, laid he his finger on his mouth the second time, and said again: “COME! COME! IT IS GETTING ON TO MIDNIGHT!”—and his voice had changed. But still he had not moved from the spot. Then it became yet stiller and more mysterious, and everything hearkened, even the ass, and Zarathustra’s noble animals, the eagle and the serpent,—likewise the cave of Zarathustra and the big cool moon, and the night itself. Zarathustra, however, laid his hand upon his mouth for the third time, and said:

At once, everything around them grew still and mysterious. Slowly, the sound of a clock bell rose from the depths. Zarathustra listened, as did the higher men. Then he put his finger to his lips a second time and said again, “COME! COME! IT IS NEARLY MIDNIGHT!” His voice had changed, but he still had not moved from the spot. Then everything grew even quieter and more mysterious. Everything listened, even the donkey and Zarathustra’s noble animals, the eagle and the serpent. So did Zarathustra’s cave, the great cool moon, and the night itself. But Zarathustra put his hand to his mouth for the third time and said:

COME! COME! COME! LET US NOW WANDER! IT IS THE HOUR: LET US WANDER INTO THE NIGHT!

COME! COME! COME! LET'S WANDER NOW! IT'S TIME: LET'S WANDER INTO THE NIGHT!

Ye higher men, it is getting on to midnight: then will I say something into your ears, as that old clock-bell saith it into mine ear,—

You higher men, it is almost midnight. Then I will speak into your ears, just as that old clock bell speaks into mine.

—As mysteriously, as frightfully, and as cordially as that midnight clock-bell speaketh it to me, which hath experienced more than one man:

As mysteriously, as fearfully, and as warmly as the midnight bell tells it to me, the bell that has experienced more than one man:

—Which hath already counted the smarting throbbings of your fathers’ hearts—ah! ah! how it sigheth! how it laugheth in its dream! the old, deep, deep midnight!

Which has already counted the painful throbs of your fathers’ hearts. Ah! Ah! How it sighs! How it laughs in its dream! The old, deep, deep midnight!

Hush! Hush! Then is there many a thing heard which may not be heard by day; now however, in the cool air, when even all the tumult of your hearts hath become still,—

Hush! Hush! Then many things can be heard that cannot be heard during the day. But now, in the cool air, when even all the turmoil in your hearts has grown still...

—Now doth it speak, now is it heard, now doth it steal into overwakeful, nocturnal souls: ah! ah! how the midnight sigheth! how it laugheth in its dream!

Now it speaks, now it is heard, now it steals into the souls of those too awake at night. Ah! Ah! How midnight sighs! How it laughs in its dream!

—Hearest thou not how it mysteriously, frightfully, and cordially speaketh unto THEE, the old deep, deep midnight?

Don't you hear how the old, deep, deep midnight speaks to YOU, mysteriously, frighteningly, and warmly?

O MAN, TAKE HEED!

HUMANITY, PAY ATTENTION!

Woe to me! Whither hath time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The world sleepeth—

Woe is me! Where has the time gone? Haven't I sunk into deep wells? The world is asleep.

Ah! Ah! The dog howleth, the moon shineth. Rather will I die, rather will I die, than say unto you what my midnight-heart now thinketh.

Ah! Ah! The dog howls, the moon shines. I would rather die, I would rather die, than tell you what my midnight heart is thinking now.

Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why spinnest thou around me? Wilt thou have blood? Ah! Ah! The dew falleth, the hour cometh—

I have already died. It is all over. Spider, why are you spinning a web around me? Do you want blood? Ah! Ah! The dew is falling, the hour is coming...

—The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asketh and asketh and asketh: “Who hath sufficient courage for it?

The hour when I grow cold and freeze, the hour that asks and asks and asks: “Who has enough courage for it?

—Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: THUS shall ye flow, ye great and small streams!”

Who will rule the world? Who will say: THIS is how you shall flow, you great and small streams!”

—The hour approacheth: O man, thou higher man, take heed! this talk is for fine ears, for thine ears—WHAT SAITH DEEP MIDNIGHT’S VOICE INDEED?

