In the Happy Islands

The figs fall from the trees, they are good and sweet; and in falling the red skins of them break. A north wind am I to ripe figs.

The figs fall from the trees. They are good and sweet, and their red skins split as they fall. I am a north wind to ripe figs.

Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you, my friends: imbibe now their juice and their sweet substance! It is autumn all around, and clear sky, and afternoon.

So these teachings fall for you like figs, my friends. Drink their juice and taste their sweetness! It is autumn all around, the sky is clear, and it is afternoon.

Lo, what fulness is around us! And out of the midst of superabundance, it is delightful to look out upon distant seas.

Look at all the abundance around us! And from the midst of such plenty, it is delightful to look out at distant seas.

Once did people say God, when they looked out upon distant seas; now, however, have I taught you to say, Superman.

People once said God when they looked out at distant seas. But now I have taught you to say Superman.

God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond your creating will.

God is a guess, but I do not want your guessing to go beyond your will to create.

Could ye CREATE a God?—Then, I pray you, be silent about all Gods! But ye could well create the Superman.

Could you CREATE a God? Then please be silent about all Gods! But you could certainly create the Superman.

Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But into fathers and forefathers of the Superman could ye transform yourselves: and let that be your best creating!—

Perhaps not you yourselves, my brothers! But you could become fathers and ancestors of the Superman. Let that be your greatest creation!

God is a conjecture: but I should like your conjecturing restricted to the conceivable.

God is a guess, but I would like you to limit your guesses to what you can imagine.

Could ye CONCEIVE a God?—But let this mean Will to Truth unto you, that everything be transformed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discernment shall ye follow out to the end!

Could you conceive of a God? But let your will to truth mean this: transform everything into what humans can conceive, see, and feel! Follow your own judgment to the very end!

And what ye have called the world shall but be created by you: your reason, your likeness, your will, your love, shall it itself become! And verily, for your bliss, ye discerning ones!

And what you have called the world must be created by you. The world itself must become your reason, your image, your will, your love! And truly, discerning ones, it will be for your bliss!

And how would ye endure life without that hope, ye discerning ones? Neither in the inconceivable could ye have been born, nor in the irrational.

And how could you endure life without that hope, you discerning people? You could not have been born in the inconceivable or the irrational.

But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto you, my friends: IF there were gods, how could I endure it to be no God! THEREFORE there are no Gods.

But let me reveal my heart to you completely, my friends: IF there were gods, how could I bear not being a god! THEREFORE there are no gods.

Yea, I have drawn the conclusion; now, however, doth it draw me.—

Yes, I have drawn the conclusion, but now it draws me.

God is a conjecture: but who could drink all the bitterness of this conjecture without dying? Shall his faith be taken from the creating one, and from the eagle his flights into eagle-heights?

God is a guess. But who could drink all the bitterness of this guess without dying? Should the creator be robbed of his faith, and the eagle of its flights to eagle heights?

God is a thought—it maketh all the straight crooked, and all that standeth reel. What? Time would be gone, and all the perishable would be but a lie?

God is a thought that makes everything straight crooked, and everything standing firm stagger. What? Would time be gone, and would everything perishable be just a lie?

To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily, the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such a thing.

Thinking this makes the human body dizzy and unsteady, and even makes the stomach vomit. Indeed, I call it the reeling sickness to imagine such a thing.

Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teaching about the one, and the plenum, and the unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable!

I call all that teaching about the one, the plenum, the unmoving, the self-sufficient, and the imperishable evil and hostile to humanity!

All the imperishable—that’s but a simile, and the poets lie too much.—

All that lasts forever is only a simile, and poets lie too much.

But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of all perishableness!

But the best comparisons will speak of time and becoming. They will praise and justify all that passes away!

Creating—that is the great salvation from suffering, and life’s alleviation. But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much transformation.

Creating is the great escape from suffering and a relief from life’s burdens. But for a creator to emerge, suffering and much transformation are necessary.

Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers of all perishableness.

Yes, you creators must experience much bitter dying in your lives! In this way, you defend and justify all that perishes.

For the creator himself to be the new-born child, he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and endure the pangs of the child-bearer.

For the creator to become the newborn child, he must also be willing to bear the child and endure the pains of childbirth.

Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way, and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes. Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-breaking last hours.

Truly, I have made my way through a hundred souls, through a hundred cradles and birth pains. I have said farewell many times. I know the heartbreak of those final hours.

But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or, to tell you it more candidly: just such a fate—willeth my Will.

But my creative Will, my fate, wills it so. Or, to put it more frankly: my Will wills exactly such a fate.

All FEELING suffereth in me, and is in prison: but my WILLING ever cometh to me as mine emancipator and comforter.

All FEELING suffers within me and is imprisoned. But my WILLING always comes to free and comfort me.

Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will and emancipation—so teacheth you Zarathustra.

Willing sets you free. That is the true teaching about will and freedom, so Zarathustra teaches you.

No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no longer creating! Ah, that that great debility may ever be far from me!

No longer willing, no longer valuing, no longer creating! Ah, may that great weakness always stay far from me!

And also in discerning do I feel only my will’s procreating and evolving delight; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is will to procreation in it.

Even in understanding, I feel only my will’s delight in creating and growing. And if my knowledge is innocent, it is because it contains the will to create.

Away from God and Gods did this will allure me; what would there be to create if there were—Gods!

This will drew me away from God and gods. What would there be to create if gods existed!

But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer to the stone.

But my passionate will to create drives me back to humanity again and again, just as it drives the hammer against the stone.

Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image for me, the image of my visions! Ah, that it should slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone!

Ah, men, an image sleeps inside the stone for me, the image of my visions! Ah, that it should sleep in the hardest, ugliest stone!

Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone fly the fragments: what’s that to me?

Now my hammer strikes ruthlessly against its prison. Fragments fly from the stone. What do I care?

I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—the stillest and lightest of all things once came unto me!

I will finish it, because a shadow came to me. Once, the quietest and lightest of all things came to me!

The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now are—the Gods to me!—

The beauty of the Superman came to me like a shadow. Ah, my brothers! What do the Gods matter to me now?

Thus spake Zarathustra.

This is what Zarathustra said.