Introduction by Mrs. Forster-Nietzsche

“Zarathustra” is my brother’s most personal work; it is the history of his most individual experiences, of his friendships, ideals, raptures, bitterest disappointments and sorrows. Above it all, however, there soars, transfiguring it, the image of his greatest hopes and remotest aims. My brother had the figure of Zarathustra in his mind from his very earliest youth: he once told me that even as a child he had dreamt of him. At different periods in his life, he would call this haunter of his dreams by different names; “but in the end,” he declares in a note on the subject, “I had to do a PERSIAN the honour of identifying him with this creature of my fancy. Persians were the first to take a broad and comprehensive view of history. Every series of evolutions, according to them, was presided over by a prophet; and every prophet had his ‘Hazar,’—his dynasty of a thousand years.”

“Zarathustra” is my brother’s most personal work. It tells the story of his most individual experiences: his friendships, ideals, moments of ecstasy, bitterest disappointments, and sorrows. Above it all, however, rises the image of his greatest hopes and most distant aims, transforming everything beneath it. My brother had the figure of Zarathustra in mind from his earliest youth. He once told me that he had dreamed of him even as a child. At different times in his life, he gave this figure who haunted his dreams different names. “But in the end,” he wrote in a note on the subject, “I had to give a PERSIAN the honor of identifying him with this creature of my imagination. The Persians were the first to take a broad and comprehensive view of history. According to them, a prophet presided over every series of developments. And every prophet had his ‘Hazar,’ his dynasty of a thousand years.”

All Zarathustra’s views, as also his personality, were early conceptions of my brother’s mind. Whoever reads his posthumously published writings for the years 1869-82 with care, will constantly meet with passages suggestive of Zarathustra’s thoughts and doctrines. For instance, the ideal of the Superman is put forth quite clearly in all his writings during the years 1873-75; and in “We Philologists”, the following remarkable observations occur:—

All of Zarathustra’s views and his personality were ideas my brother developed early on. Anyone who reads his posthumously published writings from 1869 to 1882 carefully will find many passages suggesting Zarathustra’s thoughts and doctrines. For example, the ideal of the Superman is expressed quite clearly throughout his writings from 1873 to 1875. And in “We Philologists”, the following remarkable observations appear:

“How can one praise and glorify a nation as a whole?—Even among the Greeks, it was the INDIVIDUALS that counted.”

“How can anyone praise and glorify a whole nation? Even among the Greeks, it was INDIVIDUALS who mattered.”

“The Greeks are interesting and extremely important because they reared such a vast number of great individuals. How was this possible? The question is one which ought to be studied.

“The Greeks are interesting and extremely important because they produced so many great individuals. How was this possible? This question deserves study.

“I am interested only in the relations of a people to the rearing of the individual man, and among the Greeks the conditions were unusually favourable for the development of the individual; not by any means owing to the goodness of the people, but because of the struggles of their evil instincts.

“I am interested only in how a people shapes the upbringing of individual men. Among the Greeks, conditions were unusually favorable for individual development. This was not at all because the people were good, but because their evil instincts struggled against one another.

“WITH THE HELP OF FAVOURABLE MEASURES GREAT INDIVIDUALS MIGHT BE REARED WHO WOULD BE BOTH DIFFERENT FROM AND HIGHER THAN THOSE WHO HERETOFORE HAVE OWED THEIR EXISTENCE TO MERE CHANCE. Here we may still be hopeful: in the rearing of exceptional men.”

“WITH THE RIGHT MEASURES, GREAT INDIVIDUALS MIGHT BE RAISED WHO WOULD BE BOTH DIFFERENT FROM AND SUPERIOR TO THOSE WHO HAVE EXISTED UNTIL NOW BY MERE CHANCE. Here we may still be hopeful: in raising exceptional men.”

The notion of rearing the Superman is only a new form of an ideal Nietzsche already had in his youth, that “THE OBJECT OF MANKIND SHOULD LIE IN ITS HIGHEST INDIVIDUALS” (or, as he writes in “Schopenhauer as Educator”: “Mankind ought constantly to be striving to produce great men—this and nothing else is its duty.”) But the ideals he most revered in those days are no longer held to be the highest types of men. No, around this future ideal of a coming humanity—the Superman—the poet spread the veil of becoming. Who can tell to what glorious heights man can still ascend? That is why, after having tested the worth of our noblest ideal—that of the Saviour, in the light of the new valuations, the poet cries with passionate emphasis in “Zarathustra”:

The idea of breeding the Superman is a new form of an ideal Nietzsche already held in his youth: “THE GOAL OF MANKIND SHOULD LIE IN ITS HIGHEST INDIVIDUALS.” Or, as he writes in “Schopenhauer as Educator”: “Mankind should constantly strive to produce great men. This, and nothing else, is its duty.” But the ideals he revered most in those days are no longer considered the highest types of men. Instead, the poet wrapped the Superman, this future ideal of a coming humanity, in the veil of becoming. Who can say what glorious heights humanity may still reach? That is why the poet, having tested our noblest ideal, that of the Saviour, against the new values, cries out passionately in “Zarathustra”:

“Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, the greatest and the smallest man:—

“No Superman has ever existed. I have seen both naked, the greatest and the smallest man:

All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily even the greatest found I—all-too-human!”—

They are still far too similar to each other. Indeed, I found even the greatest to be all too human!”

