Poets

“Since I have known the body better”—said Zarathustra to one of his disciples—“the spirit hath only been to me symbolically spirit; and all the ‘imperishable’—that is also but a simile.”

“Since I have come to know the body better,” Zarathustra said to one of his disciples, “the spirit has been spirit to me only in a symbolic sense. And all that is ‘imperishable’ is also just a metaphor.”

“So have I heard thee say once before,” answered the disciple, “and then thou addedst: ‘But the poets lie too much.’ Why didst thou say that the poets lie too much?”

“I heard you say that once before,” the disciple replied. “And then you added: ‘But the poets lie too much.’ Why did you say the poets lie too much?”

“Why?” said Zarathustra. “Thou askest why? I do not belong to those who may be asked after their Why.

“Why?” said Zarathustra. “You ask why? I am not one of those who can be asked why.

Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced the reasons for mine opinions.

Did my experience begin only yesterday? Long ago, I experienced the reasons for my opinions.

Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my reasons with me?

Wouldn't I have to be a barrel full of memories if I also wanted to keep my reasons with me?

It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a bird flieth away.

It is already too much for me even to hold on to my opinions, and many a bird flies away.

And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which is alien to me, and trembleth when I lay my hand upon it.

And sometimes I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote. It is a stranger to me and trembles when I lay my hand on it.

But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too much?—But Zarathustra also is a poet.

But what did Zarathustra once say to you? That poets lie too much? But Zarathustra is also a poet.

Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it?”

Do you believe that man told the truth? Why do you believe him?”

The disciple answered: “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled.—

The disciple answered, “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled.

Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself.

Belief does not make me holy, he said, least of all belief in myself.

But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lie too much: he was right—WE do lie too much.

But suppose someone did seriously say that poets lie too much. He was right. WE do lie too much.

We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie.

We also know too little and are bad at learning, so we have to lie.

And which of us poets hath not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous hotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing hath there been done.

And which of us poets has not mixed something into his wine? Many a poisonous mixture has been made in our cellars. Many an indescribable thing has been done there.

And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women!

And because we know so little, we take genuine pleasure in the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women!

And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one another in the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us.

And we even desire the things that old women tell one another in the evening. We call this the eternal feminine in us.

And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which CHOKETH UP for those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in their “wisdom.”

And so we believe in the people and their “wisdom,” as if they had special access to knowledge that CLOSES OFF to anyone who learns.

This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricketh up his ears when lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learneth something of the things that are betwixt heaven and earth.

All poets, however, believe this: anyone who listens closely while lying in the grass or on lonely slopes learns something about the things between heaven and earth.

And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always think that nature herself is in love with them:

And if poets feel tender emotions, they always think that nature herself is in love with them:

And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride themselves, before all mortals!

And she slips close to whisper secrets and loving flattery in their ears. They boast proudly of this before all mortals!

Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreamed!

Ah, there are so many things between heaven and earth that only poets have dreamed of!

And especially ABOVE the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations, poet-sophistications!

And especially ABOVE the heavens, because all Gods are symbols and clever inventions of poets!

Verily, ever are we drawn aloft—that is, to the realm of the clouds: on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them Gods and Supermen:—

Truly, we are always drawn upward, into the realm of the clouds. There we place our flashy puppets and call them Gods and Supermen.

Are not they light enough for those chairs!—all these Gods and Supermen?—

Aren't they light enough for those chairs, all these Gods and Supermen?

Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual! Ah, how I am weary of the poets!

Ah, how tired I am of everything inadequate that people insist is real! Ah, how tired I am of poets!

When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if it gazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath.—

When Zarathustra said this, his disciple resented his words but remained silent. Zarathustra was silent too. He turned his gaze inward, as if looking into the far distance. At last, he sighed and took a breath.

I am of to-day and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in me that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter.

I belong to today and the past, he then said. But something in me belongs to tomorrow, the day after, and the future.

I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are they all unto me, and shallow seas.

I grew tired of poets, both old and new. To me, they are all superficial, all shallow seas.

They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling did not reach to the bottom.

They did not think deeply enough, so their feelings did not reach the bottom.

Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these have as yet been their best contemplation.

Some feelings of sensual pleasure and some feelings of boredom: these have been their best reflections so far.

Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the jingle-jangling of their harps; what have they known hitherto of the fervour of tones!—

All the jingling and jangling of their harps sounds to me like ghosts breathing and whisking about. What have they ever known of the passion of music!

They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that it may seem deep.

They are not pure enough for me either. They all muddy their water to make it seem deep.

And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!—

And by doing so, they hope to prove themselves peacemakers. But to me, they are intermediaries and mixers, half-and-half and impure!

Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish; but always did I draw up the head of some ancient God.

Ah, I cast my net into their sea, hoping to catch good fish. But I always pulled up the head of some ancient God.

Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may well originate from the sea.

So the sea gave a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may well have come from the sea.

Certainly, one findeth pearls in them: thereby they are the more like hard molluscs. And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime.

Certainly, you can find pearls in them. That makes them even more like hard mollusks. And instead of a soul, I have often found salty slime in them.

They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the peacock of peacocks?

They have also learned vanity from the sea. Isn't the sea the peacock of peacocks?

Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it spread out its tail; never doth it tire of its lace-fan of silver and silk.

It spreads its tail even before the ugliest of all buffaloes. It never tires of its lace fan of silver and silk.

Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh to the sand with its soul, nigher still to the thicket, nighest, however, to the swamp.

The buffalo looks at it with disdain. Its soul is close to the sand, closer to the thicket, and closest of all to the swamp.

What is beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speak unto the poets.

What are beauty, the sea, and a peacock’s splendor to it! I tell this parable to the poets.

Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of vanity!

Truly, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of vanity!

Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet—should they even be buffaloes!—

The poet's spirit seeks spectators, even if they are buffaloes!

But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it will become weary of itself.

But I grew tired of this spirit, and I see a time coming when it will grow tired of itself.

Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards themselves.

Yes, I have seen the poets change and turn their gaze toward themselves.

Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the poets.—

I have seen penitents of the spirit appear. They grew out of the poets.

Thus spake Zarathustra.

This is what Zarathustra said.