Zarathustra’s Prologue

When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart changed,—and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he went before the sun, and spake thus unto it:

When Zarathustra was thirty, he left his home and its lake and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and solitude, and for ten years he never tired of them. But at last his heart changed. One morning, he rose at the rosy dawn, stood before the sun, and spoke to it:

Thou great star! What would be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for whom thou shinest!

Great star! What happiness would you have if you had no one to shine for!

For ten years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have wearied of thy light and of the journey, had it not been for me, mine eagle, and my serpent.

For ten years you have climbed up to my cave. You would have grown tired of your light and the journey, if not for me, my eagle, and my serpent.

But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine overflow and blessed thee for it.

But we waited for you every morning, received your overflow, and blessed you for it.

Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.

Look! I am tired of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey. I need outstretched hands to take it.

I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches.

I want to give and share until the wise once again find joy in their foolishness and the poor in their riches.

Therefore must I descend into the deep: as thou doest in the evening, when thou goest behind the sea, and givest light also to the nether-world, thou exuberant star!

So I must descend into the depths, just as you do in the evening, exuberant star! You sink behind the sea and bring light to the underworld, too.

Like thee must I GO DOWN, as men say, to whom I shall descend.

Like you, I must GO DOWN, as the people I descend to would say.

Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold even the greatest happiness without envy!

So bless me, peaceful eye, you who can look upon even the greatest happiness without envy!

Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden out of it, and carry everywhere the reflection of thy bliss!

Bless the cup that is about to overflow, so that golden water may flow from it and carry the reflection of your bliss everywhere!

Lo! This cup is again going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again going to be a man.

Look! This cup is about to empty itself again, and Zarathustra is about to become a man again.

Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.

This is how Zarathustra’s descent began.

Zarathustra went down the mountain alone, no one meeting him. When he entered the forest, however, there suddenly stood before him an old man, who had left his holy cot to seek roots. And thus spake the old man to Zarathustra:

Zarathustra went down the mountain alone and met no one. But when he entered the forest, an old man suddenly stood before him. The old man had left his holy cottage to look for roots. He spoke to Zarathustra:

“No stranger to me is this wanderer: many years ago passed he by. Zarathustra he was called; but he hath altered.

“I know this wanderer. He passed by many years ago. His name was Zarathustra, but he has changed.

Then thou carriedst thine ashes into the mountains: wilt thou now carry thy fire into the valleys? Fearest thou not the incendiary’s doom?

Then you carried your ashes into the mountains. Will you now carry your fire into the valleys? Aren't you afraid of an arsonist's fate?

Yea, I recognise Zarathustra. Pure is his eye, and no loathing lurketh about his mouth. Goeth he not along like a dancer?

Yes, I recognize Zarathustra. His eyes are clear, and there is no disgust around his mouth. Doesn't he walk like a dancer?

Altered is Zarathustra; a child hath Zarathustra become; an awakened one is Zarathustra: what wilt thou do in the land of the sleepers?

Zarathustra has changed. Zarathustra has become a child. Zarathustra is awake. What will you do in the land of sleepers?

As in the sea hast thou lived in solitude, and it hath borne thee up. Alas, wilt thou now go ashore? Alas, wilt thou again drag thy body thyself?”

You have lived in solitude as if in the sea, and it has kept you afloat. Alas, will you now go ashore? Alas, will you have to drag your own body along again?”

Zarathustra answered: “I love mankind.”

Zarathustra replied: “I love humanity.”

“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it not because I loved men far too well?

“Why,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the desert? Wasn't it because I loved people far too much?

Now I love God: men, I do not love. Man is a thing too imperfect for me. Love to man would be fatal to me.”

Now I love God, but I do not love people. Humans are too imperfect for me. Loving them would be fatal to me.”

Zarathustra answered: “What spake I of love! I am bringing gifts unto men.”

Zarathustra answered: “Why did I speak of love? I am bringing gifts to people.”

“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Take rather part of their load, and carry it along with them—that will be most agreeable unto them: if only it be agreeable unto thee!

“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Instead, take part of their load and carry it with them. That will please them most, if only it pleases you too!

If, however, thou wilt give unto them, give them no more than an alms, and let them also beg for it!”

But if you give them anything, give them no more than charity, and make them beg for it!”

“No,” replied Zarathustra, “I give no alms. I am not poor enough for that.”

“No,” Zarathustra replied, “I don't give to the poor. I'm not poor enough for that.”

The saint laughed at Zarathustra, and spake thus: “Then see to it that they accept thy treasures! They are distrustful of anchorites, and do not believe that we come with gifts.

The saint laughed at Zarathustra and said: “Then make sure they accept your treasures! They distrust hermits and do not believe we come with gifts.

