Latest / The Philosophy Insights Collection / 61 - Thus Spake Zarathustra - Friedrich Nietzsche
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- Fourth and last part Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the follies of the pitiful? Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their pity. Thus spake the devil unto me. Once on a time. Ever, God hath his hell. It is his love for man. And lately did I hear him say these words, God is dead of his pity for man. Hath God died Zarathustra Part two, The Pitiful, Chapter sixty one, the honey Sacrifice. And again passed moons and years over Zarathustra's soul, and he heeded it. Not His hair, however, became white. One day when he sat on a stone in front of his cave and gazed calmly into the distance. One there gazeth out on the sea and away beyond sinuous abysses. Then went his animals thoughtfully round about him, and at last set themselves in front of him. Oh, Zarathustra, they said, gazest thou out, perhaps for thy happiness? Of what account is my happiness? Answered he, I have long ceased to strive any more for happiness. I strive for my work, oh, Zarathustra, said the animals once more, that sayest thou as one who hath over much of good things? Liest thou not in a sky blue lake of happiness? Ye wags, answered Zarathustra, and smiled, how well did ye choose the simile? But ye know also that my happiness is heavy, and not like a fluid wave of water. It presseth me and will not leave me, and is like molten pitch. Then went his animals again thoughtfully around him, and placed themselves once more in front of him. O Zarathustra said they. It is consequently for that reason that thou thyself always becometh yellower and darker, although thy hair looketh white and flaxen. Lo thou sittest in thy pitch? What do ye say, mine, animals, said Zarathustra, laughing verily, I reviled when I spake of pitch, as it happeneth with me. So is it with all fruits that turn ripe. It is the honey in my veins that maketh my blood thicker, and also my soul stiller. So will it be, o Zarathustra answered his animals, and pressed up to him. But wilt thou not to day ascend a high mountain? The air is pure, and to day one seeth more of the world than ever yea mine, animals answered he, ye, counsel admirably, and according to my heart, I will to day ascend a high mountain. But see that honey is there ready to hand, yellow, white, good ice, cool golden comb honey, for know that when aloft, I will make the honey sacrifice. When Zarathustra, however, was aloft on the summit, he sent his animals home that had accompanied him, and found that he was now alone. Then he laughed from the bottom of his heart, looked round him, and spake. Thus that I spake of sacrifices and honey sacrifices. It was merely a ruse in talking, and verily a useful folly. Here aloft, Can I now speak freer than in front of mountain caves and anchorites domestic animals? What to sacrifice? I squander what is given me A squanderer with a thousand hands? How could I call that sacrificing? And when I desired honey, I only di aard bait and sweet mucus and mucilage, for which even the mouths of growling bears and strange sulky evil birds water the best bait, as huntsmen and fishermen require it. For if the world be as a gloomy forest of animals and a pleasure ground for all wild huntsmen, it seemeth to me rather and preferably a fathomless, rich sea, a sea full of many hued fishes and crabs for which even the gods might long and might be tempted to become fishers in it, and casters of nets. So rich is the world in wonderful things great and small, especially the human world, the human sea Towards it? Do I now throw out my golden angle rod and say, open up, thou human abyss, open up and throw unto me thy fish and shining crabs with my best bait. Shall I allure to myself to day the strangest human fish my happiness itself? Do I throw out into all places far and wide, TwixT orient, noontide and occident, to see if many human fish will not learn to hug and tug at my happiness, until biting at my sharp hidden hooks, they have to come up unto my height, the motleyest abyss groundlings, to the wickedest of all fishes of men. For this am I from the heart, and from the beginning, drawing hither, drawing upward, drawing up, bringing a drawer, a trainer, a training master, who not in vain counseled myself once upon a time, become what thou art. Thus may men now come up to me? For as yet do I await the signs that it is time for my down going? As yet do I not myself go down as I must do amongst men? Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high mountains, no impatient one, no patient one, rather one who hath even unlearnt patience, because he no longer suffereth for my fate. Giveth me time it hath forgotten me, perhaps, or doth it sit behind a big stone and catch flies? And verily I am well disposed to mine eternal fate, because it doth not hound and hurry me, but leaveth me time for merriment and mischief, so that I have to day. They ascended this high mountain to catch fish? Did ever anyone catch fish upon high mountains? And though it be a folly. What I here seek and do it is better so than that down below. I should become solemn with waiting, with green and yellow, a posturing wrath snorter, with waiting, a holy howl storm from the mountains, an impatient one that shouteth down into the valleys hearken. Else I will scourge you with the scourge of God. Not that I would have a grudge against such wrathful ones. On that account, they are well enough for laughter to me impatient? Must they now be those big alarm drums which find a voice now or never? Myself, however, and my fate. We do not talk to the present. Neither do we talk to the never. For talking. We have patience and time, and more than time. For one day? Must it yet come and may not pass by? What must one day come and may not pass by? Our great Hazar, that is to say, our great remote human kingdom, the Zarathustra kingdom of a thousand years? How remote may such remoteness be? What doth it concern me? But on that account it is none the less sure unto me with both feet stand I secure on this ground, on an eternal ground, on hard primary rock, on this highest hardest primary mountain ridge, unto which all winds come as unto the storm, parting, asking where and whence and whither here? Laugh, Laugh my hearty, healthy wickedness from high mountains. Cast down thy glittering scorn, laughter, allure for me, with thy glittering the finest human fish, and whatever belongeth unto me in all seas, my in and for me in all things, fish that out for me, Bring that up to me? For that, do I wait, the wickedest of all fish catchers, out out my fishing hook, in and down thou bait of my happiness. Drip thy sweetest dew, Thou honey of my heart, Bite my fishing hook into the belly of all black affliction. Look out, look out mine eye, Oh, how many seas round about me? What dawning human futures? And above me? What rosy red stillness? What uncloud? How did silence end? Chapter sixty one