Simon Gros

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Nietzsche · Works
Nietzsche
Collected Works
Critical Edition

Edited by
Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari

Sixth Division
Volume One
Walter de Gruyter & Co.
Berlin 1968

Friedrich Nietzsche
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
A Book for All and None
(1883–1885)

Walter de Gruyter & Co.
Berlin 1968
Archive No. 3659681

© 1968 by Walter de Gruyter & Co., formerly G. J. Göschen’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung —
J. Guttentag, Verlagsbuchhandlung — Georg Reimer — Karl J. Trübner — Veit & Comp.,
Berlin 30
Printed in Germany

Critical edition of all published and unpublished writings by Friedrich Nietzsche, based on the original manuscripts. All rights of reproduction, translation, and reprinting reserved for all countries, including the USSR.

Walter de Gruyter & Co., Berlin, for the German edition.
Éditions Gallimard, Paris, for the French edition.
Adelphi Edizioni, Milan, for the Italian edition.
Hakusuisha Publishing Company, Tokyo, for the Japanese edition.

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Thus Spoke Zarathustra
A Book for All and None
By
Friedrich Nietzsche

Chemnitz, 1883
Published by Ernst Schmeitzner

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Zarathustra’s Preface

I.

When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his homeland and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years he did not grow weary of either. But at last his heart underwent a transformation—and one morning, at dawn, he rose, stepped before the sun, and spoke to it thus:

“O great star! What were your happiness had you not those on whom you shine!
For ten years you have climbed to my cave: you would have been sated with your light and this path, without me, my eagle, and my serpent.
Yet we awaited you every morning, received your overflow, and blessed you in return.
Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that has gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched.
I would give and distribute, until the wise among mankind once more grow joyful in their folly and the poor once more in their wealth.
For that I must descend into the depths: as you do at evening, when you go behind the sea and still bring light to the underworld, you most bountiful star!
Even so must I, like you, go down—though men call it dying—toward those to whom I desire to descend.
So bless me then, you tranquil eye, that can behold even excessive happiness without envy!
Bless the cup that is about to overflow, that its water may flow forth golden, and everywhere bear the reflection of your bliss!
Behold! This cup wants to be emptied again, and Zarathustra wants to become man again.”

— Thus began Zarathustra’s descent.

II.

Zarathustra descended the mountain alone, and no one met him. But when he entered the forests, suddenly an old saint stood before him, who had left his sacred hut to gather roots in the woods. Thus spoke the old man to Zarathustra:

“This wanderer is not unknown to me: many years ago he passed this way.
He was called Zarathustra then; but now he has been transformed.
At that time you carried your ashes to the mountains; today you wish to carry your fire into the valleys? Do you not fear the arsonist’s punishment?
Yes, I recognize Zarathustra. His eye is clear, and no loathing lurks on his lips. Does he not move as if he were a dancer?
Transformed is Zarathustra, he has become a child; Zarathustra is awakened: what do you now seek among the sleepers?
As in the sea you lived in solitude, and the sea bore you. Woe to you, you wish to climb to land? Woe to you, you wish once more to drag your body yourself?”

Zarathustra answered, “I love the people.”

“Why, then,” said the saint, “did I go into the forest and the wasteland? Was it not because I loved the people too much? Now I love God: I no longer love men. Man is for me too imperfect a thing. Love for mankind would kill me.”

Zarathustra replied, “What did I speak of love? I bring mankind a gift.”

“Give them nothing,” said the saint. “Rather, take something from them and carry it with them—that will do them the greatest good, if it does you good! And if you would give them anything, let it be no more than a gift of alms—and let them beg for it! ”

“No,” answered Zarathustra, “I give no alms. For that I am not poor enough.”

The old man laughed at Zarathustra and said, “Then see to it that they accept your treasures! They are suspicious of hermits and do not believe we come to give. Our footsteps sound too lonely in their streets. And when, long before sunrise, they hear a man walking at night in their beds, they wonder: ‘Whither goes the thief?’

“Do not go to men—remain in the forest! Better yet, go to the beasts! Why not be, as I am, a bear among bears, a bird among birds?”

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

The saint answered, “I make songs and sing them, and when I tire of singing, I laugh, weep, and hum: thus I praise God. With singing, weeping, laughing, and humming I praise the God who is my God. But what gift do you bring us?”