The fall of our footsteps ringeth too hollow through their streets. And just as at night, when they are in bed and hear a man abroad long before sunrise, so they ask themselves concerning us: Where goeth the thief?

Our footsteps echo too hollowly through their streets. At night, when they are in bed, they may hear a man outside long before sunrise. Then they ask themselves: Where is the thief going? They ask the same question about us.

Go not to men, but stay in the forest! Go rather to the animals! Why not be like me—a bear amongst bears, a bird amongst birds?”

Do not go to people, but stay in the forest! Go to the animals instead! Why not be like me, a bear among bears, a bird among birds?”

“And what doeth the saint in the forest?” asked Zarathustra.

“And what does the saint do in the forest?” asked Zarathustra.

The saint answered: “I make hymns and sing them; and in making hymns I laugh and weep and mumble: thus do I praise God.

The saint answered: “I write hymns and sing them. As I write them, I laugh, cry, and mumble. This is how I praise God.

With singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling do I praise the God who is my God. But what dost thou bring us as a gift?”

I praise the God who is my God by singing, weeping, laughing, and mumbling. But what gift do you bring us?”

When Zarathustra had heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said: “What should I have to give thee! Let me rather hurry hence lest I take aught away from thee!”—And thus they parted from one another, the old man and Zarathustra, laughing like schoolboys.

When Zarathustra heard these words, he bowed to the saint and said: “What could I give you? I had better hurry away before I take anything from you!” And so the old man and Zarathustra parted, laughing like schoolboys.

When Zarathustra was alone, however, he said to his heart: “Could it be possible! This old saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that GOD IS DEAD!”

But when Zarathustra was alone, he said to his heart: “Could it be possible! This old saint in the forest has not yet heard that GOD IS DEAD!”

When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth the forest, he found many people assembled in the market-place; for it had been announced that a rope-dancer would give a performance. And Zarathustra spake thus unto the people:

When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town, which bordered the forest, he found many people gathered in the marketplace. They had gathered because a rope dancer was scheduled to perform. Zarathustra spoke to the people:

I TEACH YOU THE SUPERMAN. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass man?

I TEACH YOU ABOUT THE SUPERMAN. Humanity is something to be surpassed. What have you done to surpass humanity?

All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than surpass man?

All beings so far have created something beyond themselves. And do you want to be the ebb of that great tide? Would you rather return to being beasts than surpass humanity?

What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame.

What is the ape to humans? A laughingstock, something to be ashamed of. In just the same way, humans will be to the Superman a laughingstock, something to be ashamed of.

Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within you is still worm. Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of the apes.

You have made your way from worm to human, and much within you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now humans are more apelike than any ape.

Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants?

Even the wisest among you is only a discordant mixture of plant and phantom. But do I ask you to become phantoms or plants?

Lo, I teach you the Superman!

Look, I teach you about the Superman!

The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Superman SHALL BE the meaning of the earth!

The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will declare: The Superman WILL BE the meaning of the earth!

I conjure you, my brethren, REMAIN TRUE TO THE EARTH, and believe not those who speak unto you of superearthly hopes! Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not.

I urge you, my brothers, REMAIN TRUE TO THE EARTH, and do not believe those who speak of hopes beyond the earth! They are poisoners, whether they know it or not.

Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of whom the earth is weary: so away with them!

They despise life. They themselves are decaying and poisoned, and the earth is tired of them. So away with them!

Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and therewith also those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth!

Once, blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy. But God died, and those blasphemers died with him. Now the most terrible sin is to blaspheme the earth and value the heart of the unknowable above the meaning of the earth!

Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was the supreme thing:—the soul wished the body meagre, ghastly, and famished. Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth.

Once, the soul looked down on the body, and that contempt was considered the highest virtue. The soul wanted the body to be thin, ghastly, and starving. In this way, the soul thought it could escape the body and the earth.

Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was the delight of that soul!

Oh, that soul was thin, horrifying, and starving. And that soul delighted in cruelty!

But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency?

But you too, my brothers, tell me: What does your body say about your soul? Isn't your soul poor, polluted, and miserably self-satisfied?

Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted stream without becoming impure.

Truly, humanity is a polluted stream. One must be a sea to receive a polluted stream without becoming polluted.

Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that sea; in him can your great contempt be submerged.

Look, I teach you the Superman. He is that sea, where your great contempt can be submerged.

What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto you, and so also your reason and virtue.

What is the greatest thing you can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. In that hour, even your happiness becomes loathsome to you, as do your reason and virtue.

