The Wanderer

Then, when it was about midnight, Zarathustra went his way over the ridge of the isle, that he might arrive early in the morning at the other coast; because there he meant to embark. For there was a good roadstead there, in which foreign ships also liked to anchor: those ships took many people with them, who wished to cross over from the Happy Isles. So when Zarathustra thus ascended the mountain, he thought on the way of his many solitary wanderings from youth onwards, and how many mountains and ridges and summits he had already climbed.

Around midnight, Zarathustra set out across the island's ridge to reach the other coast early in the morning. He planned to board a ship there. The coast had a good anchorage where foreign ships often stopped. These ships carried many people who wanted to leave the Happy Isles. As Zarathustra climbed the mountain, he thought about his many solitary journeys since his youth. He remembered how many mountains, ridges, and summits he had already climbed.

I am a wanderer and mountain-climber, said he to his heart, I love not the plains, and it seemeth I cannot long sit still.

I am a wanderer and a mountain climber, he said to his heart. I don't love the plains, and I don't seem able to sit still for long.

And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience—a wandering will be therein, and a mountain-climbing: in the end one experienceth only oneself.

And whatever fate and experience may still bring me, there will be wandering and mountain climbing in it. In the end, one experiences only oneself.

The time is now past when accidents could befall me; and what COULD now fall to my lot which would not already be mine own!

The time when accidents could happen to me is past. And what COULD happen to me now that is not already my own!

It returneth only, it cometh home to me at last—mine own Self, and such of it as hath been long abroad, and scattered among things and accidents.

It is only returning. At last, it is coming home to me: my own self, and the parts of it that have long been away, scattered among things and accidents.

And one thing more do I know: I stand now before my last summit, and before that which hath been longest reserved for me. Ah, my hardest path must I ascend! Ah, I have begun my lonesomest wandering!

And I know one more thing: I now stand before my last summit, and before what has been kept for me the longest. Ah, I must climb my hardest path! Ah, I have begun my loneliest journey!

He, however, who is of my nature doth not avoid such an hour: the hour that saith unto him: Now only dost thou go the way to thy greatness! Summit and abyss—these are now comprised together!

But someone who shares my nature does not avoid such an hour. It is the hour that tells him: Only now are you on the path to your greatness! The summit and the abyss are now joined together!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now hath it become thy last refuge, what was hitherto thy last danger!

You are on your way to greatness. What was until now your last danger has become your last refuge!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: it must now be thy best courage that there is no longer any path behind thee!

You are on the path to your greatness. Let the fact that there is no way back be your greatest courage!

Thou goest the way to thy greatness: here shall no one steal after thee! Thy foot itself hath effaced the path behind thee, and over it standeth written: Impossibility.

You are on the way to your greatness. No one can sneak after you here! Your own feet have erased the path behind you, and over it are written the words: Impossibility.

And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must thou learn to mount upon thine own head: how couldst thou mount upward otherwise?

And if all ladders fail you from now on, you must learn to climb onto your own head. How else could you climb higher?

Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest in thee become the hardest.

On your own head, and beyond your own heart! Now the gentlest part of you must become the hardest.

He who hath always much-indulged himself, sickeneth at last by his much-indulgence. Praises on what maketh hardy! I do not praise the land where butter and honey—flow!

Anyone who always indulges themselves too much eventually becomes sick from it. Praise what makes us tough! I do not praise the land where butter and honey flow!

To learn TO LOOK AWAY FROM oneself, is necessary in order to see MANY THINGS:—this hardiness is needed by every mountain-climber.

To see MANY THINGS, you must learn TO LOOK AWAY FROM yourself. Every mountain climber needs this toughness.

He, however, who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he ever see more of anything than its foreground!

But how can someone who looks too forcefully in order to discern ever see beyond the surface of anything?

But thou, O Zarathustra, wouldst view the ground of everything, and its background: thus must thou mount even above thyself—up, upwards, until thou hast even thy stars UNDER thee!

But you, Zarathustra, want to see the foundation of everything and what lies behind it. So you must climb even above yourself, higher and higher, until even your stars are BELOW you!

