Latest / Logic Library / 74 - Thus Spake Zarathustra - Friedrich Nietzsche
Transcript
- Part four, Chapter seventy four, The Song of Melancholy One. When Zarathustra spaked these sayings, he stood nigh to the entrance of his cave. With the last words, however, he slipped away from his guests and fled for a little while into the open air. Oh, pure odors around me, cried he, Oh, blessed stillness around me. But where are mine animals? Hither hither mine eagle and my serpent, Tell me mine animals. These higher men, all of them, do they perhaps not smell well, oh pure odors around me? Now only do I know and feel how I love you mine animals. And Zarathustra said once more, I love you mine animals. The eagle, however, and the serpent pressed close to him when he spake these words, and looked up to him. In this attitude were they all three silent together and sniffed and sipped the good air with one another, for the air here outside was better than with the higher men. Two. Hardly, however, had Zarathustra left the cave when the old magician got up, looked cunningly about him, and said, he is gone, And already, ye, hire men, let me tickle you with this complimentary and flattering name, as he himself doeth already, doth mine evil spirit of deceit and magic attack me, my melancholy devil, which is an adversary to this Zarathustra from the very heart. Forgive it for this now? Doth it wish to conjure before you? It hath just its hour in vain do I struggle with this evil spirit. Unto all of you, whatever honors ye like to assume in your names, whether you call yourselves the free spirits or the conscientious, or the penitence of the Spirit, or the unfettered, or the great longers, unto all of you, who like me, suffer from the great loathing to whom the old God hath died, and as yet no new God lieth in cradles and swaddling clothes. Unto all of you, is mine evil spirit and magic devil favorable. I know you, ye higher men, I know him. I know also this fiend whom I love in spite of me, this Zarathustra, he himself often seemeth to me like the beautiful mask of a saint, like a new strange mummery, in which mine evil spirit, the melancholy devil, delighteth I love Zarathustra. So doth it often seem to me for the sake of mine, evil spirit? But already doth it attack me and constrain me, this spirit of melancholy, this evening twilight devil. And verily, ye, higher men, it hath a longing. Open your eyes. It hath a longing to come naked, Whether male or female, I do not yet know, But it cometh. It constraineth me alas open your wits. The day dieth out unto all things cometh now the evening also unto the best things. Hear now, And see, ye, higher men, what devil, man or woman, this spirit of evening melancholy is? Thus spake the old magician looked cunningly about him, and then seized his harp. Three in evening's limpid air, What time the dew soothing unto the earth downpour invisibly and unheard for tender shoe gear, where the soothing dews like all that's kind gentle, bethinkest thou, then bethinkest thou burning heart, How once thou thirstedest for Heaven's kindly tear drops and dew's down droppings, all singed and weary, thirstedest what time on yellow grass pathways, wicked occidental sunny glances through somber trees about thee sportid blindingly sunny glow glances, gladly hurting of truth. The Wooer thou so taunted, They nay merely poet, a brute, insidious, plundering, groveling that I must lie, that wittingly, wilfully I must lie for booty lusting Motley, masked self hidden, shrouded himself his booty, He of truth, the Wooer, Nay mere fool, mere poet, Just Motley speaking from mass, fool confusedly shouting, circumambling on fabricated word bridges on Motley rainbow arches TwixT the spurious, heavenly and spurious earthly round us, roving round us, soaring, mere fool, mere poet, he of truth, the Wooer not still stiff, smooth and cold, become an image, a godlike statue set up in front of temples, as a God's own door guard. Nay hostile to all such truthfulness statues in every desert, homelier than at temples, with cattish wantonness through every window, leaping quickly into chances, every wild forest, a sniffing, greedily longing, sniffing that Thou in wild forests, among the motley speckled, fierce creatures, shouldest rove sinful sound and fine colored, with longing lips, smacking, blessedly mocking, blessedly hellish, blessedly bloodthirsty, robbing, skulking, lying, roving, or unto eagles like which fixedly long adown the precipice. Look adown there, precipice. Oh, how they whirl down now thereunder therein to ever deeper profoundness, whirling then sudden with aim, aright, with quivering flight on Lambkin's pouncing headlong down, sore, hungry for Lambkin's longing, fierce against all the lamb spirits, furious, fierce, all that look sheeplike or lamb eyed, or crisp wooly gray, with lamb sheep kindliness, even thus eagle like panther like. Are the poet's desires? Are thine own desires need thousand guises. Thou fool, thou poet, Thou who all mankind viewest so God as sheep, the God to rend within mankind as the sheep in mankind and in rending, laughing, that that is thine own blessedness of a panther an eagle, blessedness of a poet, and fool, the blessedness in evening's limpid air, What time the moon sickle green TwixT the purple glowings, and jealous stealeth forth of day the foe with every step in secret the rosy garland hammocks down, sickling till they've sunken down night words faded down, sunken. Thus had I sunken one day from mine own truth, insanity, from mine own fervid day longings of day, a weary sick of sunshine, sunk downwards, even words shadow words by one soul trueness, all scorched and thirsty, bethinkest thou still bethinkest thou burning heart? How then thou thirstedest that I should band be from all the trueness, mere fool, mere poet. End of Part four, Chapter seventy four