The hour when ye say: “What good is my happiness! It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency. But my happiness should justify existence itself!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my happiness? It is poverty, corruption, and miserable self-satisfaction. But my happiness should justify existence itself!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my reason! Doth it long for knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my reason? Does it hunger for knowledge as a lion hungers for food? It is poverty, corruption, and wretched self-satisfaction!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my virtue! As yet it hath not made me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my virtue! It still has not made me passionate. How tired I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty, filth, and miserable self-satisfaction!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my justice! I do not see that I am fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour and fuel!”

The hour when you say: “What good is my justice! I do not see myself as fire and fuel. But the just are fire and fuel!”

The hour when ye say: “What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion.”

The hour when you say: “What good is my pity! Isn’t pity the cross on which the one who loves humanity is nailed? But my pity is not a crucifixion.”

Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! would that I had heard you crying thus!

Have you ever spoken this way? Have you ever cried out this way? Ah, I wish I had heard you cry out this way!

It is not your sin—it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven!

It is not your sin that cries out to heaven. It is your self-satisfaction. Even how little you sin cries out to heaven!

Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy with which ye should be inoculated?

Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy that should be injected into you?

Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!—

Look, I teach you about the Superman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!

When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called out: “We have now heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is time now for us to see him!” And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the rope-dancer, who thought the words applied to him, began his performance.

When Zarathustra finished speaking, someone in the crowd called out: “We have heard enough about the rope-dancer. Now it is time to see him!” All the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the rope-dancer thought they were talking about him, so he began his performance.

Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spake thus:

Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spoke:

Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss.

Humanity is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman. It hangs over an abyss.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous trembling and halting.

A dangerous crossing, a dangerous journey, a dangerous look back, a dangerous trembling and stopping.

What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal: what is lovable in man is that he is an OVER-GOING and a DOWN-GOING.

What is great about humanity is that it is a bridge, not a goal. What is lovable about humanity is that it is an OVER-GOING and a DOWN-GOING.

I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for they are the over-goers.

I love those who know how to live only as down-goers, because they are the over-goers.

I love the great despisers, because they are the great adorers, and arrows of longing for the other shore.

I love those who despise greatly because they also adore greatly. They are arrows longing for the other shore.

I love those who do not first seek a reason beyond the stars for going down and being sacrifices, but sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth of the Superman may hereafter arrive.

I love those who do not look beyond the stars for a reason to perish and become sacrifices. Instead, they sacrifice themselves to the earth, so that the earth of the Superman may one day arrive.

I love him who liveth in order to know, and seeketh to know in order that the Superman may hereafter live. Thus seeketh he his own down-going.

I love the person who lives to know, and seeks to know so that the Superman may one day live. In this way, he seeks his own downfall.

I love him who laboureth and inventeth, that he may build the house for the Superman, and prepare for him earth, animal, and plant: for thus seeketh he his own down-going.

I love the person who works and invents to build a house for the Superman. He prepares the earth, animals, and plants for him. For in doing so, he seeks his own downfall.

I love him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will to down-going, and an arrow of longing.

I love the one who loves his virtue. For virtue is the will to go under, and an arrow of longing.

I love him who reserveth no share of spirit for himself, but wanteth to be wholly the spirit of his virtue: thus walketh he as spirit over the bridge.

I love the one who keeps no part of his spirit for himself, but wants to be wholly the spirit of his virtue. In this way, he walks as a spirit over the bridge.

I love him who maketh his virtue his inclination and destiny: thus, for the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on, or live no more.

I love the man who makes his virtue his natural desire and his destiny. For the sake of his virtue, he is willing to live on or to die.

I love him who desireth not too many virtues. One virtue is more of a virtue than two, because it is more of a knot for one’s destiny to cling to.

I love the person who does not desire too many virtues. One virtue is more of a virtue than two, because it is a stronger knot for one’s destiny to cling to.

I love him whose soul is lavish, who wanteth no thanks and doth not give back: for he always bestoweth, and desireth not to keep for himself.

I love the man whose soul is generous, who wants no thanks and gives nothing back. For he always gives and wants to keep nothing for himself.

I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favour, and who then asketh: “Am I a dishonest player?”—for he is willing to succumb.

I love the man who feels ashamed when the dice favor him and asks: “Am I a dishonest player?” For he is willing to succumb.

I love him who scattereth golden words in advance of his deeds, and always doeth more than he promiseth: for he seeketh his own down-going.

I love the one who scatters golden words before he acts, and always does more than he promises. For he seeks his own downfall.

I love him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth the past ones: for he is willing to succumb through the present ones.

I love the one who justifies future generations and redeems past ones. For he is willing to perish because of those living now.

I love him who chasteneth his God, because he loveth his God: for he must succumb through the wrath of his God.

I love the man who disciplines his God because he loves his God. For he must fall to his God’s anger.

I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb through a small matter: thus goeth he willingly over the bridge.

I love the man whose soul is deep even in his wounds, and who may be brought down by something small. In this way, he willingly crosses the bridge.