Yea! To look down upon myself, and even upon my stars: that only would I call my SUMMIT, that hath remained for me as my LAST summit!—

Yes! To look down on myself, and even on my stars: only that would I call my SUMMIT. It remains my LAST summit!

Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while ascending, comforting his heart with harsh maxims: for he was sore at heart as he had never been before. And when he had reached the top of the mountain-ridge, behold, there lay the other sea spread out before him: and he stood still and was long silent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and starry.

Zarathustra spoke to himself as he climbed, comforting his heart with harsh sayings. His heart was more deeply troubled than ever before. When he reached the top of the mountain ridge, he saw the other sea spread out before him. He stood still and silent for a long time. But the night was cold at that height, clear and full of stars.

I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Now hath my last lonesomeness begun.

“I recognize my destiny,” he said sadly at last. “Well! I am ready. Now my final loneliness has begun.”

Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation! Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now GO DOWN!

Ah, the dark, sad sea below me! Ah, this dark torment in the night! Ah, fate and sea! I must now GO DOWN to you!

Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wandering: therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended:

I stand before my highest mountain and my longest journey. So first I must go deeper than I have ever climbed:

—Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest flood! So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready.

Down into pain, deeper than I ever rose, even into its darkest flood! That is what my fate demands. Well, I am ready.

Whence come the highest mountains? so did I once ask. Then did I learn that they come out of the sea.

Where do the highest mountains come from? I once asked. Then I learned that they come from the sea.

That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of their summits. Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.—

That testimony is written on their stones and on the walls of their summits. The highest must rise from the deepest.

Thus spake Zarathustra on the ridge of the mountain where it was cold: when, however, he came into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stood alone amongst the cliffs, then had he become weary on his way, and eagerer than ever before.

This is what Zarathustra said on the cold mountain ridge. But when he came near the sea and finally stood alone among the cliffs, he was weary from the journey and more eager than ever.

Everything as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily and strangely doth its eye gaze upon me.

Everything is still asleep, he said. Even the sea is asleep. Its eye gazes at me, sleepy and strange.

But it breatheth warmly—I feel it. And I feel also that it dreameth. It tosseth about dreamily on hard pillows.

But it breathes warmly. I can feel it. I can also feel that it is dreaming. It tosses dreamily on hard pillows.

Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evil expectations?

Listen! Listen! How it groans with evil memories! Or evil expectations?

Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myself even for thy sake.

Ah, I share your sadness, you dark monster, and I am angry with myself for your sake too.

Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed, would I free thee from evil dreams!—

Ah, if only my hand were strong enough! I would gladly free you from evil dreams!

And while Zarathustra thus spake, he laughed at himself with melancholy and bitterness. What! Zarathustra, said he, wilt thou even sing consolation to the sea?

And as Zarathustra spoke, he laughed at himself with sadness and bitterness. What! Zarathustra, he said, will you even sing comfort to the sea?

Ah, thou amiable fool, Zarathustra, thou too-blindly confiding one! But thus hast thou ever been: ever hast thou approached confidently all that is terrible.

Ah, Zarathustra, you lovable fool, you who trust too blindly! But you have always been this way. You have always approached everything terrible with confidence.

Every monster wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on its paw—: and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it.

You would caress every monster. A puff of warm breath, a little soft tuft on its paw, and you were immediately ready to love and lure it.

LOVE is the danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, IF IT ONLY LIVE! Laughable, verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!—

LOVE is the danger for the loneliest person, love for anything, IF ONLY IT IS ALIVE! Truly, my foolishness and modesty in love are laughable!

Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed thereby a second time. Then, however, he thought of his abandoned friends—and as if he had done them a wrong with his thoughts, he upbraided himself because of his thoughts. And forthwith it came to pass that the laugher wept—with anger and longing wept Zarathustra bitterly.

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and laughed a second time. But then he thought of the friends he had left behind. He blamed himself for his thoughts, as if he had wronged his friends by thinking them. And at once, the man who had been laughing began to weep. Zarathustra wept bitterly with anger and longing.