(1844 - 1900)
Thus Spake Zarathustra
sublime one saw I today, a solemn one, a penitent of the
spirit: Oh, how my soul laughed at his ugliness! (thus
O MY soul, I have taught thee to say "today"
as "once on a time" and "formerly," and to dance thy
measure over every Here and There and Yonder.
O my soul, I delivered thee from all by-places,
I brushed down from thee dust and spiders and twilight.
O my soul, I washed the petty shame and
the by-place virtue from thee, and persuaded thee to stand naked before
the eyes of the sun.
With the storm that is called "spirit"
did I blow over thy surging sea; all clouds did I blow away from it; I
strangled even the strangler called "sin."
O my soul, I gave thee the right to say
Nay like the storm, and to say Yea as the open heaven saith Yea: calm
as the light remainest thou, and now walkest through denying storms.
O my soul, I restored to thee liberty over
the created and the uncreated; and who knoweth, as thou knowest, the voluptuousness
of the future?
O my soul, I taught thee the contempt which
doth not come like worm-eating, the great, the loving contempt, which
loveth most where it contemneth most.
O my soul, I taught thee so to persuade
that thou persuadest even the grounds themselves to thee: like the sun,
which persuadeth even the sea to its height.
O my soul, I have taken from thee all obeying
and knee-bending and homage-paying; I have myself given thee the names,
"Change of need" and "Fate."
O my soul, I have given thee new names
and gay-coloured playthings, I have called thee "Fate" and "the
Circuit of circuits" and "the Navel-string of time" and
"the Azure bell."
O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom
to drink all new wines, and also all immemorially old strong wines of
O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee,
and every night and every silence and every longing:- then grewest thou
up for me as a vine.
O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou
now stand forth, a vine with swelling udders and full clusters of brown
golden grapes:-Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance,
and yet ashamed of thy waiting.
O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which
could be more loving and more comprehensive and more extensive! Where
could future and past be closer together than with thee?
O my soul, I have given thee everything,
and all my hands have become empty by thee:- and now! Now sayest thou
to me, smiling and full of melancholy: "Which of us oweth thanks?-Doth
the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Is bestowing not
a necessity? Is receiving not- pitying?"
O my soul, I understand the smiling of
thy melancholy: thine over-abundance itself now stretcheth out longing
Thy fulness looketh forth over raging seas,
and seeketh and waiteth: the longing of over-fulness looketh forth from
the smiling heaven of thine eyes!
And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy
smiling and not melt into tears? The angels themselves melt into tears
through the over-graciousness of thy smiling.
Thy graciousness and over-graciousness,
is it which will not complain and weep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy
smiling for tears, and thy trembling mouth for sobs.
"Is not all weeping complaining? And
all complaining, accusing?" Thus speakest thou to thyself; and therefore,
O my soul, wilt thou rather smile than pour forth thy grief-Than in gushing
tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy fulness, and concerning
the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife!
But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep
forth thy purple melancholy, then wilt thou have to sing, O my soul!-
Behold, I smile myself, who foretell thee this:
-Thou wilt have to sing with passionate
song, until all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing,-Until over
calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, around the gold
of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:-Also many large and
small animals, and everything that hath light marvellous feet, so that
it can run on violet-blue paths,-Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous
bark, and its master: he, however, is the vintager who waiteth with the
diamond vintage-knife,-Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one-
for whom future songs only will find names! And verily, already hath thy
breath the fragrance of future songs,-Already glowest thou and dreamest,
already drinkest thou thirstily at all deep echoing wells of consolation,
already reposeth thy melancholy in the bliss of future songs!- O my soul,
now have I given thee all, and even my last possession, and all my hands
have become empty by thee:- that I bade thee sing, behold, that was my
last thing to give!
That I bade thee sing,- say now, say: which
of us now- oweth thanks?- Better still, however: sing unto me, sing, O
my soul! And let me thank thee!
Thus spake Zarathustra.
qu'on fait n'est jamais compris mais seulement loué ou blâmé.
Nietzsche, Gay Science