I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgetteth himself, and all things are in him: thus all things become his down-going.

I love the man whose soul is so full that he forgets himself and holds all things within him. So all things become his downfall.

I love him who is of a free spirit and a free heart: thus is his head only the bowels of his heart; his heart, however, causeth his down-going.

I love the man with a free spirit and a free heart. So his head is only the guts of his heart, but his heart brings about his downfall.

I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one out of the dark cloud that lowereth over man: they herald the coming of the lightning, and succumb as heralds.

I love all who are like heavy drops falling one by one from the dark cloud hanging over humanity. They announce the coming lightning and perish as its heralds.

Lo, I am a herald of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: the lightning, however, is the SUPERMAN.—

Look, I announce the coming lightning. I am a heavy drop from the cloud. But the lightning is the SUPERMAN.

When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, and was silent. “There they stand,” said he to his heart; “there they laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears.

After Zarathustra spoke these words, he looked at the people again and fell silent. “There they stand,” he said to himself. “There they laugh. They do not understand me. I am not the right mouth for these ears.

Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one clatter like kettledrums and penitential preachers? Or do they only believe the stammerer?

Must one first batter their ears so they learn to hear with their eyes? Must one make a racket like kettledrums and preachers calling for repentance? Or do they only believe someone who stammers?

They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that which maketh them proud? Culture, they call it; it distinguisheth them from the goatherds.

They have something they are proud of. What do they call it? They call it culture. It distinguishes them from the goatherds.

They dislike, therefore, to hear of ‘contempt’ of themselves. So I will appeal to their pride.

So they dislike hearing of ‘contempt’ for themselves. I will appeal to their pride instead.

I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that, however, is THE LAST MAN!”

I will tell them about the most contemptible thing: THE LAST MAN!”

And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people:

And so Zarathustra spoke to the people:

It is time for man to fix his goal. It is time for man to plant the germ of his highest hope.

It is time for humanity to set its goal. It is time for humanity to plant the seed of its highest hope.

Still is his soil rich enough for it. But that soil will one day be poor and exhausted, and no lofty tree will any longer be able to grow thereon.

His soil is still rich enough for it. But one day the soil will be poor and exhausted. Then no tall tree will be able to grow there anymore.

Alas! there cometh the time when man will no longer launch the arrow of his longing beyond man—and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!

Alas! The time is coming when humanity will no longer shoot the arrow of its longing beyond itself. The bowstring will have forgotten how to whiz!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: ye have still chaos in you.

I tell you: you must still have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you still have chaos within you.

Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.

Alas! The time is coming when humanity will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! The time is coming for the most despicable human being, who can no longer despise himself.

Lo! I show you THE LAST MAN.

Look! I show you THE LAST MAN.

“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?”—so asketh the last man and blinketh.

“What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?” asks the last man, blinking.

The earth hath then become small, and on it there hoppeth the last man who maketh everything small. His species is ineradicable like that of the ground-flea; the last man liveth longest.

The earth has then become small, and on it hops the last man, who makes everything small. His species is as impossible to wipe out as the ground flea. The last man lives longest.

“We have discovered happiness”—say the last men, and blink thereby.

“We have discovered happiness,” say the last men, blinking as they speak.

They have left the regions where it is hard to live; for they need warmth. One still loveth one’s neighbour and rubbeth against him; for one needeth warmth.

They have left the places where life is hard because they need warmth. People still love their neighbors and rub against them because they need warmth.

Turning ill and being distrustful, they consider sinful: they walk warily. He is a fool who still stumbleth over stones or men!

They consider getting sick and being distrustful sinful, so they tread carefully. Anyone who still stumbles over stones or people is a fool!

A little poison now and then: that maketh pleasant dreams. And much poison at last for a pleasant death.

A little poison now and then makes for pleasant dreams. And a lot of poison at the end makes for a pleasant death.

One still worketh, for work is a pastime. But one is careful lest the pastime should hurt one.

People still work, because work is a pastime. But they are careful not to let the pastime hurt them.

One no longer becometh poor or rich; both are too burdensome. Who still wanteth to rule? Who still wanteth to obey? Both are too burdensome.

No one becomes poor or rich anymore. Both are too much trouble. Who still wants to rule? Who still wants to obey? Both are too much trouble.

No shepherd, and one herd! Every one wanteth the same; every one is equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the madhouse.

No shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wants the same thing. Everyone is equal. Anyone who feels differently goes voluntarily to the madhouse.

“Formerly all the world was insane,”—say the subtlest of them, and blink thereby.

“The whole world used to be insane,” say the most subtle among them, blinking as they speak.

They are clever and know all that hath happened: so there is no end to their raillery. People still fall out, but are soon reconciled—otherwise it spoileth their stomachs.

