The Prophet

“—And I saw a great sadness come over mankind. The best turned weary of their works.

“And I saw a great sadness come over humanity. The best people grew tired of their work.

A doctrine appeared, a faith ran beside it: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all hath been!’

A doctrine appeared, and a faith arose alongside it: ‘All is empty, all is the same, all has already been!’

And from all hills there re-echoed: ‘All is empty, all is alike, all hath been!’

And from all the hills came the echo: ‘All is empty, all is the same, all has been before!’

To be sure we have harvested: but why have all our fruits become rotten and brown? What was it fell last night from the evil moon?

We have indeed harvested. But why have all our fruits turned rotten and brown? What fell from the evil moon last night?

In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye hath singed yellow our fields and hearts.

All our work was in vain. Our wine has turned to poison. The evil eye has scorched our fields and hearts yellow.

Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust like ashes:—yea, the fire itself have we made aweary.

We have all become dry. When fire falls on us, we turn to dust like ashes. Yes, we have made even fire weary.

All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded. All the ground trieth to gape, but the depth will not swallow!

All our fountains have dried up. Even the sea has receded. All the ground tries to open up, but the depths will not swallow!

‘Alas! where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned?’ so soundeth our plaint—across shallow swamps.

‘Alas! Where is there still a sea deep enough to drown in?’ Our lament echoes across shallow swamps.

Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake and live on—in sepulchres.”

Truly, we have become too tired even to die. Now we stay awake and live on in tombs.”

Thus did Zarathustra hear a soothsayer speak; and the foreboding touched his heart and transformed him. Sorrowfully did he go about and wearily; and he became like unto those of whom the soothsayer had spoken.—

Zarathustra heard a soothsayer speak, and the foreboding touched his heart and changed him. He went about sorrowfully and wearily, becoming like those the soothsayer had spoken of.

Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while, and there cometh the long twilight. Alas, how shall I preserve my light through it!

He said to his disciples, “Soon the long twilight will come. Oh, how will I keep my light alive through it!”

That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness! To remoter worlds shall it be a light, and also to remotest nights!

So that it may not be smothered by this sadness! It will be a light to distant worlds and the most distant nights!

Thus did Zarathustra go about grieved in his heart, and for three days he did not take any meat or drink: he had no rest, and lost his speech. At last it came to pass that he fell into a deep sleep. His disciples, however, sat around him in long night-watches, and waited anxiously to see if he would awake, and speak again, and recover from his affliction.

Zarathustra went about with a heavy heart. For three days he ate and drank nothing. He could not rest and lost the ability to speak. At last, he fell into a deep sleep. His disciples sat around him through long nights, anxiously waiting to see if he would wake, speak again, and recover from his suffering.

And this is the discourse that Zarathustra spake when he awoke; his voice, however, came unto his disciples as from afar:

This is what Zarathustra said when he woke. But to his disciples, his voice sounded as if it came from far away:

Hear, I pray you, the dream that I dreamed, my friends, and help me to divine its meaning!

Please listen to the dream I had, my friends, and help me understand what it means!

A riddle is it still unto me, this dream; the meaning is hidden in it and encaged, and doth not yet fly above it on free pinions.

This dream is still a riddle to me. Its meaning is hidden and caged within it. It does not yet fly freely above the dream.

All life had I renounced, so I dreamed. Night-watchman and grave-guardian had I become, aloft, in the lone mountain-fortress of Death.

In my dream, I had given up all life. I had become a night watchman and guardian of graves, high above in Death's lonely mountain fortress.

There did I guard his coffins: full stood the musty vaults of those trophies of victory. Out of glass coffins did vanquished life gaze upon me.

There I guarded his coffins. The musty vaults were full of these trophies of victory. Defeated life gazed at me from glass coffins.

The odour of dust-covered eternities did I breathe: sultry and dust-covered lay my soul. And who could have aired his soul there!

I breathed in the smell of dust-covered eternities. My soul lay stifled and covered in dust. And who could have aired out his soul there!

Brightness of midnight was ever around me; lonesomeness cowered beside her; and as a third, death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female friends.

The brightness of midnight was always around me. Loneliness crouched beside her. The third was a death-rattle stillness, the worst of my female friends.

Keys did I carry, the rustiest of all keys; and I knew how to open with them the most creaking of all gates.

I carried keys, the rustiest of all keys. And I knew how to use them to open the creakiest of all gates.

Like a bitterly angry croaking ran the sound through the long corridors when the leaves of the gate opened: ungraciously did this bird cry, unwillingly was it awakened.

When the gate doors opened, a sound like a bitterly angry croak echoed through the long corridors. The bird cried out harshly, unwilling to be awakened.

But more frightful even, and more heart-strangling was it, when it again became silent and still all around, and I alone sat in that malignant silence.

But it was even more frightening and heart-stifling when everything around me fell silent and still again. I sat alone in that hostile silence.

Thus did time pass with me, and slip by, if time there still was: what do I know thereof! But at last there happened that which awoke me.

Time passed and slipped by for me, if there was still time. What do I know about that! But at last, something happened that woke me.

Thrice did there peal peals at the gate like thunders, thrice did the vaults resound and howl again: then did I go to the gate.

Three times, thunderous blows rang out at the gate. Three times, the vaulted halls echoed and howled in response. Then I went to the gate.