The hour is approaching. O man, you higher man, pay attention! This talk is for sensitive ears, for your ears. WHAT DOES THE VOICE OF DEEP MIDNIGHT SAY?

It carrieth me away, my soul danceth. Day’s-work! Day’s-work! Who is to be master of the world?

It sweeps me away. My soul dances. A day’s work! A day’s work! Who will be master of the world?

The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have ye already flown high enough? Ye have danced: a leg, nevertheless, is not a wing.

The moon is cool, and the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have you already flown high enough? You have danced, but a leg is not a wing.

Ye good dancers, now is all delight over: wine hath become lees, every cup hath become brittle, the sepulchres mutter.

Good dancers, all delight is over now: the wine has turned to sediment, every cup has become brittle, and the tombs mutter.

Ye have not flown high enough: now do the sepulchres mutter: “Free the dead! Why is it so long night? Doth not the moon make us drunken?”

You have not flown high enough. Now the tombs mutter: “Free the dead! Why is the night so long? Doesn’t the moon make us drunk?”

Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why doth the worm still burrow? There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour,—

You higher men, open the tombs, wake the corpses! Ah, why is the worm still burrowing? The hour is coming, the hour is coming.

—There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth still the heart, there burroweth still the wood-worm, the heart-worm. Ah! Ah! THE WORLD IS DEEP!

The clock bell booms. The heart still trembles. The woodworm, the heartworm, still burrows. Ah! Ah! THE WORLD IS DEEP!

Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love thy tone, thy drunken, ranunculine tone!—how long, how far hath come unto me thy tone, from the distance, from the ponds of love!

Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love your sound, your drunken, frog-like sound! Your sound has traveled so long and so far to reach me, from the distant ponds of love!

Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre! Every pain hath torn thy heart, father-pain, fathers’-pain, forefathers’-pain; thy speech hath become ripe,—

You old clock bell, you sweet lyre! Every pain has torn your heart: a father’s pain, fathers’ pain, ancestors’ pain. Your speech has ripened.

—Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like mine anchorite heart—now sayest thou: The world itself hath become ripe, the grape turneth brown,

Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like my hermit's heart, you now say: The world itself has ripened. The grape is turning brown,

—Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness. Ye higher men, do ye not feel it? There welleth up mysteriously an odour,

Now it wants to die, to die of happiness. You higher men, don't you feel it? A scent rises mysteriously,

—A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed, brown, gold-wine-odour of old happiness,

A scent of eternity, the rosy, blessed, brown and golden wine scent of old happiness,

—Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which singeth: the world is deep, AND DEEPER THAN THE DAY COULD READ!

Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which sings: the world is deep, AND DEEPER THAN THE DAY COULD UNDERSTAND!

Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for thee. Touch me not! Hath not my world just now become perfect?

Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for you. Don't touch me! Hasn't my world just become perfect?

My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me alone, thou dull, doltish, stupid day! Is not the midnight brighter?

My skin is too pure for your hands. Leave me alone, you dull, foolish, stupid day! Isn't midnight brighter?

The purest are to be masters of the world, the least known, the strongest, the midnight-souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day.

The purest are to be masters of the world. They are the least known, the strongest, the midnight-souls, brighter and deeper than any day.

O day, thou gropest for me? Thou feelest for my happiness? For thee am I rich, lonesome, a treasure-pit, a gold chamber?

O day, are you reaching for me? Are you feeling for my happiness? Am I rich and lonely to you, a treasure pit, a chamber of gold?

O world, thou wantest ME? Am I worldly for thee? Am I spiritual for thee? Am I divine for thee? But day and world, ye are too coarse,—

O world, do you want ME? Am I worldly enough for you? Am I spiritual enough for you? Am I divine enough for you? But day and world, you are too coarse.

—Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happiness, after deeper unhappiness, grasp after some God; grasp not after me:

Be more skillful with your hands. Reach for deeper happiness, deeper unhappiness, or some God. Do not reach for me.

—Mine unhappiness, my happiness is deep, thou strange day, but yet am I no God, no God’s-hell: DEEP IS ITS WOE.