They are clever and know everything that has happened, so their teasing never ends. People still quarrel, but they soon make up. Otherwise, it upsets their stomachs.

They have their little pleasures for the day, and their little pleasures for the night, but they have a regard for health.

They have their little pleasures for the day and their little pleasures for the night, but they care about their health.

“We have discovered happiness,”—say the last men, and blink thereby.—

“We have discovered happiness,” say the last men, blinking as they speak.

And here ended the first discourse of Zarathustra, which is also called “The Prologue”: for at this point the shouting and mirth of the multitude interrupted him. “Give us this last man, O Zarathustra,”—they called out—“make us into these last men! Then will we make thee a present of the Superman!” And all the people exulted and smacked their lips. Zarathustra, however, turned sad, and said to his heart:

Here ended Zarathustra’s first discourse, also called “The Prologue.” The crowd’s shouts and laughter interrupted him. “Give us this last man, Zarathustra,” they called out. “Make us into these last men! Then we will give you the Superman!” All the people rejoiced and smacked their lips. But Zarathustra grew sad and said to himself:

“They understand me not: I am not the mouth for these ears.

“They do not understand me. My mouth is not meant for these ears.

Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too much have I hearkened unto the brooks and trees: now do I speak unto them as unto the goatherds.

Perhaps I have lived in the mountains too long. I have listened too much to the streams and trees. Now I speak to them as I would to the goatherds.

Calm is my soul, and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they think me cold, and a mocker with terrible jests.

My soul is calm and clear, like the mountains in the morning. But they think I am cold and mock others with terrible jokes.

And now do they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh they hate me too. There is ice in their laughter.”

And now they look at me and laugh. And while they laugh, they hate me too. There is ice in their laughter.”

Then, however, something happened which made every mouth mute and every eye fixed. In the meantime, of course, the rope-dancer had commenced his performance: he had come out at a little door, and was going along the rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung above the market-place and the people. When he was just midway across, the little door opened once more, and a gaudily-dressed fellow like a buffoon sprang out, and went rapidly after the first one. “Go on, halt-foot,” cried his frightful voice, “go on, lazy-bones, interloper, sallow-face!—lest I tickle thee with my heel! What dost thou here between the towers? In the tower is the place for thee, thou shouldst be locked up; to one better than thyself thou blockest the way!”—And with every word he came nearer and nearer the first one. When, however, he was but a step behind, there happened the frightful thing which made every mouth mute and every eye fixed—he uttered a yell like a devil, and jumped over the other who was in his way. The latter, however, when he thus saw his rival triumph, lost at the same time his head and his footing on the rope; he threw his pole away, and shot downwards faster than it, like an eddy of arms and legs, into the depth. The market-place and the people were like the sea when the storm cometh on: they all flew apart and in disorder, especially where the body was about to fall.

Then something happened that silenced every mouth and held every eye fixed. Meanwhile, of course, the tightrope walker had begun his performance. He had come out through a small door and was crossing a rope stretched between two towers. The rope hung above the marketplace and the people. When he was halfway across, the small door opened again. A gaudily dressed fellow who looked like a clown sprang out and hurried after him. “Go on, lamefoot,” cried the fellow in a frightful voice. “Go on, lazybones, intruder, pale face! Or I’ll tickle you with my heel! What are you doing here between the towers? Your place is inside the tower. You should be locked up. You’re blocking the way for someone better than you!” With every word, he came closer to the tightrope walker. When he was only one step behind, a frightful thing happened. It silenced every mouth and held every eye fixed. He gave a devilish yell and jumped over the man blocking his way. Seeing his rival triumph, the tightrope walker lost his head and his footing on the rope. He threw away his pole and plunged faster than it into the depths, a whirl of arms and legs. The marketplace and the people were like the sea when a storm comes on. Everyone scattered in disorder, especially where the body was about to fall.

Zarathustra, however, remained standing, and just beside him fell the body, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What art thou doing there?” said he at last, “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he draggeth me to hell: wilt thou prevent him?”

Zarathustra, however, remained standing. The man’s body fell just beside him, badly injured and disfigured, but not yet dead. After a while, the shattered man regained consciousness and saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him. “What are you doing there?” he finally asked. “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me up. Now he is dragging me to hell. Will you stop him?”

“On mine honour, my friend,” answered Zarathustra, “there is nothing of all that whereof thou speakest: there is no devil and no hell. Thy soul will be dead even sooner than thy body: fear, therefore, nothing any more!”

“On my honor, my friend,” Zarathustra replied, “none of what you speak of exists. There is no devil and no hell. Your soul will die even before your body. So fear nothing anymore!”