Alpa! cried I, who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! who carrieth his ashes unto the mountain?

Alpa! I cried, who carries his ashes to the mountain? Alpa! Alpa! Who carries his ashes to the mountain?

And I pressed the key, and pulled at the gate, and exerted myself. But not a finger’s-breadth was it yet open:

And I pressed the key and pulled at the gate with all my strength. But the gate still did not open even a finger’s width:

Then did a roaring wind tear the folds apart: whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw unto me a black coffin.

Then a roaring wind tore the folds apart. Whistling, whizzing, and piercing, it threw a black coffin toward me.

And in the roaring, and whistling, and whizzing the coffin burst up, and spouted out a thousand peals of laughter.

Amid the roaring, whistling, and whizzing, the coffin burst open and sent out a thousand peals of laughter.

And a thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed and mocked, and roared at me.

A thousand caricatures of children, angels, owls, fools, and child-sized butterflies laughed, mocked, and roared at me.

Fearfully was I terrified thereby: it prostrated me. And I cried with horror as I ne’er cried before.

It terrified me. It left me helpless. And I cried out in horror as I had never cried out before.

But mine own crying awoke me:—and I came to myself.—

But my own crying woke me, and I came to my senses.

Thus did Zarathustra relate his dream, and then was silent: for as yet he knew not the interpretation thereof. But the disciple whom he loved most arose quickly, seized Zarathustra’s hand, and said:

Zarathustra told his dream, then fell silent because he did not yet know what it meant. But the disciple he loved most quickly stood up, seized Zarathustra’s hand, and said:

“Thy life itself interpreteth unto us this dream, O Zarathustra!

“Your own life explains this dream to us, Zarathustra!

Art thou not thyself the wind with shrill whistling, which bursteth open the gates of the fortress of Death?

Aren't you yourself the wind that whistles shrilly and bursts open the gates of Death's fortress?

Art thou not thyself the coffin full of many-hued malices and angel-caricatures of life?

Aren't you yourself a coffin full of colorful malice and angel-like caricatures of life?

Verily, like a thousand peals of children’s laughter cometh Zarathustra into all sepulchres, laughing at those night-watchmen and grave-guardians, and whoever else rattleth with sinister keys.

Indeed, Zarathustra enters all tombs like a thousand bursts of children’s laughter. He laughs at the night watchmen, the grave guards, and anyone else rattling sinister keys.

With thy laughter wilt thou frighten and prostrate them: fainting and recovering will demonstrate thy power over them.

Your laughter will frighten them and knock them down. Their fainting and recovery will show your power over them.

And when the long twilight cometh and the mortal weariness, even then wilt thou not disappear from our firmament, thou advocate of life!

And when the long twilight and the weariness of death come, you will still not disappear from our sky, champion of life!

New stars hast thou made us see, and new nocturnal glories: verily, laughter itself hast thou spread out over us like a many-hued canopy.

You have shown us new stars and new wonders of the night. Truly, you have spread laughter itself over us like a canopy of many colors.

Now will children’s laughter ever from coffins flow; now will a strong wind ever come victoriously unto all mortal weariness: of this thou art thyself the pledge and the prophet!

From now on, children’s laughter will always flow from coffins. A strong wind will always come and triumph over all mortal weariness. You yourself are the promise and the prophet of this!

Verily, THEY THEMSELVES DIDST THOU DREAM, thine enemies: that was thy sorest dream.

Truly, you dreamed of YOUR ENEMIES THEMSELVES. That was your most painful dream.

But as thou awokest from them and camest to thyself, so shall they awaken from themselves—and come unto thee!”

But just as you woke from them and came to yourself, they will wake from themselves and come to you!”

Thus spake the disciple; and all the others then thronged around Zarathustra, grasped him by the hands, and tried to persuade him to leave his bed and his sadness, and return unto them. Zarathustra, however, sat upright on his couch, with an absent look. Like one returning from long foreign sojourn did he look on his disciples, and examined their features; but still he knew them not. When, however, they raised him, and set him upon his feet, behold, all on a sudden his eye changed; he understood everything that had happened, stroked his beard, and said with a strong voice:

The disciple finished speaking, and all the others crowded around Zarathustra. They took him by the hands and tried to persuade him to leave his bed and his sadness and return to them. But Zarathustra sat upright on his couch, looking distant. Like someone returning from a long stay abroad, he looked at his disciples and studied their faces. But he still did not recognize them. When they lifted him and set him on his feet, his eyes suddenly changed. He understood everything that had happened, stroked his beard, and said in a strong voice:

“Well! this hath just its time; but see to it, my disciples, that we have a good repast; and without delay! Thus do I mean to make amends for bad dreams!

“Well, there is a time for this. But see to it, my disciples, that we have a good meal, and quickly! That is how I intend to make up for bad dreams!

The soothsayer, however, shall eat and drink at my side: and verily, I will yet show him a sea in which he can drown himself!”—

But the soothsayer will eat and drink at my side. And I will indeed show him a sea where he can drown himself!”

Thus spake Zarathustra. Then did he gaze long into the face of the disciple who had been the dream-interpreter, and shook his head.—

This is what Zarathustra said. Then he looked for a long time at the disciple who had interpreted the dream, and shook his head.