When Zarathustra heard these words, he greeted the saint and said, “What have I to give you? But let me be off quickly, that I take nothing from you!” And so they parted—saint and man—laughing like two boys.

But when Zarathustra was alone, he spoke to his heart thus: “Could it be possible! This old saint has heard nothing yet of the fact that God is dead!”

III.

When Zarathustra came to the next town lying at the edge of the woods, he found a great crowd gathered in the marketplace—for it had been promised that one should see a tightrope walker. And Zarathustra spoke thus to the people:

“I teach you the Overman. Man is something to be overcome. What have you done to overcome him?

All beings so far have created something beyond themselves; and would you rather be the ebb of this great flood and go back to the animal than overcome Man?

What is the ape to man? A laughingstock or a painful embarrassment. And even so shall man be to the Overman: a laughingstock or a painful embarrassment.

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

But whoever is the wisest among you is only a crossbreed and a hermaphrodite of plant and ghost. But shall I bid you become ghosts or plants?

Behold, I teach you the Overman!

The Overman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: “The Overman shall be the meaning of the earth!”

I entreat you, my brothers, remain faithful to the earth and do not believe those who speak to you of otherworldly hopes! Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not.

They are lifedespisers, decaying and poisoned, of whom the earth is weary: so let them go under!

Once the sin against God was the greatest sin—but God died, and with Him died the sin against God. To sin against the earth is now the most dreadful sin—and to cherish the unknown higher than the meaning of the earth!

Once the soul gazed contemptuously upon the body—and that contempt was the supreme thing:—it sought to make it lean, horrible, and starved. Thus it thought to flee from itself and from the earth.

O that soul was itself still lean, horrible, and starved; and cruelty was the delight of that soul!

But you too, my brothers, ask me: What does your body say of your soul? Is your soul not poverty and dirt and a pitiable satisfaction?

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

Behold, I teach you the Overman: he is this sea, in whom your great contempt can sink.

What is the greatest thing you can experience? It is the hour of great contempt: the hour in which even your happiness becomes loathsome to you, and likewise your reason and your virtue.

The hour in which you say: “What is happiness to me! It is poverty and dirt and a pitiable satisfaction. Yet let my happiness justify existence itself!”

The hour in which you say: “What is my reason to me! Does it crave knowledge like the lion craves its prey? It is poverty and dirt and a pitiable satisfaction!”

The hour in which you say: “What is my virtue to me! Even it has not yet made me rage. How weary I am of my good and of my evil! All that is poverty and dirt and a pitiable satisfaction!”

The hour in which you say: “What is my justice to me! I see no glow or coal in it. Yet the just man is glow and coal!”

The hour in which you say: “What is my compassion to me! Is not compassion the cross on which he is nailed who loves mankind? But my compassion is no crucifixion.”

Have you ever spoken thus? Have you ever cried out thus? Ah, that I might have heard you cry thus!

Not your sin—your moderation cries to heaven; your stinginess even in your sin cries to heaven!

Where is the lightning that shall lick you with its tongue? Where is the madness with which you must be inoculated?

Behold, I teach you the Overman: he is this lightning, he is this madness!”

When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one called out from the crowd, “We have heard enough of the tightrope walker; now let us also see him!” And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. The tightrope walker, who believed that the words were meant for him, meanwhile prepared for his performance.

IV.

But Zarathustra gazed upon the people and marvelled. Then he spoke thus:

“Man is a rope, tied between beast and Overman—a rope over an abyss.
A dangerous crossing, a dangerous on-the-way, a dangerous looking-back, a dangerous trembling and standing-still.
What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not an end: what can be loved in man is that he is an transition and a falling away.