The phrase “the rearing of the Superman,” has very often been misunderstood. By the word “rearing,” in this case, is meant the act of modifying by means of new and higher values—values which, as laws and guides of conduct and opinion, are now to rule over mankind. In general the doctrine of the Superman can only be understood correctly in conjunction with other ideas of the author’s, such as:—the Order of Rank, the Will to Power, and the Transvaluation of all Values. He assumes that Christianity, as a product of the resentment of the botched and the weak, has put in ban all that is beautiful, strong, proud, and powerful, in fact all the qualities resulting from strength, and that, in consequence, all forces which tend to promote or elevate life have been seriously undermined. Now, however, a new table of valuations must be placed over mankind—namely, that of the strong, mighty, and magnificent man, overflowing with life and elevated to his zenith—the Superman, who is now put before us with overpowering passion as the aim of our life, hope, and will. And just as the old system of valuing, which only extolled the qualities favourable to the weak, the suffering, and the oppressed, has succeeded in producing a weak, suffering, and “modern” race, so this new and reversed system of valuing ought to rear a healthy, strong, lively, and courageous type, which would be a glory to life itself. Stated briefly, the leading principle of this new system of valuing would be: “All that proceeds from power is good, all that springs from weakness is bad.”

The phrase “the rearing of the Superman” has often been misunderstood. Here, “rearing” means shaping humanity through new and higher values. These values are now to govern mankind as laws and guides for conduct and opinion. The doctrine of the Superman can generally be understood correctly only alongside other ideas of the author’s. These include the Order of Rank, the Will to Power, and the Transvaluation of all Values. He assumes that Christianity arose from the resentment of the botched and the weak. He also assumes that Christianity has condemned all that is beautiful, strong, proud, and powerful. In fact, it has condemned all the qualities that come from strength. As a result, all forces that tend to promote or elevate life have been seriously undermined. Now, however, a new table of values must be set over mankind. These are the values of the strong, mighty, and magnificent man, overflowing with life and raised to his highest point. This is the Superman, who is now presented with overwhelming passion as the aim of our life, hope, and will. The old system of values praised only the qualities favorable to the weak, the suffering, and the oppressed. It has succeeded in producing a weak, suffering, and “modern” race. Just as the old system did this, the new, reversed system should rear a healthy, strong, lively, and courageous type. This type would be a glory to life itself. In short, the guiding principle of the new system would be: “All that comes from power is good, all that comes from weakness is bad.”

This type must not be regarded as a fanciful figure: it is not a nebulous hope which is to be realised at some indefinitely remote period, thousands of years hence; nor is it a new species (in the Darwinian sense) of which we can know nothing, and which it would therefore be somewhat absurd to strive after. But it is meant to be a possibility which men of the present could realise with all their spiritual and physical energies, provided they adopted the new values.

This type should not be treated as an imaginary figure. Nor is it a vague hope to be realized at some uncertain time thousands of years from now. It is not a new species in the Darwinian sense, one we can know nothing about. It would therefore be somewhat absurd to strive for such a species. Rather, this type is a possibility that people today could realize using all their spiritual and physical energies, provided they adopted the new values.

The author of “Zarathustra” never lost sight of that egregious example of a transvaluation of all values through Christianity, whereby the whole of the deified mode of life and thought of the Greeks, as well as strong Romedom, was almost annihilated or transvalued in a comparatively short time. Could not a rejuvenated Graeco-Roman system of valuing (once it had been refined and made more profound by the schooling which two thousand years of Christianity had provided) effect another such revolution within a calculable period of time, until that glorious type of manhood shall finally appear which is to be our new faith and hope, and in the creation of which Zarathustra exhorts us to participate?

The author of “Zarathustra” never lost sight of Christianity’s striking example of a transvaluation of all values. In a comparatively short time, Christianity nearly destroyed or transvalued the Greeks’ worshipped way of life and thought, as well as mighty Rome. Could a renewed Graeco-Roman system of values bring about another such revolution within a calculable period of time? It would first have to be refined and deepened by the lessons of two thousand years of Christianity. Could this revolution continue until the glorious type of man finally appears, becoming our new faith and hope? Zarathustra urges us to take part in creating that type of man.

In his private notes on the subject the author uses the expression “Superman” (always in the singular, by-the-bye), as signifying “the most thoroughly well-constituted type,” as opposed to “modern man”; above all, however, he designates Zarathustra himself as an example of the Superman. In “Ecco Homo” he is careful to enlighten us concerning the precursors and prerequisites to the advent of this highest type, in referring to a certain passage in the “Gay Science”:—

In his private notes on the subject, the author uses the term “Superman” to mean “the most thoroughly well-constituted type,” as opposed to “modern man.” Incidentally, he always uses “Superman” in the singular. Above all, though, he names Zarathustra himself as an example of the Superman. In “Ecco Homo” he takes care to explain what must come before this highest type can appear. He does so by referring to a particular passage in the “Gay Science”:

“In order to understand this type, we must first be quite clear in regard to the leading physiological condition on which it depends: this condition is what I call GREAT HEALTHINESS. I know not how to express my meaning more plainly or more personally than I have done already in one of the last chapters (Aphorism 382) of the fifth book of the ‘Gaya Scienza’.”

“To understand this type, we must first be clear about the main physiological condition it depends on. I call this condition GREAT HEALTHINESS. I cannot express what I mean more plainly or personally than I already have. I did so in Aphorism 382, one of the last chapters of the fifth book of ‘Gaya Scienza’.”