The man looked up distrustfully. “If thou speakest the truth,” said he, “I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am not much more than an animal which hath been taught to dance by blows and scanty fare.”

The man looked up distrustfully. “If you are telling the truth,” he said, “I lose nothing when I lose my life. I am little more than an animal trained to dance with beatings and too little food.”

“Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “thou hast made danger thy calling; therein there is nothing contemptible. Now thou perishest by thy calling: therefore will I bury thee with mine own hands.”

“Not at all,” said Zarathustra. “You have made danger your calling. There is nothing contemptible in that. Now you are dying because of your calling. So I will bury you with my own hands.”

When Zarathustra had said this the dying one did not reply further; but he moved his hand as if he sought the hand of Zarathustra in gratitude.

After Zarathustra said this, the dying man did not reply. But he moved his hand as if reaching for Zarathustra's hand in gratitude.

Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market-place veiled itself in gloom. Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror become fatigued. Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground, absorbed in thought: so he forgot the time. But at last it became night, and a cold wind blew upon the lonely one. Then arose Zarathustra and said to his heart:

Meanwhile, evening came, and darkness settled over the marketplace. The people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror grow tired. But Zarathustra still sat on the ground beside the dead man, lost in thought. He was so absorbed that he forgot the time. At last, night fell, and a cold wind blew on him as he sat alone. Then Zarathustra stood up and said to his heart:

Verily, a fine catch of fish hath Zarathustra made to-day! It is not a man he hath caught, but a corpse.

Zarathustra has made a fine catch of fish today! He has caught not a man, but a corpse.

Sombre is human life, and as yet without meaning: a buffoon may be fateful to it.

Human life is bleak and still without meaning. A clown may determine its fate.

I want to teach men the sense of their existence, which is the Superman, the lightning out of the dark cloud—man.

I want to teach people the meaning of their existence: the Superman, the lightning that comes from the dark cloud of humanity.

But still am I far from them, and my sense speaketh not unto their sense. To men I am still something between a fool and a corpse.

But I am still far from them, and my understanding does not speak to theirs. To people, I am still something between a fool and a corpse.

Gloomy is the night, gloomy are the ways of Zarathustra. Come, thou cold and stiff companion! I carry thee to the place where I shall bury thee with mine own hands.

The night is gloomy, and so are Zarathustra's paths. Come, my cold and stiff companion! I will carry you to the place where I will bury you with my own hands.

When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he put the corpse upon his shoulders and set out on his way. Yet had he not gone a hundred steps, when there stole a man up to him and whispered in his ear—and lo! he that spake was the buffoon from the tower. “Leave this town, O Zarathustra,” said he, “there are too many here who hate thee. The good and just hate thee, and call thee their enemy and despiser; the believers in the orthodox belief hate thee, and call thee a danger to the multitude. It was thy good fortune to be laughed at: and verily thou spakest like a buffoon. It was thy good fortune to associate with the dead dog; by so humiliating thyself thou hast saved thy life to-day. Depart, however, from this town,—or to-morrow I shall jump over thee, a living man over a dead one.” And when he had said this, the buffoon vanished; Zarathustra, however, went on through the dark streets.

When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he lifted the corpse onto his shoulders and set out. But he had not gone a hundred steps when a man crept up and whispered in his ear. It was the buffoon from the tower. “Leave this town, Zarathustra,” he said. “Too many people here hate you. The good and just hate you and call you their enemy and say you despise them. Those who hold orthodox beliefs hate you and call you a danger to the crowd. You were lucky they laughed at you. And truly, you spoke like a buffoon. You were lucky to keep company with the dead dog. By humiliating yourself like that, you saved your life today. But leave this town, or tomorrow I shall jump over you, a living man over a dead one.” After saying this, the buffoon vanished. Zarathustra, however, continued through the dark streets.

At the gate of the town the grave-diggers met him: they shone their torch on his face, and, recognising Zarathustra, they sorely derided him. “Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog: a fine thing that Zarathustra hath turned a grave-digger! For our hands are too cleanly for that roast. Will Zarathustra steal the bite from the devil? Well then, good luck to the repast! If only the devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra!—he will steal them both, he will eat them both!” And they laughed among themselves, and put their heads together.

At the town gate, the grave-diggers met him. They shone their torch in his face and recognized Zarathustra. Then they mocked him mercilessly. “Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog. How wonderful that Zarathustra has become a grave-digger! Our hands are too clean to handle that roast. Will Zarathustra steal this morsel from the devil? Well then, enjoy your meal! Let’s hope the devil isn’t a better thief than Zarathustra! He’ll steal them both and eat them both!” They laughed among themselves and put their heads together.

Zarathustra made no answer thereto, but went on his way. When he had gone on for two hours, past forests and swamps, he had heard too much of the hungry howling of the wolves, and he himself became a-hungry. So he halted at a lonely house in which a light was burning.

