The Child with the Mirror

After this Zarathustra returned again into the mountains to the solitude of his cave, and withdrew himself from men, waiting like a sower who hath scattered his seed. His soul, however, became impatient and full of longing for those whom he loved: because he had still much to give them. For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love, and keep modest as a giver.

After this, Zarathustra returned to his solitary cave in the mountains and withdrew from people. He waited like a sower who had scattered his seed. But he grew impatient and longed for those he loved, because he still had much to give them. For the hardest thing of all is to close an open hand out of love and remain modest as a giver.

Thus passed with the lonesome one months and years; his wisdom meanwhile increased, and caused him pain by its abundance.

Months and years passed for the lonely man. Meanwhile, his wisdom grew so abundant that it caused him pain.

One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy dawn, and having meditated long on his couch, at last spake thus to his heart:

One morning, however, he woke before the rosy dawn. After thinking for a long time on his couch, he finally spoke to his heart:

Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke? Did not a child come to me, carrying a mirror?

Why was I so startled in my dream that I woke up? Didn’t a child come to me carrying a mirror?

“O Zarathustra”—said the child unto me—“look at thyself in the mirror!”

“Oh, Zarathustra,” the child said to me, “look at yourself in the mirror!”

But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked, and my heart throbbed: for not myself did I see therein, but a devil’s grimace and derision.

But when I looked in the mirror, I screamed, and my heart pounded. For I saw not myself, but a devil’s mocking grimace.

Verily, all too well do I understand the dream’s portent and monition: my DOCTRINE is in danger; tares want to be called wheat!

I understand all too well what the dream foretells and warns me of: my DOCTRINE is in danger. Weeds want to be called wheat!

Mine enemies have grown powerful and have disfigured the likeness of my doctrine, so that my dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I gave them.

My enemies have grown powerful and distorted my teaching. As a result, those dearest to me must feel ashamed of the gifts I gave them.

Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me to seek my lost ones!—

My friends are lost. The time has come for me to search for them!

With these words Zarathustra started up, not however like a person in anguish seeking relief, but rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and serpent gaze upon him: for a coming bliss overspread his countenance like the rosy dawn.

With these words, Zarathustra sprang up. He was not like someone in anguish seeking relief, but like a prophet and singer inspired by the spirit. His eagle and serpent gazed at him in amazement, for the joy to come spread across his face like the rosy dawn.

What hath happened unto me, mine animals?—said Zarathustra. Am I not transformed? Hath not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind?

What has happened to me, my animals? said Zarathustra. Have I not been transformed? Has bliss not come to me like a whirlwind?

Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will it speak: it is still too young—so have patience with it!

My happiness is foolish, and it will say foolish things. It is still too young, so be patient with it!

Wounded am I by my happiness: all sufferers shall be physicians unto me!

My happiness has wounded me. All who suffer shall be my healers!

To my friends can I again go down, and also to mine enemies! Zarathustra can again speak and bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones!

I can go down to my friends again, and to my enemies too! Zarathustra can speak and give again. He can show his greatest love to those he loves!

My impatient love overfloweth in streams,—down towards sunrise and sunset. Out of silent mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul into the valleys.

My impatient love overflows in streams, flowing toward sunrise and sunset. From silent mountains and storms of suffering, my soul rushes into the valleys.

Too long have I longed and looked into the distance. Too long hath solitude possessed me: thus have I unlearned to keep silence.

For too long I have longed and looked into the distance. For too long solitude has possessed me, so I have forgotten how to be silent.

Utterance have I become altogether, and the brawling of a brook from high rocks: downward into the valleys will I hurl my speech.

I have become nothing but speech, the roar of a stream rushing down from high rocks. I will hurl my words down into the valleys.

And let the stream of my love sweep into unfrequented channels! How should a stream not finally find its way to the sea!

And let the stream of my love flow into unexplored channels! How could a stream fail to find its way to the sea eventually?

Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and self-sufficing; but the stream of my love beareth this along with it, down—to the sea!

Indeed, there is a lake within me, secluded and self-sufficient. But the stream of my love carries it along, down to the sea!

New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto me; tired have I become— like all creators—of the old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on worn-out soles.

I walk new paths, and a new language comes to me. Like all creators, I have grown tired of the old languages. My spirit will no longer walk on worn-out soles.

Too slowly runneth all speaking for me:—into thy chariot, O storm, do I leap! And even thee will I whip with my spite!

All speech is too slow for me. I leap into your chariot, storm! Even you I will whip with my spite!

Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide seas, till I find the Happy Isles where my friends sojourn;—

Like a cry and a cheer, I will cross wide seas until I find the Happy Isles, where my friends stay.

And mine enemies amongst them! How I now love every one unto whom I may but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss.

And my enemies are among them! How I now love everyone I can speak to! Even my enemies are part of my happiness.

And when I want to mount my wildest horse, then doth my spear always help me up best: it is my foot’s ever ready servant:—

And when I want to mount my wildest horse, my spear is always the best help. It is always ready to serve my foot:

The spear which I hurl at mine enemies! How grateful am I to mine enemies that I may at last hurl it!

The spear I throw at my enemies! How grateful I am to my enemies that I can finally throw it!

Too great hath been the tension of my cloud: ‘twixt laughters of lightnings will I cast hail-showers into the depths.

The tension in my cloud has grown too great. Amid the laughter of lightning, I will hurl hailstorms into the depths.

Violently will my breast then heave; violently will it blow its storm over the mountains: thus cometh its assuagement.

Then my chest will heave violently. It will blow its storm violently over the mountains, and so find relief.

Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and my freedom! But mine enemies shall think that THE EVIL ONE roareth over their heads.

Truly, my happiness and my freedom come like a storm! But my enemies will think THE EVIL ONE is roaring over their heads.

Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my wild wisdom; and perhaps ye will flee therefrom, along with mine enemies.

Yes, even you, my friends, will be alarmed by my wild wisdom. And perhaps you will flee from it along with my enemies.

Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with shepherds’ flutes! Ah, that my lioness wisdom would learn to roar softly! And much have we already learned with one another!

Ah, if only I knew how to lure you back with shepherds’ flutes! If only my lioness wisdom would learn to roar softly! And we have already learned so much together!

My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lonesome mountains; on the rough stones did she bear the youngest of her young.

My wild wisdom became pregnant in the lonely mountains. On the rough stones, she gave birth to her youngest child.

Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilderness, and seeketh and seeketh the soft sward—mine old, wild wisdom!

Now she runs foolishly through the dry wilderness, searching and searching for soft grass: my old, wild wisdom!

On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends!—on your love, would she fain couch her dearest one!—

On the soft grass of your hearts, my friends! On your love, she would gladly lay her dearest one to rest!

Thus spake Zarathustra.

This is what Zarathustra said.