“We, the new, the nameless, the hard-to-understand,”—it says there,—“we firstlings of a yet untried future—we require for a new end also a new means, namely, a new healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder and merrier than all healthiness hitherto. He whose soul longeth to experience the whole range of hitherto recognised values and desirabilities, and to circumnavigate all the coasts of this ideal ‘Mediterranean Sea’, who, from the adventures of his most personal experience, wants to know how it feels to be a conqueror, and discoverer of the ideal—as likewise how it is with the artist, the saint, the legislator, the sage, the scholar, the devotee, the prophet, and the godly non-conformist of the old style:—requires one thing above all for that purpose, GREAT HEALTHINESS—such healthiness as one not only possesses, but also constantly acquires and must acquire, because one unceasingly sacrifices it again, and must sacrifice it!—And now, after having been long on the way in this fashion, we Argonauts of the ideal, more courageous perhaps than prudent, and often enough shipwrecked and brought to grief, nevertheless dangerously healthy, always healthy again,—it would seem as if, in recompense for it all, that we have a still undiscovered country before us, the boundaries of which no one has yet seen, a beyond to all countries and corners of the ideal known hitherto, a world so over-rich in the beautiful, the strange, the questionable, the frightful, and the divine, that our curiosity as well as our thirst for possession thereof, have got out of hand—alas! that nothing will now any longer satisfy us!—

“We, the new, the nameless, the hard to understand,” it says there, “we, the first of an untried future, need a new means for a new purpose. We need a new health, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder, and more cheerful than any health so far. “Suppose someone’s soul longs to experience the whole range of values and things people have desired so far. Suppose they long to sail around every coast of this ideal ‘Mediterranean Sea.’ Through their own most personal adventures, they want to know how it feels to conquer and discover the ideal. They also want to know how it feels to be an artist, a saint, a lawgiver, a sage, or a scholar. They want to know how it feels to be a devotee, a prophet, or a godly nonconformist of the old style. For all this, they need one thing above all: GREAT HEALTH. This is a health they not only possess but continually gain and must gain. For they keep sacrificing it again and must sacrifice it! “And now we Argonauts of the ideal have traveled this way for a long time. Perhaps we have been more courageous than prudent. Often enough, we have been shipwrecked and ruined. Yet we remain dangerously healthy, always healthy again. And as a reward for all this, it seems we have an undiscovered country before us. No one has yet seen its boundaries. It lies beyond all the countries and corners of the ideal known so far. This world is overflowing with beauty, strangeness, things open to question, terror, and the divine. Our curiosity and our thirst to possess it have gotten out of hand. Alas! Nothing will satisfy us anymore!”

“How could we still be content with THE MAN OF THE PRESENT DAY after such outlooks, and with such a craving in our conscience and consciousness? Sad enough; but it is unavoidable that we should look on the worthiest aims and hopes of the man of the present-day with ill-concealed amusement, and perhaps should no longer look at them. Another ideal runs on before us, a strange, tempting ideal full of danger, to which we should not like to persuade any one, because we do not so readily acknowledge any one’s RIGHT THERETO: the ideal of a spirit who plays naively (that is to say involuntarily and from overflowing abundance and power) with everything that has hitherto been called holy, good, intangible, or divine; to whom the loftiest conception which the people have reasonably made their measure of value, would already practically imply danger, ruin, abasement, or at least relaxation, blindness, or temporary self-forgetfulness; the ideal of a humanly superhuman welfare and benevolence, which will often enough appear INHUMAN, for example, when put alongside of all past seriousness on earth, and alongside of all past solemnities in bearing, word, tone, look, morality, and pursuit, as their truest involuntary parody—and WITH which, nevertheless, perhaps THE GREAT SERIOUSNESS only commences, when the proper interrogative mark is set up, the fate of the soul changes, the hour-hand moves, and tragedy begins...”

“How could we still be satisfied with THE MAN OF THE PRESENT DAY after such glimpses of what lies ahead? How could we be satisfied with such a craving in our conscience and consciousness? Sadly, we cannot help looking at modern man’s worthiest aims and hopes with poorly concealed amusement. Perhaps we should no longer look at them at all. Another ideal runs ahead of us, a strange, tempting ideal full of danger. We would not want to persuade anyone to embrace it, because we do not readily acknowledge anyone’s RIGHT TO IT. It is the ideal of a spirit who plays innocently with everything once called holy, good, inviolable, or divine. By innocently, I mean involuntarily, out of overflowing abundance and power. For this spirit, the highest ideal that people have reasonably taken as their measure of value would already amount to danger, ruin, or degradation. At the very least, it would mean letting up, blindness, or temporary self-forgetfulness. It is the ideal of a humanly superhuman well-being and benevolence, which will often enough appear INHUMAN. Set it beside all past seriousness on earth, for example, and beside all past solemnity in bearing, word, tone, look, morality, and pursuit. It will appear as their truest involuntary parody. Yet perhaps THE GREAT SERIOUSNESS only begins with this ideal. Perhaps only then is the proper question mark set in place, the soul’s fate changes, the hour hand moves, and tragedy begins...”

