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58 - Thus Spake Zarathustra - Friedrich Nietzsche · The Philosophy Insights Collection

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  Part three, Chapter fifty eight, The Great Longing, O, my soul,
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  I have taught THEE to say to day as once on a time and
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  formerly, and to dance thy measure over every here and there and yonder.
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  O, my soul I delivered THEE from all by places. I brushed down
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  from THEE dust and spiders and twilight. O my soul I washed the petty's
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  shame and the bye place virtue from THEE, and persuaded THEE to stand naked
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  before the eyes of the sun. With the storm that is called spirit.
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  Did I blow over thy surging sea, all clouds, did I blow away
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  from it? I strangled even the strangler called sin. O my soul I
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  gave THEE the right to say nay like the storm, and to say yea
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  as the open heaven saith, yea calm, as the light remainest thou and
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  thou walkest through, denying storms, O, my soul, I restore to
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  THEE liberty over the created and the uncreated. And who knoweth as thou knowest
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  the voluptuousness of the future. Oh, my soul, I taught THEE the
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  contempt which doth not come like worm eating the great, the loving contempt,
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  which loveth most when it contempteth most. O my soul, I taught THEE
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  so to persuade, that thou persuadest even the grounds themselves to THEE, like
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  the sun, which persuadeth even the sea to its height. O, my
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  soul, I have taken from THEE all obeying and knee bending and homage paying.
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  I have myself given THEE the names change of need and fate, O,
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  my soul, I have given THEE new names and gay colored playthings.
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  I have called THEE fate, and the circuit of circuits, and the navel
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  string of time, and the azure bell. O my soul, to thy
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  domain gave I all wisdom to drink, all new wines, and also all
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  immemorially old strong wines of wisdom, O, my soul, every sun shed
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  eye upon THEE, and every night, and every silence and every longing,
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  then grewest thou up for me as a vine, O, my soul.
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  Exuberant and heavy, dost thou now stand forth a vine with swelling adders and
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  full clusters of brown golden grapes, filled and weighed by thy happiness, waiting
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  for superabundance, and yet ashamed, of thy waiting, O, my soul,
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  there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving, and more comprehensive
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  and more extensive. Where could future and past be closer together than with THEE?
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  O, my soul, I have given THEE everything, and all my
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  hands have become empty by THEE. And now now sayest thou to me,
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  smiling and full of melancholy, which of us oeth? Thanks? Doth the
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  givern not o thanks? Because the receiver received is bestowing, not a necessity,
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  is receiving, not pitying, O, my soul, I understand the
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  smiling of thy melancholy. Thy over abundance itself now stretches out longing hands.
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  Thy fullness looketh forth over raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth the longing of
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  over fullness looketh forth from the smiling heaven of thine eyes. And verily,
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  O, my soul, who could see thy smiling, are not melt into
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  tears. The angels themselves melt into tears through the over graciousness of thy smiling.
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  Thy graciousness, and over graciousness is it which will not complain and weep.
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  And yet, oh, my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears are
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  thy trembling mouth, For sobs is not all weeping, complaining, and all
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  complaining accusing. Thus spaket thou to thyself, and therefore, o my soul,
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  wilt thou rather smile than pour forth thy grief? Then, in gushing
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  tears, pours forth all thy grief concerning thy fullness, and concerning the craving
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  of the vine for the vintager and the vintage knife. But wilt thou not
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  weep? Wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy, Then wilt thou have
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  to sing, O my soul, behold, I smile myself. Who foretell
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  thee this thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn
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  calm into hearkening, unto thy longing, until over calm longing seas the bar
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  glideth the golden marvel, around the gold of which all good, bad and
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  marvelous things frisk also many large and small animals, and everything that hath light
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  marvelous feet, so that it can run on violet blue paths towards the golden
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  marvel. The spontaneous bark and its master. He, however, is the
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  vinteger, who waiteth with the diamond vintage knife, Thy great deliverer, O
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  my soul, the nameless one for whom the future songs only will find names,
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  And verily already hath thy breath a fragrance of future songs. Already glowest
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  thou and dreamst Already drinkest thou thirstily at all deep echoing wills of consolation already
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  reposeth thy melancholy are the bliss of future songs. Oh, my soul.
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  Now have I given THEE all and even my last possession, And all my
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  hands have become empty by THEE that I bade THEE sing. Behold, that
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  was my last thing to give. That I bade THEE sing. Say Now,
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  say which of us now? Oheth? Thanks better? Still, however,
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  sing unto me, sing O my soul, and let me thank THEE.
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  Thus spake Zarathustra end of Part three, chapter fifty eight, and