I love those who do not know how to live unless as those who must perish, for they are the crossers over.
I love the great despisers, for they are the great venerators and arrows of longing for the other shore.
I love those who do not first seek a ground beyond the stars in order to perish and to be sacrifices—but who sacrifice themselves to the earth, that the earth may one day become the Overman’s.
I love him who lives so that he may learn, and who learns so that the Overman may one day live. Thus does he will his own downfall.
I love him who works and invents, that he may build the house for the Overman and prepare earth, beast, and plant for him: thus does he will his own downfall.
I love him who loves his virtue, for virtue is the will towards downfall and an arrow of longing.
I love him who would not keep one drop of spirit for himself, but would be entirely the spirit of his virtue: thus does he stride as spirit across the bridge.
I love him who makes of his virtue his inclination and his necessity: thus, for the sake of his virtue, he still wills to live—and no longer to live.
I love him who will not have too many virtues. One virtue is more virtue than two, for it is more of a knot on which necessity hangs.
I love him whose soul is lavish, who neither desires thanks nor gives back—he always gives and does not wish to preserve himself.
I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall for his happiness and then asks, ‘Am I perhaps a false player?’—for he wills to perish.
I love him who casts golden words before his deeds and yet always keeps more than he promises: for thus does he will his own downfall.
I love him who justifies the future and redeems the past: for thus does he will to perish in the present.
I love him who chastises his god because he loves his god: for thus must he perish by the anger of his god.
I love him whose soul is deep even in its wound, and who can perish through a small experience: thus does he gladly cross the bridge.
I love him whose soul is so overfull that he forgets himself, and all things are in him—so shall all things be his downfall.
I love him who is of free spirit and free heart: thus is his head but the entrail of his heart, and his heart drives him to downfall.
I love all those who are like heavy drops, falling singly from the dark cloud that hangs over man: they proclaim that the lightning is coming, and perish as messengers.

Behold, I am a messenger of the lightning and a heavy drop from the cloud: but this lightning is called Overman.”

V.

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

Must one first shatter their ears before they learn to hear with their eyes? Must one rattle the kettledrums and preach at them? Or do they only believe the stammerer?

They have something of which they are proud. But what do they call that which makes them proud? They call it culture, and it distinguishes them from the goatherds.

Therefore they resent hearing the word ‘contempt’ of themselves. So let me speak to their pride. Let me speak to them of what is most contemptible—that is the Last Man.”

And thus Zarathustra spoke to the people:

“It is time for man to set his goal for himself. It is high time that man sowed the seed of his highest hope.
Yet his soil is still rich enough for this. But this soil will one day grow impoverished and tame, and no lofty tree will ever grow from it again.
Woe! The time is coming when man will no longer fling the arrow of his longing beyond man—and the bowstring will have forgotten how to hiss!
I tell you: one must still have chaos within oneself to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you have no chaos in you.
Woe! The time is coming when man will give birth to no star at all. Woe! The time of the Last Man has come, who can no longer despise himself.

“Behold! I show you the Last Man.
‘What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?’—thus asks the Last Man and blinks.
The earth has then become small, and on it hops the Last Man, who makes everything small. His breed is ineradicable, like the ground-flea; the Last Man lives longest.
‘We have discovered happiness,’—say the Last Men and blink.
They have left the regions where it was hard to live—for they need warmth. They still love their neighbor and rub against him—for they need warmth.
Sickness and distrust are considered sinful; one walks with caution. A fool who still stumbles over stones or people!
A little poison now and then—that makes pleasant dreams. And much poison at last, for a pleasant death.
They no longer work, for work is an irritation; but they guard that the irritation does not injure them.
They no longer become poor or rich—for both are too burdensome. Who would still want to rule? Who to obey? Both are too burdensome.
No shepherd and one herd! Everyone wants the same, everyone is the same: whoever feels different goes voluntarily into the madhouse.
‘Once all the world was crazy,’—say the sanest and blink.
They are clever and know everything that has happened: so there is no end of mockery. They quarrel still but are soon reconciled—lest it spoil their stomach.
They have their little pleasure for the day and their little pleasure for the night—but they honor health.
‘We have discovered happiness,’—say the Last Men and blink.”

And here ended Zarathustra’s first discourse—also called “the Preface”—for at this point the cries and riotous merriment of the crowd interrupted him.

“Give us this Last Man, O Zarathustra!” they cried. “Make us into these Last Men, and then we will grant you the Overman!”

And all the people shouted and clicked their tongues. But Zarathustra grew sad and said to his heart:

“They do not understand me: I am not the mouth for these ears.
Too long have I dwelt in the mountains, too attentively have I listened to brooks and trees: now I speak to them like the goatherds.”

Unmoved is my soul, bright as the midday mountain. But they think me cold and a scoffer in serious jests.

And now they gaze at me and laugh—and in their laughter they hate me still. There is ice in their laughter.

VI.