Although the figure of Zarathustra and a large number of the leading thoughts in this work had appeared much earlier in the dreams and writings of the author, “Thus Spake Zarathustra” did not actually come into being until the month of August 1881 in Sils Maria; and it was the idea of the Eternal Recurrence of all things which finally induced my brother to set forth his new views in poetic language. In regard to his first conception of this idea, his autobiographical sketch, “Ecce Homo”, written in the autumn of 1888, contains the following passage:—

The figure of Zarathustra and many of the leading ideas in this work had appeared much earlier in the author's dreams and writings. But “Thus Spake Zarathustra” did not actually begin to take shape until August 1881 in Sils Maria. It was the idea of the Eternal Recurrence of all things that finally led my brother to express his new views in poetic language. His autobiographical sketch, “Ecce Homo”, was written in the autumn of 1888. It contains the following passage about how he first conceived this idea:

“The fundamental idea of my work—namely, the Eternal Recurrence of all things—this highest of all possible formulae of a Yea-saying philosophy, first occurred to me in August 1881. I made a note of the thought on a sheet of paper, with the postscript: 6,000 feet beyond men and time! That day I happened to be wandering through the woods alongside of the lake of Silvaplana, and I halted beside a huge, pyramidal and towering rock not far from Surlei. It was then that the thought struck me. Looking back now, I find that exactly two months previous to this inspiration, I had had an omen of its coming in the form of a sudden and decisive alteration in my tastes—more particularly in music. It would even be possible to consider all ‘Zarathustra’ as a musical composition. At all events, a very necessary condition in its production was a renaissance in myself of the art of hearing. In a small mountain resort (Recoaro) near Vicenza, where I spent the spring of 1881, I and my friend and Maestro, Peter Gast—also one who had been born again—discovered that the phoenix music that hovered over us, wore lighter and brighter plumes than it had done theretofore.”

“The central idea of my work, the Eternal Recurrence of all things, first came to me in August 1881. It is the highest possible expression of a philosophy that says yes to life. I wrote the thought on a sheet of paper, adding: 6,000 feet beyond men and time! That day I was walking through the woods beside Lake Silvaplana. I stopped beside a huge, towering, pyramid-shaped rock not far from Surlei. It was there that the thought struck me. Looking back, I find that an omen of this inspiration had come exactly two months earlier. My tastes, especially in music, had suddenly and decisively changed. It would even be possible to think of all ‘Zarathustra’ as a musical composition. In any case, a rebirth of the art of hearing in me was a very necessary condition for its creation. I spent the spring of 1881 in Recoaro, a small mountain resort near Vicenza. There, my friend and Maestro, Peter Gast, and I discovered something. Gast, too, had been born again. We found that the phoenix music hovering over us wore lighter and brighter feathers than before.”

During the month of August 1881 my brother resolved to reveal the teaching of the Eternal Recurrence, in dithyrambic and psalmodic form, through the mouth of Zarathustra. Among the notes of this period, we found a page on which is written the first definite plan of “Thus Spake Zarathustra”:—

In August 1881, my brother decided to present the teaching of the Eternal Recurrence through Zarathustra’s words. He would use the form of ecstatic hymns and psalms. Among his notes from this period, we found a page with the first definite plan for “Thus Spake Zarathustra”:

“MIDDAY AND ETERNITY.”

“MIDDAY AND ETERNITY.”

“GUIDE-POSTS TO A NEW WAY OF LIVING.”

“GUIDES TO A NEW WAY OF LIVING.”

Beneath this is written:—

Below this is written:

“Zarathustra born on lake Urmi; left his home in his thirtieth year, went into the province of Aria, and, during ten years of solitude in the mountains, composed the Zend-Avesta.”

“Zarathustra was born on Lake Urmi. He left home at thirty and went to the province of Aria. During ten years alone in the mountains, he wrote the Zend-Avesta.”

“The sun of knowledge stands once more at midday; and the serpent of eternity lies coiled in its light—: It is YOUR time, ye midday brethren.”

“The sun of knowledge is once again at midday, and the serpent of eternity lies coiled in its light. It is YOUR time, brothers of midday.”

In that summer of 1881, my brother, after many years of steadily declining health, began at last to rally, and it is to this first gush of the recovery of his once splendid bodily condition that we owe not only “The Gay Science”, which in its mood may be regarded as a prelude to “Zarathustra”, but also “Zarathustra” itself. Just as he was beginning to recuperate his health, however, an unkind destiny brought him a number of most painful personal experiences. His friends caused him many disappointments, which were the more bitter to him, inasmuch as he regarded friendship as such a sacred institution; and for the first time in his life he realised the whole horror of that loneliness to which, perhaps, all greatness is condemned. But to be forsaken is something very different from deliberately choosing blessed loneliness. How he longed, in those days, for the ideal friend who would thoroughly understand him, to whom he would be able to say all, and whom he imagined he had found at various periods in his life from his earliest youth onwards. Now, however, that the way he had chosen grew ever more perilous and steep, he found nobody who could follow him: he therefore created a perfect friend for himself in the ideal form of a majestic philosopher, and made this creation the preacher of his gospel to the world.

In the summer of 1881, my brother’s health finally began to improve after many years of steady decline. He had once been in splendid physical condition, and this first surge of recovery gave us “The Gay Science”. Its mood may be seen as a prelude to “Zarathustra”. The same surge also gave us “Zarathustra” itself. Just as his health was beginning to improve, however, an unkind fate brought him several deeply painful personal experiences. His friends disappointed him many times. These disappointments were especially bitter because he regarded friendship as sacred. For the first time in his life, he realized the full horror of the loneliness to which, perhaps, all greatness is condemned. But being abandoned is very different from deliberately choosing the blessing of solitude. In those days, he longed for an ideal friend who would understand him completely and to whom he could say everything. At various times throughout his life, from his earliest youth onward, he had imagined he had found such a friend. Now, however, the path he had chosen grew ever steeper and more dangerous, and he found no one who could follow him. So he created a perfect friend for himself in the ideal form of a majestic philosopher. He made this creation the preacher of his gospel to the world.