Zarathustra did not answer, but continued on his way. After two hours of traveling past forests and swamps, he had heard enough of the hungry wolves howling. He had grown hungry himself. So he stopped at a lonely house where a light was burning.

“Hunger attacketh me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. Among forests and swamps my hunger attacketh me, and late in the night.

“Hunger attacks me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. My hunger attacks me among forests and swamps, late at night.

“Strange humours hath my hunger. Often it cometh to me only after a repast, and all day it hath failed to come: where hath it been?”

“My hunger has strange moods. Often it comes to me only after a meal, having stayed away all day. Where has it been?”

And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. An old man appeared, who carried a light, and asked: “Who cometh unto me and my bad sleep?”

Then Zarathustra knocked on the door of the house. An old man appeared carrying a light. He asked, “Who has come to disturb my poor sleep?”

“A living man and a dead one,” said Zarathustra. “Give me something to eat and drink, I forgot it during the day. He that feedeth the hungry refresheth his own soul, saith wisdom.”

“A living man and a dead one,” said Zarathustra. “Give me something to eat and drink. I forgot to eat and drink during the day. Wisdom says that whoever feeds the hungry refreshes their own soul.”

The old man withdrew, but came back immediately and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. “A bad country for the hungry,” said he; “that is why I live here. Animal and man come unto me, the anchorite. But bid thy companion eat and drink also, he is wearier than thou.” Zarathustra answered: “My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him to eat.” “That doth not concern me,” said the old man sullenly; “he that knocketh at my door must take what I offer him. Eat, and fare ye well!”—

The old man went away, but immediately returned and offered Zarathustra bread and wine. “This is a bad country for hungry people,” he said. “That is why I live here. Animals and people come to me, a hermit. But tell your companion to eat and drink too. He is more tired than you.” Zarathustra answered: “My companion is dead. I will hardly be able to persuade him to eat.” “That is not my concern,” said the old man sullenly. “Anyone who knocks at my door must take what I offer. Eat, and farewell to you both!”

Thereafter Zarathustra again went on for two hours, trusting to the path and the light of the stars: for he was an experienced night-walker, and liked to look into the face of all that slept. When the morning dawned, however, Zarathustra found himself in a thick forest, and no path was any longer visible. He then put the dead man in a hollow tree at his head—for he wanted to protect him from the wolves—and laid himself down on the ground and moss. And immediately he fell asleep, tired in body, but with a tranquil soul.

Zarathustra continued for another two hours, relying on the path and the light of the stars. He was an experienced night walker and liked to look into the faces of all who slept. But when dawn broke, Zarathustra found himself in a thick forest, and the path was no longer visible. He put the dead man in a hollow tree beside his head to protect him from wolves. Then he lay down on the mossy ground. He fell asleep immediately, tired in body but peaceful in spirit.

Long slept Zarathustra; and not only the rosy dawn passed over his head, but also the morning. At last, however, his eyes opened, and amazedly he gazed into the forest and the stillness, amazedly he gazed into himself. Then he arose quickly, like a seafarer who all at once seeth the land; and he shouted for joy: for he saw a new truth. And he spake thus to his heart:

Zarathustra slept a long time. The rosy dawn passed over his head, and so did the morning. At last, he opened his eyes. He gazed in amazement at the forest and its stillness, and then at himself. Then he sprang up like a sailor who suddenly sees land. He shouted for joy, because he saw a new truth. And he spoke to his heart:

A light hath dawned upon me: I need companions—living ones; not dead companions and corpses, which I carry with me where I will.

A light has dawned on me. I need living companions, not dead companions and corpses that I carry wherever I go.

But I need living companions, who will follow me because they want to follow themselves—and to the place where I will.

But I need living companions who follow me because they want to follow themselves, and go where I want to go.

A light hath dawned upon me. Not to the people is Zarathustra to speak, but to companions! Zarathustra shall not be the herd’s herdsman and hound!

A light has dawned on me. Zarathustra must speak not to the people, but to companions! Zarathustra will not be the herd’s shepherd and dog!

To allure many from the herd—for that purpose have I come. The people and the herd must be angry with me: a robber shall Zarathustra be called by the herdsmen.

I have come to lure many away from the herd. The people and the herd must be angry with me. The herdsmen will call Zarathustra a robber.

Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the good and just. Herdsmen, I say, but they call themselves the believers in the orthodox belief.

I call them herdsmen, but they call themselves good and just. I call them herdsmen, but they call themselves believers in the orthodox faith.

Behold the good and just! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the law-breaker:—he, however, is the creator.

Look at the good and just! Whom do they hate most? The one who breaks their tables of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker. But he is the creator.