My unhappiness, my happiness is deep, you strange day. But I am no God, no God’s hell: ITS SORROW IS DEEP.

God’s woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God’s woe, not at me! What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,—

God’s sorrow is deeper, you strange world! Reach for God’s sorrow, not for me! What am I? A drunken, sweet-sounding lyre.

—A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog, which no one understandeth, but which MUST speak before deaf ones, ye higher men! For ye do not understand me!

A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog that no one understands, but that MUST speak to deaf listeners, you higher men! For you do not understand me!

Gone! Gone! O youth! O noontide! O afternoon! Now have come evening and night and midnight,—the dog howleth, the wind:

Gone! Gone! Oh, youth! Oh, noon! Oh, afternoon! Now evening, night, and midnight have come. The dog howls, the wind:

—Is the wind not a dog? It whineth, it barketh, it howleth. Ah! Ah! how she sigheth! how she laugheth, how she wheezeth and panteth, the midnight!

Isn't the wind a dog? It whines, it barks, it howls. Ah! Ah! How the midnight sighs! How she laughs, wheezes, and pants!

How she just now speaketh soberly, this drunken poetess! hath she perhaps overdrunk her drunkenness? hath she become overawake? doth she ruminate?

How soberly this drunken poetess speaks now! Has she perhaps drunk herself past her drunkenness? Has she become too awake? Is she ruminating?

—Her woe doth she ruminate over, in a dream, the old, deep midnight—and still more her joy. For joy, although woe be deep, JOY IS DEEPER STILL THAN GRIEF CAN BE.

In a dream, the old, deep midnight reflects on her sorrow, and even more on her joy. For though sorrow is deep, JOY IS DEEPER STILL THAN GRIEF CAN BE.

Thou grape-vine! Why dost thou praise me? Have I not cut thee! I am cruel, thou bleedest—: what meaneth thy praise of my drunken cruelty?

Grape vine! Why do you praise me? Haven't I cut you? I am cruel, and you are bleeding. What does your praise of my drunken cruelty mean?

“Whatever hath become perfect, everything mature—wanteth to die!” so sayest thou. Blessed, blessed be the vintner’s knife! But everything immature wanteth to live: alas!

“Whatever has become perfect, everything mature, wants to die!” So you say. Blessed, blessed be the winemaker’s knife! But everything immature wants to live. Alas!

Woe saith: “Hence! Go! Away, thou woe!” But everything that suffereth wanteth to live, that it may become mature and lively and longing,

Sorrow says: “Go! Go away, sorrow!” But everything that suffers wants to live, so it can become mature, lively, and full of longing,

—Longing for the further, the higher, the brighter. “I want heirs,” so saith everything that suffereth, “I want children, I do not want MYSELF,”—

Longing for what is farther, higher, brighter. “I want heirs,” says everything that suffers. “I want children, I do not want MYSELF.”

Joy, however, doth not want heirs, it doth not want children,—joy wanteth itself, it wanteth eternity, it wanteth recurrence, it wanteth everything eternally-like-itself.

Joy, however, does not want heirs or children. Joy wants itself. It wants eternity. It wants recurrence. It wants everything to be eternally the same as itself.

Woe saith: “Break, bleed, thou heart! Wander, thou leg! Thou wing, fly! Onward! upward! thou pain!” Well! Cheer up! O mine old heart: WOE SAITH: “HENCE! GO!”

Sorrow says: “Break and bleed, heart! Wander, leg! Fly, wing! Onward! Upward, pain!” Well! Cheer up, my old heart: SORROW SAYS: “LEAVE! GO!”

Ye higher men, what think ye? Am I a soothsayer? Or a dreamer? Or a drunkard? Or a dream-reader? Or a midnight-bell?

You higher men, what do you think? Am I a prophet? A dreamer? A drunkard? An interpreter of dreams? Or a bell ringing at midnight?

Or a drop of dew? Or a fume and fragrance of eternity? Hear ye it not? Smell ye it not? Just now hath my world become perfect, midnight is also midday,—

Or a drop of dew? Or a mist and fragrance of eternity? Can’t you hear it? Can’t you smell it? My world has just become perfect. Midnight is also midday.