Whether my brother would ever have written “Thus Spake Zarathustra” according to the first plan sketched in the summer of 1881, if he had not had the disappointments already referred to, is now an idle question; but perhaps where “Zarathustra” is concerned, we may also say with Master Eckhardt: “The fleetest beast to bear you to perfection is suffering.”

It is pointless now to ask whether my brother would ever have written “Thus Spake Zarathustra” according to his original plan. He sketched that plan in the summer of 1881, before the disappointments already mentioned. But perhaps, in the case of “Zarathustra,” we may also say with Master Eckhardt: “The fastest creature to carry you to perfection is suffering.”

My brother writes as follows about the origin of the first part of “Zarathustra”:—“In the winter of 1882-83, I was living on the charming little Gulf of Rapallo, not far from Genoa, and between Chiavari and Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good; the winter was cold and exceptionally rainy; and the small inn in which I lived was so close to the water that at night my sleep would be disturbed if the sea were high. These circumstances were surely the very reverse of favourable; and yet in spite of it all, and as if in demonstration of my belief that everything decisive comes to life in spite of every obstacle, it was precisely during this winter and in the midst of these unfavourable circumstances that my ‘Zarathustra’ originated. In the morning I used to start out in a southerly direction up the glorious road to Zoagli, which rises aloft through a forest of pines and gives one a view far out into the sea. In the afternoon, as often as my health permitted, I walked round the whole bay from Santa Margherita to beyond Porto Fino. This spot was all the more interesting to me, inasmuch as it was so dearly loved by the Emperor Frederick III. In the autumn of 1886 I chanced to be there again when he was revisiting this small, forgotten world of happiness for the last time. It was on these two roads that all ‘Zarathustra’ came to me, above all Zarathustra himself as a type;—I ought rather to say that it was on these walks that these ideas waylaid me.”

My brother writes about the origin of the first part of “Zarathustra”: “In the winter of 1882-83, I was living on the charming little Gulf of Rapallo. It lies not far from Genoa, between Chiavari and Cape Porto Fino. My health was not very good, and the winter was cold and exceptionally rainy. The small inn where I lived was so close to the water that a rough sea would disturb my sleep. These circumstances were certainly the opposite of favorable. Yet, in spite of everything, it was during this very winter, amid these unfavorable circumstances, that my ‘Zarathustra’ began. It was as if this demonstrated my belief that everything decisive comes to life in spite of every obstacle. “In the morning, I would head south along the glorious road to Zoagli. The road climbs through a pine forest and offers a view far out to sea. In the afternoon, whenever my health allowed, I walked around the whole bay from Santa Margherita to beyond Porto Fino. This place was all the more interesting to me because Emperor Frederick III loved it so dearly. In the autumn of 1886, I happened to be there again. He was revisiting this small, forgotten world of happiness for the last time. All of ‘Zarathustra’ came to me on these two roads, above all Zarathustra himself as a type. Rather, I should say that these ideas lay in wait for me on these walks.”

The first part of “Zarathustra” was written in about ten days—that is to say, from the beginning to about the middle of February 1883. “The last lines were written precisely in the hallowed hour when Richard Wagner gave up the ghost in Venice.”

The first part of “Zarathustra” was written in about ten days, from early to mid-February 1883. “The last lines were written at the very moment when Richard Wagner died in Venice, a sacred hour.”

With the exception of the ten days occupied in composing the first part of this book, my brother often referred to this winter as the hardest and sickliest he had ever experienced. He did not, however, mean thereby that his former disorders were troubling him, but that he was suffering from a severe attack of influenza which he had caught in Santa Margherita, and which tormented him for several weeks after his arrival in Genoa. As a matter of fact, however, what he complained of most was his spiritual condition—that indescribable forsakenness—to which he gives such heartrending expression in “Zarathustra”. Even the reception which the first part met with at the hands of friends and acquaintances was extremely disheartening: for almost all those to whom he presented copies of the work misunderstood it. “I found no one ripe for many of my thoughts; the case of ‘Zarathustra’ proves that one can speak with the utmost clearness, and yet not be heard by any one.” My brother was very much discouraged by the feebleness of the response he was given, and as he was striving just then to give up the practice of taking hydrate of chloral—a drug he had begun to take while ill with influenza,—the following spring, spent in Rome, was a somewhat gloomy one for him. He writes about it as follows:—“I spent a melancholy spring in Rome, where I only just managed to live,—and this was no easy matter. This city, which is absolutely unsuited to the poet-author of ‘Zarathustra’, and for the choice of which I was not responsible, made me inordinately miserable. I tried to leave it. I wanted to go to Aquila—the opposite of Rome in every respect, and actually founded in a spirit of enmity towards that city (just as I also shall found a city some day), as a memento of an atheist and genuine enemy of the Church—a person very closely related to me,—the great Hohenstaufen, the Emperor Frederick II. But Fate lay behind it all: I had to return again to Rome. In the end I was obliged to be satisfied with the Piazza Barberini, after I had exerted myself in vain to find an anti-Christian quarter. I fear that on one occasion, to avoid bad smells as much as possible, I actually inquired at the Palazzo del Quirinale whether they could not provide a quiet room for a philosopher. In a chamber high above the Piazza just mentioned, from which one obtained a general view of Rome and could hear the fountains plashing far below, the loneliest of all songs was composed—‘The Night-Song’. About this time I was obsessed by an unspeakably sad melody, the refrain of which I recognised in the words, ‘dead through immortality.’”