But then something happened that made every mouth fall silent and every eye grow fixed. Meanwhile the tightrope walker had begun his feat: he stepped out of a small door and walked upon the rope stretched between two towers, hanging over the marketplace and the crowd. And just as he reached the very centre of his path, the little door opened once more, and a colorful fellow, like a buffoon, leapt out and strode swiftly toward the first.

“Onward, you lamefoot!” his coarse voice cried. “Onward, you lazy beast, peddler, pale-face! Let me not have to tickle you with my heel! What are you doing here between towers? You belong in one—behind bars! You bar the free path from someone finer than yourself!”

With every taunt he drew closer and closer; and when he was but a single step behind the walker, the dreadful occurred that made every mouth fall silent and every eye fix in horror—he let out a devilish scream and sprang over him who stood in his way. That man, seeing his rival triumphant, lost both his head and the rope; he cast aside his balancing pole and, whirling arms and legs like a vivid whirlwind, plunged headlong into the depths.

The marketplace and the crowd resembled the sea when a storm rages within it: all fled apart and over one another, most frantic where the body must strike the ground.

Zarathustra, however, stood his ground—and the body fell right beside him, mangled and broken, yet not quite dead. After a while, consciousness returned to the shattered man, and he saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him.

“What are you doing there?” he said at last. “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me. Now he drags me to hell—will you bar his way?”

“By my honour, friend,” replied Zarathustra, “there is no such thing as what you speak of: there is no devil and no hell. Your soul will sooner lie more dead than your body: fear nothing more!”

The man looked up, distrustful. “If you speak the truth,” he said, “then I lose nothing even if I lose my life. I am little more than a beast taught to dance by blows and narrow slits.”

“Not so,” said Zarathustra; “you have made your vocation out of danger, and that is nothing to despise. Now you perish at your vocation: therefore I will bury you with my hands.”

When Zarathustra had said this, the dying man spoke no more; but he moved his hand, as though seeking Zarathustra’s in thanks.

VII.

In the meantime evening fell, and the market hid itself in darkness; the crowd dispersed, for even curiosity and horror grow weary. Zarathustra, however, sat upon the ground beside the dead man, lost in thought—and so he forgot the passing of time.

At last it became night, and a cold wind blew over the lonely pair. Then Zarathustra rose and spoke to his heart:

“Truly, Zarathustra made a fine catch today!
He caught no living man, but he did catch a corpse.
Strange is human existence—and still without meaning: a buffoon may become its doom.
I will teach men the meaning of their being: which is the Overman, the lightning out of the dark cloud Man.
Yet I am still far from them, and my meaning does not speak to their senses. I remain for men but a midpoint between a fool and a corpse.
Dark is the night, dark are Zarathustra’s ways.
Come, you cold and rigid companion! I will carry you to the place where I shall bury you with my hands.”

VIII.

As Zarathustra had thus spoken to his heart, he lifted the corpse upon his back and set out. Not yet a hundred paces had he gone when a man approached him and whispered in his ear—and behold! The speaker was the buffoon from the tower.

“Begone from this town, O Zarathustra,” he said; “too many here hate you. The good and righteous hate you and call you their enemy and despis­er; the faithful of the right faith hate you and call you a danger to the multitude. You were fortunate that they laughed at you—truly, you spoke as a buffoon. You were fortunate to consort with the dead dog; in humbling yourself thus you saved yourself for today. But begone from this town—or tomorrow I will leap over you, a living man over a dead one.”

And with these words the man vanished. Zarathustra went on through the dark streets.

At the city gate he met the gravediggers: they shone a torch in his face, recognized Zarathustra, and mocked him heartily.

“Zarathustra carries off the dead dog—bravo, Zarathustra becomes a gravedigger! For our hands are too clean for this roast. Does Zarathustra intend to steal the devil’s morsel? Well then—good luck with your meal! If only the devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra—he will steal them both, he will devour them both!”

They laughed together and whispered among themselves. Zarathustra said nothing in reply and continued on his way. After two hours of travel, past forests and swamps, he had heard too often the famished howling of wolves, and hunger came upon him. So he paused before a lonely house with a single light burning within.

“Hunger overtakes me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber—in forests and swamps, in the depth of night. Strange whims does my hunger have: often it comes only after the meal, and today it came not all day—where has it been hiding?”

With that, Zarathustra knocked at the door. An old man appeared, holding the lamp, and asked, “Who comes to me and to my sorry sleep?”