Behold the believers of all beliefs! Whom do they hate most? Him who breaketh up their tables of values, the breaker, the law-breaker—he, however, is the creator.

Look at the believers of all beliefs! Who do they hate most? The person who breaks their tables of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker. Yet he is the creator.

Companions, the creator seeketh, not corpses—and not herds or believers either. Fellow-creators the creator seeketh—those who grave new values on new tables.

The creator seeks companions, not corpses. Nor does the creator seek herds or believers. The creator seeks fellow creators, people who carve new values on new tablets.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and fellow-reapers: for everything is ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacketh the hundred sickles: so he plucketh the ears of corn and is vexed.

The creator seeks companions and fellow reapers, because everything around him is ripe for harvest. But he lacks the hundred sickles he needs. So he plucks the ears of grain by hand and is frustrated.

Companions, the creator seeketh, and such as know how to whet their sickles. Destroyers, will they be called, and despisers of good and evil. But they are the reapers and rejoicers.

The creator seeks companions who know how to sharpen their sickles. They will be called destroyers and despisers of good and evil. But they are the ones who reap and rejoice.

Fellow-creators, Zarathustra seeketh; fellow-reapers and fellow-rejoicers, Zarathustra seeketh: what hath he to do with herds and herdsmen and corpses!

Zarathustra seeks fellow creators, fellow harvesters, and those who rejoice with him. What does he have to do with herds, herdsmen, and corpses!

And thou, my first companion, rest in peace! Well have I buried thee in thy hollow tree; well have I hid thee from the wolves.

And you, my first companion, rest in peace! I have buried you well in your hollow tree. I have hidden you well from the wolves.

But I part from thee; the time hath arrived. ‘Twixt rosy dawn and rosy dawn there came unto me a new truth.

But I must leave you. The time has come. Between one rosy dawn and the next, a new truth came to me.

I am not to be a herdsman, I am not to be a grave-digger. Not any more will I discourse unto the people; for the last time have I spoken unto the dead.

I will not be a shepherd or a gravedigger. I will no longer speak to the people. I have spoken to the dead for the last time.

With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers will I associate: the rainbow will I show them, and all the stairs to the Superman.

I will join the creators, the reapers, and those who rejoice. I will show them the rainbow and all the stairs to the Superman.

To the lone-dwellers will I sing my song, and to the twain-dwellers; and unto him who hath still ears for the unheard, will I make the heart heavy with my happiness.

I will sing my song to those who live alone and those who live in pairs. And for anyone who still has ears for the unheard, I will make their heart heavy with my happiness.

I make for my goal, I follow my course; over the loitering and tardy will I leap. Thus let my on-going be their down-going!

I head toward my goal and follow my own path. I will leap over those who linger and lag behind. Let my progress be their downfall!

This had Zarathustra said to his heart when the sun stood at noontide. Then he looked inquiringly aloft,—for he heard above him the sharp call of a bird. And behold! An eagle swept through the air in wide circles, and on it hung a serpent, not like a prey, but like a friend: for it kept itself coiled round the eagle’s neck.

Zarathustra had said this to his heart when the sun was overhead at noon. Then he looked up inquiringly, because he heard the sharp call of a bird above him. And there, an eagle was sweeping through the air in wide circles. A serpent hung from it, not like prey, but like a friend. For the serpent was coiled around the eagle’s neck.

“They are mine animals,” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his heart.

“They are my animals,” said Zarathustra, and his heart rejoiced.

“The proudest animal under the sun, and the wisest animal under the sun,—they have come out to reconnoitre.

“The proudest animal under the sun and the wisest animal under the sun have come out to scout.

They want to know whether Zarathustra still liveth. Verily, do I still live?

They want to know whether Zarathustra is still alive. Do I really still live?

More dangerous have I found it among men than among animals; in dangerous paths goeth Zarathustra. Let mine animals lead me!”

I have found it more dangerous among people than among animals. Zarathustra walks dangerous paths. Let my animals lead me!”

When Zarathustra had said this, he remembered the words of the saint in the forest. Then he sighed and spake thus to his heart:

After Zarathustra said this, he remembered the words of the saint in the forest. Then he sighed and spoke to his heart:

“Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise from the very heart, like my serpent!

“I wish I were wiser! I wish I were wise to my very core, like my serpent!

But I am asking the impossible. Therefore do I ask my pride to go always with my wisdom!

But I am asking for the impossible. So I ask that my pride always accompany my wisdom!

And if my wisdom should some day forsake me:—alas! it loveth to fly away!—may my pride then fly with my folly!”

And if my wisdom ever leaves me (alas, it loves to fly away!), may my pride fly away with my folly!”

Thus began Zarathustra’s down-going.

So began Zarathustra’s descent.