[4]Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
[4]Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
[5]Campo Santo di Staglieno is the cemetery of Staglieno, near Genoa. The poem was inspired by the sight of a girl with a lamb on the tombstone, with the words underneath— "Pia, caritatevole, amorosissima."
[5]Campo Santo di Staglieno is the cemetery of Staglieno, near Genoa. The poem was inspired by the sight of a girl with a lamb on the tombstone, with the words underneath— "Pia, caritatevole, amorosissima."
[6]Published by Nietzsche himself. The poem was inspired by a ship that was christenedAngiolina,in memory of a love-sick girl who leapt into the sea.—TR.
[6]Published by Nietzsche himself. The poem was inspired by a ship that was christenedAngiolina,in memory of a love-sick girl who leapt into the sea.—TR.
[7]See above, p. 157. Both poems were inspired by the same tombstone.—TR.
[7]See above, p. 157. Both poems were inspired by the same tombstone.—TR.
[8]The Genoese is Nietzsche himself, who lived a great part of his life at Genoa.—TR.
[8]The Genoese is Nietzsche himself, who lived a great part of his life at Genoa.—TR.
[9]Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
[9]Translated by Herman Scheffauer.
CAUTION: POISON![1]He who cannot laugh at this had better not start reading;For if he read and do not laugh, physic he'll be needing!HOW TO FIND ONE'S COMPANYWith jesters it is good to jest:Who likes to tickle, is tickled best.THE WORDI dearly love the living word,That flies to you like a merry bird,Ready with pleasant nod to greet,E'en in misfortune welcome, sweet,Yet it has blood, can pant you deep:Then to the dove's ear it will creep:And curl itself, or start for flight—Whate'er it does, it brings delight.Yet tender doth the word remain,Soon it is ill, soon well again:So if its little life you'd spare,O grasp it lightly and with care,Nor heavy hand upon it lay,For e'en a cruel glance would slay!There it would lie, unsouled, poor thing!All stark, all formless, and all cold,Its little body changed and battered,By death and dying rudely shattered.A dead word is a hateful thing,A barren, rattling, ting-ting-ting.A curse on ugly trades I cryThat doom all little words to die!THE WANDERER AND HIS SHADOWA BookYou'll ne'er go on nor yet go back?Is e'en for chamois here no track?So here I wait and firmly claspWhat eye and hand will let me grasp!Five-foot-broad ledge, red morning's breath,And under me—world, man, and death!JOYFUL WISDOMThis is no book—for such, who looks?Coffins and shrouds, naught else, are books!What's dead and gone they make their prey,Yet in my book lives fresh To-day.This is no book—for such, who looks?Who cares for coffins, shrouds, and spooks?This is a promise, an act of will,A last bridge-breaking, for good or ill;A wind from sea, an anchor light,A whirr of wheels, a steering right.The cannon roars, white smokes its flame,The sea—the monster—laughs and scents its game.DEDICATION[2]He who has much to tell, keeps muchSilent and unavowed.He who with lightning-flash would touchMust long remain a cloud!THE NEW TESTAMENT[3]Is this your Book of Sacred Lore,For blessing, cursing, and such uses?—Come, come now: at the very doorGod some one else's wife seduces?THE "TRUE GERMAN""O Peuple des meillures Tartuffes,To you I'm true, I wis."He spoke, but in the swiftest skiffWent to Cosmopolis.TO THE DARWINIANS[4]A fool this honest BritisherWas not ... But a Philosopher!Asthatyou really rate him?Set Darwin up by Goethe's side?But majesty you thus deride—Genii majestatem!To HAFIZ(Toast Question of a Water-Drinker)What you have builded, yonder inn,O'ertops all houses high:The posset you have brewed thereinThe world will ne'er drink dry.The bird that once appeared on earthAs phœnix, is your, guest.The mouse that gave a mountain birthIs you yourself confessed!You're all and naught, you're inn and wine,You're phœnix, mountain, mouse.Back to yourself to come you pineOr fly from out your house.Downward from every height you've sunk,And in the depths still shine:The drunkenness of all the drunk,Why do you ask for—wine?TO SPINOZAOf "All in One" a fervent devoteeAmore Dei,of reasoned piety,Doff shoes! A land thrice holy this must be!