Pain is also a joy, curse is also a blessing, night is also a sun,—go away! or ye will learn that a sage is also a fool.

Pain is also a joy, a curse is also a blessing, and night is also a sun. Go away! Or you will learn that a wise person is also a fool.

Said ye ever Yea to one joy? O my friends, then said ye Yea also unto ALL woe. All things are enlinked, enlaced and enamoured,—

Have you ever said yes to one joy? Oh, my friends, then you also said yes to ALL sorrow. All things are linked, intertwined, and in love.

—Wanted ye ever once to come twice; said ye ever: “Thou pleasest me, happiness! Instant! Moment!” then wanted ye ALL to come back again!

If you ever wanted one moment to happen twice, if you ever said, “You please me, happiness! Instant! Moment!” then you wanted ALL to come back again!

—All anew, all eternal, all enlinked, enlaced and enamoured, Oh, then did ye LOVE the world,—

All new again, all eternal, all linked together, intertwined and in love. Oh, then you did LOVE the world.

—Ye eternal ones, ye love it eternally and for all time: and also unto woe do ye say: Hence! Go! but come back! FOR JOYS ALL WANT—ETERNITY!

You eternal ones, you love it eternally and for all time. And even to sorrow you say: Go away! Go! But come back! FOR ALL JOYS WANT ETERNITY!

All joy wanteth the eternity of all things, it wanteth honey, it wanteth lees, it wanteth drunken midnight, it wanteth graves, it wanteth grave-tears’ consolation, it wanteth gilded evening-red—

All joy wants all things to last forever. It wants honey and the sediment of wine. It wants a drunken midnight and graves. It wants the comfort of tears shed at graves. It wants the golden red of evening.

—WHAT doth not joy want! it is thirstier, heartier, hungrier, more frightful, more mysterious, than all woe: it wanteth ITSELF, it biteth into ITSELF, the ring’s will writheth in it,—

What does joy not want! It is thirstier, heartier, hungrier, more frightening, and more mysterious than all suffering. Joy wants ITSELF. It bites into ITSELF. The will of the ring writhes in it.

—It wanteth love, it wanteth hate, it is over-rich, it bestoweth, it throweth away, it beggeth for some one to take from it, it thanketh the taker, it would fain be hated,—

It wants love and hate. It is too rich. It gives and throws things away. It begs someone to take from it and thanks whoever does. It would gladly be hated.

—So rich is joy that it thirsteth for woe, for hell, for hate, for shame, for the lame, for the WORLD,—for this world, Oh, ye know it indeed!

Joy is so rich that it thirsts for sorrow, for hell, for hate, for shame, for the lame, for the WORLD, for this world. Oh, you know it well!

Ye higher men, for you doth it long, this joy, this irrepressible, blessed joy—for your woe, ye failures! For failures, longeth all eternal joy.

Higher men, this irrepressible, blessed joy longs for you. It longs for your suffering, you failures! For all eternal joy longs for failures.

For joys all want themselves, therefore do they also want grief! O happiness, O pain! Oh break, thou heart! Ye higher men, do learn it, that joys want eternity.

For all joys want themselves, and so they also want grief! Oh, happiness! Oh, pain! Oh, heart, break! You higher men, learn this: joys want eternity.

—Joys want the eternity of ALL things, they WANT DEEP, PROFOUND ETERNITY!

Joy wants ALL things to last forever. It WANTS DEEP, PROFOUND ETERNITY!

Have ye now learned my song? Have ye divined what it would say? Well! Cheer up! Ye higher men, sing now my roundelay!

Have you learned my song now? Have you understood what it means? Well! Cheer up! You higher men, sing my song in a round now!

Sing now yourselves the song, the name of which is “Once more,” the signification of which is “Unto all eternity!”—sing, ye higher men, Zarathustra’s roundelay!

Now sing the song yourselves. Its name is “Once more,” and its meaning is “For all eternity!” Sing Zarathustra’s roundelay, you higher men!