Redemption

When Zarathustra went one day over the great bridge, then did the cripples and beggars surround him, and a hunchback spake thus unto him:

One day, Zarathustra was crossing the great bridge when people with disabilities and beggars surrounded him. A hunchback said to him:

“Behold, Zarathustra! Even the people learn from thee, and acquire faith in thy teaching: but for them to believe fully in thee, one thing is still needful—thou must first of all convince us cripples! Here hast thou now a fine selection, and verily, an opportunity with more than one forelock! The blind canst thou heal, and make the lame run; and from him who hath too much behind, couldst thou well, also, take away a little;—that, I think, would be the right method to make the cripples believe in Zarathustra!”

“Look, Zarathustra! Even the people are learning from you and coming to believe in your teaching. But for them to believe fully in you, one thing is still needed. First, you must convince us cripples! You have a fine selection of us here, and plenty of chances to seize! You can heal the blind and make the lame run. You could also take a little off the man who has too much behind him. I think that would be the right way to make the cripples believe in Zarathustra!”

Zarathustra, however, answered thus unto him who so spake: When one taketh his hump from the hunchback, then doth one take from him his spirit—so do the people teach. And when one giveth the blind man eyes, then doth he see too many bad things on the earth: so that he curseth him who healed him. He, however, who maketh the lame man run, inflicteth upon him the greatest injury; for hardly can he run, when his vices run away with him—so do the people teach concerning cripples. And why should not Zarathustra also learn from the people, when the people learn from Zarathustra?

But Zarathustra answered the man who had spoken: People teach that if you take a hunchback’s hump away, you take away his spirit too. And if you give a blind man sight, he sees too many bad things on earth. So he curses the person who healed him. But whoever makes a lame man run does him the greatest harm. For as soon as he can run, his vices run away with him. That is what people teach about people with disabilities. And why shouldn’t Zarathustra learn from the people too, when the people learn from Zarathustra?

It is, however, the smallest thing unto me since I have been amongst men, to see one person lacking an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg, and that others have lost the tongue, or the nose, or the head.

Since I have lived among people, however, the least troubling thing to me has been seeing one person missing an eye, another an ear, and a third a leg. Others have lost their tongues, noses, or heads.

I see and have seen worse things, and divers things so hideous, that I should neither like to speak of all matters, nor even keep silent about some of them: namely, men who lack everything, except that they have too much of one thing—men who are nothing more than a big eye, or a big mouth, or a big belly, or something else big,—reversed cripples, I call such men.

I see and have seen worse things, all sorts of things so hideous that I would rather not speak of them all. Yet some I cannot leave unspoken: men who lack everything except an excess of one thing. They are nothing more than a big eye, a big mouth, a big belly, or something else big. I call such men reversed cripples.

And when I came out of my solitude, and for the first time passed over this bridge, then I could not trust mine eyes, but looked again and again, and said at last: “That is an ear! An ear as big as a man!” I looked still more attentively—and actually there did move under the ear something that was pitiably small and poor and slim. And in truth this immense ear was perched on a small thin stalk—the stalk, however, was a man! A person putting a glass to his eyes, could even recognise further a small envious countenance, and also that a bloated soullet dangled at the stalk. The people told me, however, that the big ear was not only a man, but a great man, a genius. But I never believed in the people when they spake of great men—and I hold to my belief that it was a reversed cripple, who had too little of everything, and too much of one thing.

When I came out of my solitude, I crossed this bridge for the first time. I could not believe my eyes. I looked again and again, and finally said: “That is an ear! An ear as big as a man!” I looked even more closely. Something pitifully small, poor, and thin was moving beneath the ear. The enormous ear was perched on a small, thin stalk. But the stalk was a man! Someone looking through a magnifying glass could even make out a small, envious face. A bloated little soul also dangled from the stalk. People told me that the big ear was not just a man, but a great man, a genius. But I never believed people when they spoke of great men. I still believe he was a reversed cripple, who had too little of everything and too much of one thing.

When Zarathustra had spoken thus unto the hunchback, and unto those of whom the hunchback was the mouthpiece and advocate, then did he turn to his disciples in profound dejection, and said:

After Zarathustra had spoken to the hunchback and those the hunchback spoke and argued for, he turned to his disciples. Deeply dejected, he said:

Verily, my friends, I walk amongst men as amongst the fragments and limbs of human beings!

Truly, my friends, I walk among people as if among fragments and limbs of human beings!

This is the terrible thing to mine eye, that I find man broken up, and scattered about, as on a battle- and butcher-ground.

