LITMIR.BIZ

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thou wouldst be a star, thou must shine for them none the less on that account!

      And be on thy guard against the good and just! They would fain crucify those who devise their own virtue – they hate the lonesome ones.

      Be on thy guard, also, against holy simplicity! All is unholy to it that is not simple; fain, likewise, would it play with the fire – of the fagot and stake.

      And be on thy guard, also, against the assaults of thy love! Too readily doth the recluse reach his hand to any one who meeteth him.

      To many a one mayest thou not give thy hand, but only thy paw; and I wish thy paw also to have claws.

      But the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou thyself always be; thou waylayest thyself in caverns and forests.

      Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to thyself! And past thyself and thy seven devils leadeth thy way!

      A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard and a sooth-sayer, and a fool, and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain.

      Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own flame; how couldst thou become new if thou have not first become ashes!

      Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the creating one: a God wilt thou create for thyself out of thy seven devils!

      Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the loving one: thou lovest thyself, and on that account despisest thou thyself, as only the loving ones despise.

      To create, desireth the loving one, because he despiseth! What knoweth he of love who hath not been obliged to despise just what he loved!

      With thy love, go into thine isolation, my brother, and with thy creating; and late only will justice limp after thee.

      With my tears, go into thine isolation, my brother. I love him who seeketh to create beyond himself, and thus succumbeth. —

      Thus spake Zarathustra.

      XVIII. OLD AND YOUNG WOMEN

      “Why stealest thou along so furtively in the twilight, Zarathustra? And what hidest thou so carefully under thy mantle?

      Is it a treasure that hath been given thee? Or a child that hath been born thee? Or goest thou thyself on a thief’s errand, thou friend of the evil?” —

      Verily, my brother, said Zarathustra, it is a treasure that hath been given me: it is a little truth which I carry.

      But it is naughty, like a young child; and if I hold not its mouth, it screameth too loudly.

      As I went on my way alone to-day, at the hour when the sun declineth, there met me an old woman, and she spake thus unto my soul:

      “Much hath Zarathustra spoken also to us women, but never spake he unto us concerning woman.”

      And I answered her: “Concerning woman, one should only talk unto men.”

      “Talk also unto me of woman,” said she; “I am old enough to forget it presently.”

      And I obliged the old woman and spake thus unto her:

      Everything in woman is a riddle, and everything in woman hath one solution – it is called pregnancy.

      Man is for woman a means: the purpose is always the child. But what is woman for man?

      Two different things wanteth the true man: danger and diversion. Therefore wanteth he woman, as the most dangerous plaything.

      Man shall be trained for war, and woman for the recreation of the warrior: all else is folly.

      Too sweet fruits – these the warrior liketh not. Therefore liketh he woman; – bitter is even the sweetest woman.

      Better than man doth woman understand children, but man is more childish than woman.

      In the true man there is a child hidden: it wanteth to play. Up then, ye women, and discover the child in man!

      A plaything let woman be, pure and fine like the precious stone, illumined with the virtues of a world not yet come.

      Let the beam of a star shine in your love! Let your hope say: “May I bear the Superman!”

      In your love let there be valour! With your love shall ye assail him who inspireth you with fear!

      In your love be your honour! Little doth woman understand otherwise about honour. But let this be your honour: always to love more than ye are loved, and never be the second.

      Let man fear woman when she loveth: then maketh she every sacrifice, and everything else she regardeth as worthless.

      Let man fear woman when she hateth: for man in his innermost soul is merely evil; woman, however, is mean.

      Whom hateth woman most? – Thus spake the iron to the loadstone: “I hate thee most, because thou attractest, but art too weak to draw unto thee.”

      The happiness of man is, “I will.” The happiness of woman is, “He will.”

      “Lo! now hath the world become perfect!” – thus thinketh every woman when she obeyeth with all her love.

      Obey, must the woman, and find a depth for her surface. Surface, is woman’s soul, a mobile, stormy film on shallow water.

      Man’s soul, however, is deep, its current gusheth in subterranean caverns: woman surmiseth its force, but comprehendeth it not. —

      Then answered me the old woman: “Many fine things hath Zarathustra said, especially for those who are young enough for them.

      Strange! Zarathustra knoweth little about woman, and yet he is right about them! Doth this happen, because with women nothing is impossible?

      And now accept a little truth by way of thanks! I am old enough for it!

      Swaddle it up and hold its mouth: otherwise it will scream too loudly, the little truth.”

      “Give me, woman, thy little truth!” said I. And thus spake the old woman:

      “Thou goest to women? Do not forget thy whip!” —

      Thus spake Zarathustra.

      XIX. THE BITE OF THE ADDER

      One day had Zarathustra fallen asleep under a fig-tree, owing to the heat, with his arms over his face. And there came an adder and bit him in the neck, so that Zarathustra screamed with pain. When he had taken his arm from his face he looked at the serpent; and then did it recognise the eyes of Zarathustra, wriggled awkwardly, and tried to get away. “Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “as yet hast thou not received my thanks! Thou hast awakened me in time; my journey is yet long.” “Thy journey is short,” said the adder sadly; “my poison is fatal.” Zarathustra smiled. “When did ever a dragon die of a serpent’s poison?” – said he. “But take thy poison back! Thou art not rich enough to present it to me.” Then fell the adder again on his neck, and licked his wound.

      When Zarathustra once told this to his disciples they asked him: “And what, O Zarathustra, is the moral of thy story?” And Zarathustra answered them thus:

      The destroyer of morality, the good and just call me: my story is immoral.

      When, however, ye have an enemy, then return him not good for evil: for that would abash him. But prove that he hath done something good to you.

      And rather be angry than abash any one! And when ye are cursed, it pleaseth me not that ye should then desire to bless. Rather curse a little also!

      And should a great injustice befall you, then do quickly five small ones besides. Hideous to behold is he on whom injustice presseth alone.

      Did ye ever know this? Shared injustice is half justice. And he who can bear it, shall take the injustice upon himself!

      A small revenge is humaner than no revenge at all. And if the punishment be not also a right and an honour to the transgressor, I do not like your punishing.

      Nobler is it to own oneself in the wrong than to establish one’s right, especially if one be in the right. Only, one must be rich enough to do so.

      I

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