Apart from the ten days he spent writing the first part of this book, my brother often called this winter the hardest and sickliest he had ever experienced. He did not mean that his former ailments were troubling him. Rather, he was suffering from a severe attack of influenza, which he had caught in Santa Margherita. It tormented him for several weeks after he arrived in Genoa. In fact, though, he complained most about his spiritual condition, that indescribable sense of abandonment. He expresses it so heartbreakingly in “Zarathustra”. Even the reception of the first part by friends and acquaintances was deeply discouraging. Almost everyone he gave a copy to misunderstood it. “I found no one ready for many of my thoughts. The case of ‘Zarathustra’ proves that one can speak with the utmost clarity and still not be heard by anyone.” My brother was greatly discouraged by the weak response. At the same time, he was trying to stop taking hydrate of chloral, a drug he had begun using while ill with influenza. The following spring, which he spent in Rome, was therefore a rather gloomy one for him. He writes about it as follows: “I spent a melancholy spring in Rome, where I barely managed to live, and that was no easy matter. The city is completely unsuited to the poet and author of ‘Zarathustra’. I was not responsible for choosing it, and it made me excessively miserable. I tried to leave. I wanted to go to Aquila, the opposite of Rome in every respect. Aquila had actually been founded in a spirit of hostility toward Rome, just as I too shall found a city someday. It was founded as a memorial to an atheist and genuine enemy of the Church, someone very closely related to me: the great Hohenstaufen, Emperor Frederick II. But Fate was behind it all. I had to return to Rome. In the end, after trying in vain to find an anti-Christian quarter, I had to settle for the Piazza Barberini. I fear that, on one occasion, I actually asked at the Palazzo del Quirinale whether they could provide a quiet room for a philosopher. I did this to avoid bad smells as much as possible. In a room high above the Piazza Barberini, I composed the loneliest of all songs, ‘The Night-Song’. From there, one could look out over Rome and hear the fountains splashing far below. Around this time, I was obsessed by an unspeakably sad melody. I recognized its refrain in the words, ‘dead through immortality.’”

We remained somewhat too long in Rome that spring, and what with the effect of the increasing heat and the discouraging circumstances already described, my brother resolved not to write any more, or in any case, not to proceed with “Zarathustra”, although I offered to relieve him of all trouble in connection with the proofs and the publisher. When, however, we returned to Switzerland towards the end of June, and he found himself once more in the familiar and exhilarating air of the mountains, all his joyous creative powers revived, and in a note to me announcing the dispatch of some manuscript, he wrote as follows: “I have engaged a place here for three months: forsooth, I am the greatest fool to allow my courage to be sapped from me by the climate of Italy. Now and again I am troubled by the thought: WHAT NEXT? My ‘future’ is the darkest thing in the world to me, but as there still remains a great deal for me to do, I suppose I ought rather to think of doing this than of my future, and leave the rest to THEE and the gods.”

We stayed a little too long in Rome that spring. Because of the increasing heat and the discouraging circumstances already described, my brother decided to stop writing, or at least to stop working on “Zarathustra”. He made this decision although I offered to take care of everything involving the proofs and the publisher. But when we returned to Switzerland toward the end of June, he was once again in the familiar, invigorating mountain air. All his joyful creative powers returned. In a note telling me he had sent some manuscript, he wrote: “I have rented a place here for three months. Truly, I am the greatest fool to let the Italian climate drain my courage. Now and then I am troubled by the thought: WHAT NEXT? My ‘future’ is the darkest thing in the world to me. But since I still have a great deal to do, I suppose I should focus on that rather than my future, and leave the rest to YOU and the gods.”

The second part of “Zarathustra” was written between the 26th of June and the 6th July. “This summer, finding myself once more in the sacred place where the first thought of ‘Zarathustra’ flashed across my mind, I conceived the second part. Ten days sufficed. Neither for the second, the first, nor the third part, have I required a day longer.”

The second part of “Zarathustra” was written between June 26 and July 6. “This summer, I returned to the sacred place where the first idea for ‘Zarathustra’ came to me. There I conceived the second part. Ten days were enough. I needed no more than ten days for the first, second, or third part.”

He often used to speak of the ecstatic mood in which he wrote “Zarathustra”; how in his walks over hill and dale the ideas would crowd into his mind, and how he would note them down hastily in a note-book from which he would transcribe them on his return, sometimes working till midnight. He says in a letter to me: “You can have no idea of the vehemence of such composition,” and in “Ecce Homo” (autumn 1888) he describes as follows with passionate enthusiasm the incomparable mood in which he created Zarathustra:—

He often spoke of the ecstatic mood in which he wrote “Zarathustra.” As he walked over hills and through valleys, ideas would crowd into his mind. He would quickly jot them down in a notebook, then copy them out when he returned, sometimes working until midnight. In a letter to me, he says: “You can have no idea of the intensity of writing like this.” In “Ecce Homo” (autumn 1888), he describes the incomparable mood in which he created Zarathustra with passionate enthusiasm:

“—Has any one at the end of the nineteenth century any distinct notion of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration? If not, I will describe it. If one had the smallest vestige of superstition in one, it would hardly be possible to set aside completely the idea that one is the mere incarnation, mouthpiece or medium of an almighty power. The idea of revelation in the sense that something becomes suddenly visible and audible with indescribable certainty and accuracy, which profoundly convulses and upsets one—describes simply the matter of fact. One hears—one does not seek; one takes—one does not ask who gives: a thought suddenly flashes up like lightning, it comes with necessity, unhesitatingly—I have never had any choice in the matter. There is an ecstasy such that the immense strain of it is sometimes relaxed by a flood of tears, along with which one’s steps either rush or involuntarily lag, alternately. There is the feeling that one is completely out of hand, with the very distinct consciousness of an endless number of fine thrills and quiverings to the very toes;—there is a depth of happiness in which the painfullest and gloomiest do not operate as antitheses, but as conditioned, as demanded in the sense of necessary shades of colour in such an overflow of light. There is an instinct for rhythmic relations which embraces wide areas of forms (length, the need of a wide-embracing rhythm, is almost the measure of the force of an inspiration, a sort of counterpart to its pressure and tension). Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of freedom, of absoluteness, of power and divinity. The involuntariness of the figures and similes is the most remarkable thing; one loses all perception of what constitutes the figure and what constitutes the simile; everything seems to present itself as the readiest, the correctest and the simplest means of expression. It actually seems, to use one of Zarathustra’s own phrases, as if all things came unto one, and would fain be similes: ‘Here do all things come caressingly to thy talk and flatter thee, for they want to ride upon thy back. On every simile dost thou here ride to every truth. Here fly open unto thee all being’s words and word-cabinets; here all being wanteth to become words, here all becoming wanteth to learn of thee how to talk.’ This is MY experience of inspiration. I do not doubt but that one would have to go back thousands of years in order to find some one who could say to me: It is mine also!—”

“Does anyone at the end of the nineteenth century have a clear idea of what poets of a stronger age meant by inspiration? If not, I will describe it. If one had the slightest trace of superstition, one could hardly dismiss the idea completely. One might think oneself merely the embodiment, mouthpiece, or medium of an almighty power. Revelation simply describes what happens. Something suddenly becomes visible and audible with indescribable certainty and accuracy. It shakes and unsettles one profoundly. One hears, one does not seek. One takes, one does not ask who gives. A thought suddenly flashes like lightning. It comes necessarily, without hesitation. I have never had any choice in the matter. There is such ecstasy that a flood of tears sometimes relieves the immense strain. As the tears flow, one’s steps alternately hurry or slow involuntarily. One feels completely out of control, yet remains distinctly aware of countless delicate thrills and tremors, down to one’s toes. There is a depth of happiness in which even the most painful and gloomy things are not its opposites. Instead, they are part of it, called for as necessary shades of color in such an overflow of light. There is an instinct for rhythmic relationships that takes in a wide range of forms. Length, the need for a wide-ranging rhythm, is almost a measure of an inspiration’s force. It is a kind of counterpart to the inspiration’s pressure and tension. Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a stormy outburst of freedom, absoluteness, power, and divinity. Most remarkable of all is how involuntarily the figures and similes arise. One loses all sense of what makes something a figure or a simile. Everything seems to offer itself as the readiest, most accurate, and simplest way to express something. As Zarathustra himself puts it, all things actually seem to come to one, eager to become similes: ‘Here all things come caressingly to your speech and flatter you, for they want to ride on your back. Here you ride on every simile to every truth. Here all the words and word-cabinets of being fly open to you. Here all being wants to become words, and all becoming wants to learn from you how to speak.’ This is MY experience of inspiration. I have no doubt that one would have to go back thousands of years to find someone who could say to me: It is mine also!”

In the autumn of 1883 my brother left the Engadine for Germany and stayed there a few weeks. In the following winter, after wandering somewhat erratically through Stresa, Genoa, and Spezia, he landed in Nice, where the climate so happily promoted his creative powers that he wrote the third part of “Zarathustra”. “In the winter, beneath the halcyon sky of Nice, which then looked down upon me for the first time in my life, I found the third ‘Zarathustra’—and came to the end of my task; the whole having occupied me scarcely a year. Many hidden corners and heights in the landscapes round about Nice are hallowed to me by unforgettable moments. That decisive chapter entitled ‘Old and New Tables’ was composed in the very difficult ascent from the station to Eza—that wonderful Moorish village in the rocks. My most creative moments were always accompanied by unusual muscular activity. The body is inspired: let us waive the question of the ‘soul.’ I might often have been seen dancing in those days. Without a suggestion of fatigue I could then walk for seven or eight hours on end among the hills. I slept well and laughed well—I was perfectly robust and patient.”

In the autumn of 1883, my brother left the Engadine for Germany and stayed there for a few weeks. The following winter, he wandered somewhat erratically through Stresa, Genoa, and Spezia before arriving in Nice. The climate there helped his creativity so much that he wrote the third part of “Zarathustra”. “That winter, beneath the peaceful sky of Nice, which I saw for the first time in my life, I found the third ‘Zarathustra’ and finished my task. The whole work had taken me barely a year. Many hidden corners and heights in the landscape around Nice are sacred to me because of unforgettable moments I spent there. I composed the decisive chapter called ‘Old and New Tables’ during the very difficult climb from the station to Eza. Eza is that wonderful Moorish village among the rocks. My most creative moments always came with unusual physical activity. The body is inspired. Let us set aside the question of the ‘soul.’ People might often have seen me dancing in those days. I could walk for seven or eight hours at a stretch among the hills without any sign of tiredness. I slept well and laughed well. I was perfectly healthy and patient.”