—Yet underneath this love there sateA torch of vengeance, burning secretlyThe Hebrew God was gnawed by Hebrew hate.Hermit! Do I aright interpret thee?ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUERThat which he taught, has had its day,That which he lived, shall live for aye:Look at the man! No bondsman he!Nor e'er to mortal bowed his knee!TO RICHARD WAGNERO You who chafe at every fetter's link,A restless spirit, never free:Who, though victorious aye, in bonds still cowered,Disgusted more and more, and flayed and scoured,Till from each cup of balm you poison drink,Alas! and by the Cross all helpless sink,You too, you too, among the overpowered!For long I watched this play so weirdly shaped,Breathing an air of prison, vault, and dread,With churchly fragrance, clouds of incense spread,And yet I found all strange/in terror gaped.But now I throw my fool's cap o'er my head,For I escaped!MUSIC OF THE SOUTH[5]All that my eagle e'er saw clear,I see and feel in heart to-day(Although my hope was wan and gray)Thy song like arrow pierced mine ear,A balm to touch, a balm to hear,As down from heaven it winged its way.So now for lands of southern fireTo happy isles where Grecian nymphs hold sport!Thither now turn the ship's desire—No ship e'er sped to fairer port.A RIDDLEA riddle here—can you the answer scent?"When man discovers, woman must invent."——TO FALSE FRIENDSYou stole, your eye's not clear to-day.You only stole a thought, sir? nay,Why be so rudely modest, pray?Here, take another handful—stay,Take all I have, you swine—you mayEat till your filth is purged away.FRIEND YORICKBe of good cheer,Friend Yorick! If this thought gives pain,As now it does, I fear,Is it not "God"? And though in error lain,'Tis but your own dear child,Your flesh and blood,That tortures you and gives you pain,Your little rogue and do-no-good,See if the rod will change its mood!In brief, friend Yorick, leave that drearPhilosophy—and let me nowWhisper one word as medicine,My own prescription, in your ear,My remedy against such spleen—"Who loves his God, chastises him, I ween,"RESOLUTIONI should be wise to suit my mood,Not at the beck of other men:God made as stupid as he couldThe world—well, let me praise him then.And if I make not straight my track,But, far as may be, wind and bend,That's how the sage begins his tack,And that is how the fool will—end.* * * * *The world stands never still,Night loves the glowing day—Sweet sounds to ear "I will!"And sweeter still "I may!"THE HALCYONIAN[6]Addressing me most bashfully,A woman to-day said this:"What would you be like in ecstasy,If sober you feel such bliss?"FINALE[6]Laughter is a serious art.I would do it better daily.Did I well to-day or no?Came the spark right from the heart?Little use though head wag gaily,If the heart contain no glow.
[1]Translated by Francis Bickley.
[1]Translated by Francis Bickley.
[2]On the title-page of a copy ofJoyful Wisdom,dedicated to Herr August Bungal.—TR.
[2]On the title-page of a copy ofJoyful Wisdom,dedicated to Herr August Bungal.—TR.
[3]Translated by Francis Bickley.
[3]Translated by Francis Bickley.
[4]Translated by Francis Bickley.
[4]Translated by Francis Bickley.
[5]Probably written for Peter Gast, Nietzsche's faithful friend, and a musician whose "Southern" music Nietzsche admired.—TR.
[5]Probably written for Peter Gast, Nietzsche's faithful friend, and a musician whose "Southern" music Nietzsche admired.—TR.
[6]Translated by Francis Bickley.
[6]Translated by Francis Bickley.
These are the songs of Zarathustra which he sang to himself so as to endure his last solitude.