What terrifies me is seeing humanity broken and scattered, as if on a battlefield or in a slaughterhouse.

And when mine eye fleeth from the present to the bygone, it findeth ever the same: fragments and limbs and fearful chances—but no men!

And when I look away from the present and into the past, I always find the same thing: fragments, limbs, and terrible accidents, but no men!

The present and the bygone upon earth—ah! my friends—that is MY most unbearable trouble; and I should not know how to live, if I were not a seer of what is to come.

Ah, my friends, the present and the past on earth are MY most unbearable burden. I would not know how to live if I could not see what is to come.

A seer, a purposer, a creator, a future itself, and a bridge to the future—and alas! also as it were a cripple on this bridge: all that is Zarathustra.

Zarathustra is a visionary, someone with a purpose, a creator, a future in himself, and a bridge to the future. And sadly, he is also, as it were, a cripple on that bridge.

And ye also asked yourselves often: “Who is Zarathustra to us? What shall he be called by us?” And like me, did ye give yourselves questions for answers.

You also often asked yourselves: “Who is Zarathustra to us? What should we call him?” And like me, you answered your own questions with questions.

Is he a promiser? Or a fulfiller? A conqueror? Or an inheritor? A harvest? Or a ploughshare? A physician? Or a healed one?

Does he make promises? Or does he fulfill them? Is he a conqueror? Or an heir? A harvest? Or a plow blade? A doctor? Or someone who has been healed?

Is he a poet? Or a genuine one? An emancipator? Or a subjugator? A good one? Or an evil one?

Is he a poet? Or a real poet? A liberator? Or an oppressor? A good person? Or an evil one?

I walk amongst men as the fragments of the future: that future which I contemplate.

I walk among people as I would among fragments of the future, the future I imagine.

And it is all my poetisation and aspiration to compose and collect into unity what is fragment and riddle and fearful chance.

And all my poetry and striving aim to bring together into one what is fragmented, puzzling, and left to fearful chance.

And how could I endure to be a man, if man were not also the composer, and riddle-reader, and redeemer of chance!

And how could I bear to be human if humans were not also the composers, riddle solvers, and redeemers of chance!

To redeem what is past, and to transform every “It was” into “Thus would I have it!”—that only do I call redemption!

To redeem the past and turn every “It happened” into “That is how I wanted it!” Only that do I call redemption!

Will—so is the emancipator and joy-bringer called: thus have I taught you, my friends! But now learn this likewise: the Will itself is still a prisoner.

Will is the name of the liberator and bringer of joy. That is what I have taught you, my friends! But now learn this too: the Will itself is still a prisoner.

Willing emancipateth: but what is that called which still putteth the emancipator in chains?

Willing sets us free. But what do we call the thing that still puts the liberator in chains?

“It was”: thus is the Will’s teeth-gnashing and lonesomest tribulation called. Impotent towards what hath been done—it is a malicious spectator of all that is past.

“It was”: this is the Will’s gnashing of teeth and its loneliest torment. Powerless to change what has been done, the Will watches all that is past with malice.

Not backward can the Will will; that it cannot break time and time’s desire—that is the Will’s lonesomest tribulation.

The Will cannot will backward. Its loneliest suffering is that it cannot break time and time’s desire.

Willing emancipateth: what doth Willing itself devise in order to get free from its tribulation and mock at its prison?

Willing sets us free. But what does willing itself devise to escape its suffering and mock its prison?

Ah, a fool becometh every prisoner! Foolishly delivereth itself also the imprisoned Will.

Ah, every prisoner becomes a fool! The imprisoned Will also expresses itself foolishly.

That time doth not run backward—that is its animosity: “That which was”: so is the stone which it cannot roll called.

Time cannot run backward. That is its grievance: the stone it cannot roll is called “What was.”

And thus doth it roll stones out of animosity and ill-humour, and taketh revenge on whatever doth not, like it, feel rage and ill-humour.

And so it rolls stones out of spite and bad temper. It takes revenge on whatever does not share its rage and bad temper.

Thus did the Will, the emancipator, become a torturer; and on all that is capable of suffering it taketh revenge, because it cannot go backward.

In this way, the Will, the liberator, became a torturer. It takes revenge on all that can suffer because it cannot go backward.

This, yea, this alone is REVENGE itself: the Will’s antipathy to time, and its “It was.”

This, yes, this alone is REVENGE itself: the will’s hatred of time and its “It was.”

Verily, a great folly dwelleth in our Will; and it became a curse unto all humanity, that this folly acquired spirit!