As we have seen, each of the three parts of “Zarathustra” was written, after a more or less short period of preparation, in about ten days. The composition of the fourth part alone was broken by occasional interruptions. The first notes relating to this part were written while he and I were staying together in Zurich in September 1884. In the following November, while staying at Mentone, he began to elaborate these notes, and after a long pause, finished the manuscript at Nice between the end of January and the middle of February 1885. My brother then called this part the fourth and last; but even before, and shortly after it had been privately printed, he wrote to me saying that he still intended writing a fifth and sixth part, and notes relating to these parts are now in my possession. This fourth part (the original MS. of which contains this note: “Only for my friends, not for the public”) is written in a particularly personal spirit, and those few to whom he presented a copy of it, he pledged to the strictest secrecy concerning its contents. He often thought of making this fourth part public also, but doubted whether he would ever be able to do so without considerably altering certain portions of it. At all events he resolved to distribute this manuscript production, of which only forty copies were printed, only among those who had proved themselves worthy of it, and it speaks eloquently of his utter loneliness and need of sympathy in those days, that he had occasion to present only seven copies of his book according to this resolution.

As we have seen, each of the three parts of “Zarathustra” was written in about ten days, after a relatively short period of preparation. Only the writing of the fourth part was broken by occasional interruptions. The first notes for this part were written while my brother and I were staying together in Zurich in September 1884. In November, while staying at Mentone, he began to develop these notes. After a long pause, he finished the manuscript at Nice between the end of January and the middle of February 1885. My brother then called this the fourth and last part. But both before and shortly after it was privately printed, he wrote to me saying he still intended to write a fifth and sixth part. I now have notes for these parts. The fourth part was written in a particularly personal spirit. Its original manuscript contains this note: “Only for my friends, not for the public”. He made the few people to whom he gave a copy promise to keep its contents strictly secret. He often considered making the fourth part public as well. But he doubted that he could ever do so without making considerable changes to certain passages. In any case, he decided to distribute the manuscript, of which only forty copies were printed, only to those who had proved themselves worthy of it. His complete loneliness and need for sympathy at the time are clear from the fact that, under this resolution, he found occasion to give away only seven copies of his book.

Already at the beginning of this history I hinted at the reasons which led my brother to select a Persian as the incarnation of his ideal of the majestic philosopher. His reasons, however, for choosing Zarathustra of all others to be his mouthpiece, he gives us in the following words:—“People have never asked me, as they should have done, what the name Zarathustra precisely means in my mouth, in the mouth of the first Immoralist; for what distinguishes that philosopher from all others in the past is the very fact that he was exactly the reverse of an immoralist. Zarathustra was the first to see in the struggle between good and evil the essential wheel in the working of things. The translation of morality into the metaphysical, as force, cause, end in itself, was HIS work. But the very question suggests its own answer. Zarathustra CREATED the most portentous error, MORALITY, consequently he should also be the first to PERCEIVE that error, not only because he has had longer and greater experience of the subject than any other thinker—all history is the experimental refutation of the theory of the so-called moral order of things:—the more important point is that Zarathustra was more truthful than any other thinker. In his teaching alone do we meet with truthfulness upheld as the highest virtue—i.e.: the reverse of the COWARDICE of the ‘idealist’ who flees from reality. Zarathustra had more courage in his body than any other thinker before or after him. To tell the truth and TO AIM STRAIGHT: that is the first Persian virtue. Am I understood?... The overcoming of morality through itself—through truthfulness, the overcoming of the moralist through his opposite—THROUGH ME—: that is what the name Zarathustra means in my mouth.”

At the beginning of this account, I hinted at why my brother chose a Persian to embody his ideal of the majestic philosopher. But he explains in his own words why he chose Zarathustra, above all others, as his mouthpiece: “People have never asked me, as they should have, exactly what the name Zarathustra means when I use it, as the first Immoralist. What sets Zarathustra apart from all earlier philosophers is that he was the exact opposite of an immoralist. Zarathustra was the first to see the struggle between good and evil as the central driving force of the world. It was HIS work to turn morality into something metaphysical, a force, a cause, and an end in itself. “But the question itself suggests the answer. Zarathustra CREATED the most momentous error, MORALITY. So he should also be the first to PERCEIVE that error. This is not only because he has more experience of morality, over a longer time, than any other thinker. All history is the experimental refutation of the theory of a so-called moral order of things. More importantly, Zarathustra was more truthful than any other thinker. “Only in his teaching do we find truthfulness upheld as the highest virtue. This is the opposite of the COWARDICE of the ‘idealist’ who flees from reality. Zarathustra had more courage in his body than any other thinker before or after him. To tell the truth and TO AIM STRAIGHT: that is the first Persian virtue. Am I understood?... “Morality overcoming itself through truthfulness, the moralist overcome by his opposite, THROUGH ME: that is what the name Zarathustra means when I use it.”

ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE.

ELIZABETH FORSTER-NIETZSCHE.

Nietzsche Archives,

Nietzsche Archives,

Weimar, December 1905.

Weimar, December 1905.