OF THE POVERTY OF THE RICHESTTen years passed by—Not a drop reached me,No rain-fraught wind, no dew of love—A rainless land....Now entreat I my wisdomNot to become stingy in this drought;Overflow thyself, trickle thy dew,Be thyself the rain of the parched wilderness!I once bade the cloudsDepart from my mountains;Once I said to them,"More light, ye dark ones!"To-day I entice them to come:Make me dark with your udders:—I would milk you,Ye cows of the heights!Milk-warm wisdom, sweet dew of loveI pour over the land.Away, away, ye truthsThat look so gloomy!I will not have on my mountainsBitter, impatient truths.May truth approach me to-dayGilded by smiles,Sweetened by the sun, browned by love,—A ripe truth I would fain break off from the tree.To-day I stretch my handsToward the tresses of chance,Wise enough to lead,To outwit chance like a child.To-day I will be hospitable'Gainst the unwelcome,'Gainst destiny itself I will not be prickly....—Zarathustra is no hedgehog.My soul,Insatiable with its tongue,Has already tasted of all things good and evil,And has dived into all depths.But ever, like the cork,It swims to the surface again,And floats like oil upon brown seas:Because of this soul men call me fortunate.Who are my father and mother?Is not my father Prince Plenty?And my mother Silent Laughter?Did not the union of these twoBeget me, the enigmatic beast—Me, the monster of light—Me, Zarathustra, the squanderer of all wisdom?Sick to-day from tenderness,A dewy wind,Zarathustra sits waiting, waiting on his mountains—Sweet and stewingIn his own juice,Beneath his own summit,Beneath his ice,Weary and happy,A Creator on his seventh day.—Silence!A truth passes over meLike a cloud,—With invisible lightnings it strikes me,On broad, slow stairs,Its happiness climbs to me:Come, come, beloved truth!—Silence!'Tismytruth!From timid eyes,From velvet shudders,Her glance meets mine,Sweet and wicked, a maiden's glance.She has guessed the reason of my happiness,She has guessed me—ha! what is she thinking?A purple dragonLurks in the abyss of her maiden's glance.—Silence! My truth is speaking!—"Woe to thee, Zarathustra!Thou lookest like oneThat hath swallowed gold:They will slit up thy belly yet!Thou art too rich,Thou corrupter of many!Thou makest too many jealous,Too many poor....Even on me thy light casts a shadow—I feel chill: go away, thou rich oneGo away, Zarathustra, from the path of thy sunBETWEEN BIRDS OF PREYWho would here descend,How soonIs he swallowed up by the depths!But thou, Zarathustra,Still lovest the abysses,Lovest them as doth the fir tree!The fir flings its rootsWhere the rock itself gazesShuddering at the depths,—The fir pauses before the abyssesWhere all aroundWould fain descend:Amid the impatienceOf wild, rolling, leaping torrentsIt waits so patient, stern and silent,Lonely....Lonely!Who would ventureHere to be guest—To be thy guest?A bird of prey, perchanceJoyous at others' misfortune,Will cling persistentTo the hair of the steadfast watcher,With frenzied laughter,A vulture's laughter....Wherefore so steadfast?—Mocks he so cruel:He must have wings, who loves the abyss,He must not stay on the cliff,As thou who hangest there!—O Zarathustra,Cruellest Nimrod!Of late still a hunter of God,A spider's web to capture virtue,An arrow of evil!NowHunted by thyself,Thine own preyCaught in the grip of thine own soul.NowLonely to me and thee,Twofold in thine own knowledge,Mid a hundred mirrorsFalse to thyself,Mid a hundred memoriesUncertain,Weary at every wound,Shivering at every frost,Throttled in thine own noose,Self-knower!Self-hangman!Why didst bind thyselfWith the noose of thy wisdom?Why luredst thyselfInto the old serpent's paradise?Why stolest intoThyself, thyself?...A sick man now,Sick of serpent's poison,A captive nowWho hast drawn the hardest lot:In thine own shaftBowed as thou workest,In thine own cavernDigging at thyself,Helpless quite,Stiff,A cold corseOverwhelmed with a hundred burdens,Overburdened by thyself,A knower!A self-knower!The wise Zarathustra!...Thou soughtest the heaviest burden,So foundest thou thyself,And canst not shake thyself off....Watching,Chewing,One that stands upright no more!Thou wilt grow deformed even in thy grave,Deformed spirit!And of late still so proudOn all the stilts of thy pride!Of late still the godless hermit,The hermit with one comrade—the devil,The scarlet prince of every devilment!...Now—Between two nothingsHuddled up,A question-mark,A weary riddle,A riddle for vultures....They will "solve" thee,They hunger already for thy "solution,"They flutter already about their "riddle,"About thee, the doomed one!O Zarathustra,Self-knower!Self-hangman!THE SUN SINKSINot much longer thirstest thou,O burnt-up heart!Promise is in the air,From unknown mouths I feel a breath,—The great coolness comes....My sun stood hot above me at noonday:A greeting to you that are coming,Ye sudden winds,Ye cool spirits of afternoon!The air is strange and pure.See how the nightLeers at me with eyes askance,Like a seducer!...Be strong, my brave heart,And ask not "Why?"2The day of my life!The sun sinks,And the calm floodAlready is gilded.Warm breathes the rock:Did happiness at noondayTake its siesta well upon it?In green lightHappiness still glimmers up from the brown abyssDay of my life!Eventide's nigh,Thy eye alreadyGlows half-broken,Thy dew alreadyPours out its tear-drops,Already over the white seasWalks the purple of thy love,Thy last hesitating holiness....3Golden gaiety, come!Thou, the sweetest foretaste—Foretaste of death!