“A living man and a dead man,” replied Zarathustra. “Give me food and drink; I forgot them during the day. He who feeds the hungry refreshes his own soul—so says wisdom.”

The old man went away but soon returned with bread and wine. “This is a bad region for the hungry,” he said; “therefore I live here. Beast and man come to me, the hermit. But bid your companion to eat and drink—he is wearier than you.”

Zarathustra answered, “My companion is dead; I can scarcely persuade him to partake.”

“That is no concern of mine,” the old man replied gruffly. “Whoever knocks at my door must also take what I offer. Eat, and fare you well!”

Zarathustra then journeyed another two hours, trusting in the road and the light of the stars—for he was a seasoned night-walker and loved to look into the faces of all sleepers. But when dawn approached, he found himself in a deep forest, and no path remained visible. There he laid the dead man in the hollow of a tree to guard him from wolves—and himself lay down on the ground and the moss. Soon he fell asleep, weary in body but with an undisturbed soul.

IX.

Long did Zarathustra sleep, and not only did the dawn glow upon his face, but the entire morning passed. At last his eye opened: astonished, Zarathustra gazed into the forest and its silence; astonished, he gazed within himself. Then he sprang up like a sailor who suddenly sights land, and he cried aloud—for he had beheld a new truth. Thus he spoke to his heart:

“A light has dawned for me: I need companions, and living ones—
not dead companions and corpses that I carry with me wherever I go.
No, I need living companions who follow me because they wish to follow themselves—and to go wherever I go.
A light has dawned for me: Zarathustra does not speak to the masses, but to companions! Zarathustra shall no longer be shepherd and dog to a herd!
It was my task to lure many away from the herd. Let the herd and the multitude be wrathful with me: Zarathustra will call the shepherds robbers.

“I say ‘shepherds,’ yet they call themselves the good and the righteous.
I say ‘shepherds,’ yet they call themselves the believers in the right faith.

“Behold the good and the righteous! Whom do they hate most?
He who shatters their tablets of values—the breaker, the criminal—that is the creator.

“Behold the believers of every faith! Whom do they hate most?
He who shatters their tablets of values—the breaker, the criminal—that is the creator.

“The creator seeks companions and not corpses, and not herds nor believers. The co-creators the creator seeks, those who write new values upon new tablets.
The creator seeks companions, and those who reap with him—for all is ripe for harvest. Yet he lacks the hundred sickles: so he tears the ears of corn and grows irate.
The creator seeks companions, and those who know how to whet their sickles. They will be called destroyers and despisers of good and evil. But they are the reapers and the celebrants.

“Zarathustra seeks co-creators—those who reap and who celebrate; what has he to do with herds and shepherds and corpses?

“And you, my first companion, fare well! Well have I buried you in your hollow tree; well have I sheltered you from the wolves.
Yet I part from you: the time is ended. Between one dawn and the next a new truth has come to me.
I shall not be a shepherd, nor a gravedigger. I shall no longer speak even to the people; for the last time I spoke to a dead man.
I will join the creator, the reaper, the celebrant: to them will I show the rainbow and all the steps of the Overman.
To the hermits will I sing my song, and to the doubly solitary; and whoever still has ears for the unheard-of, to him will I burden my heart with my happiness.
To my goal will I go; I follow my path. Over the hesitating and the faint-hearted will I leap. So shall my path be their downfall!”

X.

When Zarathustra had spoken this to his heart, the sun stood at its zenith; then he looked up questioningly—for he heard above him the keen cry of a bird. And behold! An eagle wheeled in wide circles through the air, and a snake hung from it—not like prey, but like a friend—for she was coiled about its neck.

“These are my animals!” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced from his heart.
The proudest animal under the sun and the wisest animal under the sun—they have set out on reconnaissance.
They wish to discover whether Zarathustra yet lives. Truly, do I still live?
I found it more perilous among men than among beasts; perilous paths does Zarathustra tread. May my animals guide me!”

As Zarathustra spoke these words, he recalled the words of the saint in the forest, sighed, and thus spoke to his heart:

“Would that I were wiser! Would that I were wise to the core, like my snake!
But I ask the impossible; therefore I beseech my pride that it always walk with my wisdom!
And if ever my wisdom should forsake me—ah, she loves to fly away!—may my pride then yet soar with my foolishness!

— Thus began Zarathustra’s descent.

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