Truly, a great folly lives in our Will. And when this folly gained spirit, it became a curse on all humanity.

THE SPIRIT OF REVENGE: my friends, that hath hitherto been man’s best contemplation; and where there was suffering, it was claimed there was always penalty.

THE SPIRIT OF REVENGE: my friends, until now, this has been humanity’s deepest concern. And wherever there was suffering, people claimed there was always punishment.

“Penalty,” so calleth itself revenge. With a lying word it feigneth a good conscience.

Revenge calls itself “penalty.” With this lie, revenge pretends to have a clear conscience.

And because in the willer himself there is suffering, because he cannot will backwards—thus was Willing itself, and all life, claimed—to be penalty!

And because the one who wills suffers, because he cannot will backward, willing itself and all life were said to be punishment!

And then did cloud after cloud roll over the spirit, until at last madness preached: “Everything perisheth, therefore everything deserveth to perish!”

Then cloud after cloud rolled over the spirit, until at last madness preached: “Everything dies, so everything deserves to die!”

“And this itself is justice, the law of time—that he must devour his children:” thus did madness preach.

“And this is justice itself, the law of time: he must devour his children.” That was what madness preached.

“Morally are things ordered according to justice and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from the flux of things and from the ‘existence’ of penalty?” Thus did madness preach.

“Morally, things are governed by justice and punishment. Oh, where can we find release from the constant change of things and the ‘existence’ of punishment?” This is what madness preached.

“Can there be deliverance when there is eternal justice? Alas, unrollable is the stone, ‘It was’: eternal must also be all penalties!” Thus did madness preach.

“Can there be deliverance if justice is eternal? Alas, the stone called ‘It was’ cannot be rolled away. All punishments must therefore be eternal too!” This is how madness preached.

“No deed can be annihilated: how could it be undone by the penalty! This, this is what is eternal in the ‘existence’ of penalty, that existence also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!

“No deed can be erased. How could punishment undo it? This, this is what is eternal in the ‘existence’ of punishment: existence itself must also be an eternally recurring deed and guilt!

Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing become non-Willing—:” but ye know, my brethren, this fabulous song of madness!

Unless the Will finally frees itself, and Willing becomes non-Willing:” But you know this fantastical song of madness, my brothers!

Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: “The Will is a creator.”

I led you away from those legendary songs when I taught you: “The Will is a creator.”

All “It was” is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance—until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus would I have it.”—

All “It was” is a fragment, a riddle, a frightening accident, until the creative Will says to it: “But this is how I would have it.”

Until the creating Will saith thereto: “But thus do I will it! Thus shall I will it!”

Until the creating Will says to it: “But this is how I will it! This is how I shall will it!”

But did it ever speak thus? And when doth this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed from its own folly?

But did it ever speak this way? And when does this happen? Has the Will been freed from its own folly?

Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing?

Has the Will become its own liberator and bringer of joy? Has it unlearned the spirit of revenge and all the gnashing of teeth?

And who hath taught it reconciliation with time, and something higher than all reconciliation?

And who has taught it to accept time, and something higher than all acceptance?

Something higher than all reconciliation must the Will will which is the Will to Power—: but how doth that take place? Who hath taught it also to will backwards?

The Will to Power must will something higher than all reconciliation. But how does that happen? Who has taught it to will backward, too?

—But at this point in his discourse it chanced that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear-thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed, and said soothedly:

But at this point in his speech, Zarathustra suddenly stopped and looked deeply alarmed. He gazed at his disciples with terror in his eyes. His glances pierced their thoughts and hidden thoughts like arrows. But after a moment, he laughed again and said calmly:

“It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult— especially for a babbler.”—

“It is hard to live among people because it is so hard to stay silent, especially for a chatterbox.”

Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the conversation and had covered his face during the time; but when he heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity, and said slowly:

Thus spoke Zarathustra. The hunchback had been listening to the conversation with his face covered. But when he heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up curiously and said slowly:

“But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto us than unto his disciples?”

“But why does Zarathustra speak to us differently than he speaks to his disciples?”

Zarathustra answered: “What is there to be wondered at! With hunchbacks one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!”

Zarathustra answered: “What is so surprising about that! When speaking to hunchbacks, one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!”

“Very good,” said the hunchback; “and with pupils one may well tell tales out of school.

“Very good,” said the hunchback. “And you can certainly share secrets with your pupils.”

But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto his pupils—than unto himself?”—

But why does Zarathustra speak differently to his pupils than he does to himself?”