—Went I my way too swiftly?Now that the foot grows weary,Thine eye still catches me,Thy happiness still catches me.Around but waves and play.Whatever was hard—Sank into blue oblivion.My boat now stands idle.Storm and motion—how did it forget them!Desire and Hope are drowned,Sea and soul are becalmed.Seventh Solitude!Never felt!Sweet certainty nearer,Or warmer the sun's ray.—Glows not the ice of my summit yet?Silvery, light, a fishNow my vessel swims out....THE LAST DESIRE[1]So would I dieAs then I saw him die,The friend, who like a godInto my darkling youthThrew lightning's light and fire:Buoyant yet deep was he,Yea, in the battle's strifeWith the gay dancer's heart.Amid the warriorsHis was the lightest heart,Amid the conquerorsHis brow was dark with thought—He was a fate poised on his destiny:Unbending, casting thought into the pastAnd future, such was he.Fearful beneath the weight of victory,Yet chanting, as both victory and deathCame hand and hand to him.Commanding even as he lay in death,And his command that man annihilate.So would I dieAs then I saw him die,Victorious and destroying.THE BEACONHere, where the island grew amid the seas,A sacrificial rock high-towering,Here under darkling heavens,Zarathustra lights his mountain-fires,A beacon for ships that have strayed,A beacon for them that have an answer!...These flames with grey-white belly,In cold distances sparkle their desire,Stretches its neck towards ever purer heights—A snake upreared in impatience:This signal I set up there before me.This flame is mine own soul,Insatiable for new distances,Speeding upward, upward its silent heat.Why flew Zarathustra from beasts and men?Why fled he swift from all continents?Six solitudes he knows already—But even the sea was not lonely enough for him,On the island he could climb, on the mount hebecame flame,At the seventh solitudeHe casts a fishing-rod far o'er his head.Storm-tossed seamen! Wreckage of ancient starsYe seas of the future! Uncompassed heavens!At all lonely ones I now throw my fishing-rod.Give answer to the flame's impatience,Let me, the fisher on high mountains,Catch my seventh, last solitude!——FAME AND ETERNITY[2]ISpeak, tell me, how long wilt thou broodUpon this adverse fate of thine?Beware, lest from thy doleful moodA countenance90dark is brewedThat men in seeing thee divineA hate more bitter than the brine.* * * *Speak, why does Zarathustra roamUpon the towering mountain-height?Distrustful, cankered, dour, his homeIs shut so long from human sight?* * * *See, suddenly flames forth a lightning-flash,The pit profound with thunderous challenge fightsAgainst the heavens, midst clamorous crack and crashOf the great mountain! Cradled in the heights,Born as the fruit of hate and lightning's love,The wrath of Zarathustra dwells aboveAnd looms with menace of a thundercloud.* * * *Ye, who have roofs, go quickly, creep and hide!To bed, ye tenderlings! For thunders loudUpon the blasts of storm triumphant ride,And bastions and ramparts sway and rock,The lightning sears the dusky face of night,And eerie truths like gleams of Hades mockThe sense familiar. So in storm breaks forthThe flaming curse of Zarathustra's wrath.2This fame, which all the wide world loves,I touch with gloves,And scorning beatBeneath my feet.* * * *Who hanker after the pay of it?Who cast themselves in the way of it?These prostitutes to gold,These merchant folk. They foldTheir unctuous palms over the jingling fame,Whose ringing chink wins all the world's acclaim.* * * *Hast thou the lust to buy? It needs no skill.They are all venal. Let thy purse be deep,And let their greedy paws unhindered creepInto its depths. So let them take their fill,For if thou dost not offer them enough,Their "virtue" they'll parade, to hide their huff.* * * *They are all virtuous, yea every one.Virtue and fame are ever in accordSo long as time doth run,The tongues that prate of virtue as rewardEarn fame. For virtue is fame's clever bawd.* * * *Amongst these virtuous, I prefer to beOne guilty of all vile and horrid sin!And when I see fame's importunitySo advertise her shameless harlotry,Ambition turns to gall. Amidst such kinOne place alone, the lowest, would I win.* * * *This fame, which all the wide world loves,I touch with gloves,And scorning beatBeneath my feet.3Hush! I see vastness!—and of vasty thingsShall man be dumb, unless he can enshrineThem with his words? Then take the might which bringsThe heart upon thy tongue, charmed wisdom mine!* * * *I look above, there rolls the star-strown sea.O night, mute silence, voiceless cry of stars!And lo! A sign! The heaven its verge unbars—A shining constellation falls towards me.4O loftiest, star-clustered crown of Being!O carved tablets of Eternity!And dost thou truly bend thy way to me?Thy loveliness, to all—obscurity,What? Fear'st not to unveil beforemyseeing?* * * *O shield of Destiny!O carven tablets of Eternity!Yea, verily, thou knowest—what mankind doth hate,What I alone do love: thou art inviolateTo strokes of change and time, of fates the fate!'Tis only thou, O dire Necessity,Canst kindle everlasting love in me!* * * *O loftiest crown of Life! O shield of Fate!That no desire can reach to invocate,That ne'er defiled or sullied is by Nay,Eternal Yea of life, for e'er am I thy Yea:For I love thee, Eternity!
