Zarathustra's Prologue 查拉图斯特拉如是说 尼采

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Zarathustra's Prologue 查拉图斯特拉如是说 尼采

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1891

                    THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA

                    by Friedrich Nietzsche

                  translated by Thomas Common
PROLOGUE

            Zarathustra's Prologue

                   1.

  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 his 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:

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

  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.

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

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

  Like thee must I go down, as men say, to whom I shall descend.

  Bless me, then, thou tranquil eye, that canst behold 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!

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

  Thus began Zarathustra's down-going.

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2.

  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:

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

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

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

  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?"

  Zarathustra answered: "I love mankind."

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

  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."

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

  "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!

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

  "No," replied Zarathustra, "I give no alms. I am 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 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?

  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?"

  "And what doeth the saint 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.

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

  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 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!"

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3.

  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:

  I teach you the Superman. Man is something that is to be
surpassed. What have ye done to surpass man?

  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?

  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.

  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.

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

  Lo, I teach you the Superman!

  The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The
Superman shall he 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.

  Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones
themselves, of whom the earth is weary: 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 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.

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

  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?

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

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

  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 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 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 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 we 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."

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

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

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

  Lo, I teach you 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.

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4.

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

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

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

  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.

  I love those that know not how to live except as down-goers, for
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 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 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 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 him who loveth his virtue: for virtue is the will to
down-going, 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 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 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 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 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 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 him who justifieth the future ones, and redeemeth the past
ones: for he is willing to succumb through the present ones.

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

  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 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 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 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.

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

                   5.

  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.

  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?

  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 dislike, therefore, to hear of 'contempt' of themselves. So I
will appeal to their pride.

  I will speak unto them of the most contemptible thing: that,
however, is the last man!"

  And thus spake Zarathustra unto the people:

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

  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!

  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.

  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.

  Lo! 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.

  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.

  "We have discovered happiness"- say the last men, and blink thereby.

  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.

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

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

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

  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 shepherd, and one herd! Everyone wanteth the same; everyone is
equal: he who hath other sentiments goeth voluntarily into the
madhouse.

  "Formerly all the world was insane,"- say the subtlest of them,
and blink thereby.

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

  "We have discovered happiness,"- say the last men, and blink
thereby.-

  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:

  "They understand me not: I am not the mouth 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.

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

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

                   6.

  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 downward 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.

  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?"

  "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!"

  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."

  "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."

  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.

                   7.

  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:

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

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

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

  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.

  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.

                   8.

  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 tomorrow 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.

  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.

  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
hungry. So he halted at a lonely house in which 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.

  "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?"

  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?"

  "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."

  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!"-

  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.

                   9.

  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:

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

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

  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.

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

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

  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.

  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.

  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.

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

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

  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.

  With the creators, the reapers, and the rejoicers will I
associate: the rainbow will I show them, 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 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!

                   10.

  This had Zarathustra said to his heart when the sun stood at
noon-tide. 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.

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

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

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

  More dangerous have I found it among men than among animals; in
dangerous paths goeth Zarathustra. Let mine 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:

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

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

  Thus began Zarathustra's down-going.