[1]Translated by Dr. G. T. Wrench.
[1]Translated by Dr. G. T. Wrench.
[2]Translated by Dr. G. T. Wrench.
[2]Translated by Dr. G. T. Wrench.
SPEECHES, PARABLES, AND SIMILES
3My home's in the highlands,For the highlands I yearn not,I raise not mine eyes aloft:I am one that looks downward,One that must bless,—Allblessers look downward.11Thus I began,I unlearned all self-pity!13Not in shattering idols,But in shattering the idol-worshipper in thee,Consisted thy valour.14See, there standThose heavy cats of granite,Those old, old Values.Woe is me! How overthrow them?* * * *Scratching cats,With paws that are fettered,There they sitAnd their glance is poison.17A lightning-flash became my wisdom:With sword of adamant it clove me everydarkness!19A thought that stillFlows hot, like lava:But all streams of lavaBuild a fortress around them,And every thought finallyOppresses itself with laws.20Such is my will:And since 'tis my will,All goes as I wish—That was my final wisdom:I willed what I must,And thus I forced every "must,"—Since then has been for me no "must."23DeceitIs war's whole artThe fox's skinIs my secret shirt of mail25We of the new underworldGrub for new treasures.Godless it seemed to the ancientsTo disturb the earth's bowels for treasuresAnd once more this godlessness revives,Hear ye not earth's bowels thunder?28Looking for love and finding masks,Finding accursed masks and having to break them!29Do I love you?Yes, as the rider loves his steed,That carryeth him to his goal.30His pity is cruel,His loving hand-clasp bruises,Give not a giant your hand!31Ye fear me?Ye fear the taut-strung bow?Ye fear a man might set his arrow to the bow?33I am naught but a word-maker.What matter words?What matter I?34Ah, my friends,Whither has flown all that is called "good"?Whither all good people?Whither the innocence of all these falsehoods?I call all good,Leaves and grass, happiness, blessing, and rain.35Not through his sins and greatest follies.Through his perfection I suffered,As I suffered most from men.[1]36"Man is evil."So spake the wisestFor my consolement.37And only when I to myself am a burdenDo ye fall heavy upon me!38Too soon, alreadyI laugh again:For a foe 'tis easyTo make me amends.39Gentle am I towards man and chance;Gentle with all men, and even with grasses:A spot of sunshine on winter curtains,Moist with tenderness,A thawing wind to snow-bound souls:* * * *Proud-minded towards triflingGains, where I see the huckster's long finger,'Tis aye my pleasureTo be bamboozled:Such is the bidding of my fastidious taste.40A strange breath breathes and spits at me,Am I a mirror, that straightway is clouded?41Little people,Confiding, open-hearted,But low-built portals,Where only the low of stature can enter.* * * *How can I get through the city-gateWho had forgotten to live among dwarfs?42My wisdom was like to the sun,I longed to give them light,But I only deceived them.The sun of my wisdomBlinded the eyesOf these poor bats....43Blacker and eviller things didst thou see than evera seer did:Through the revels of Hell no sage had everjourneyed.44Back! on my heels too closely ye follow!Back! lest my wisdom should tread on you, crushyou!45"He goes to hell who goes thy ways!"So be it I to my hellI'll pave the way myself with well-made maxims.46Your God, you tell me,Is a God of love?The sting of conscienceA sting from God?A sting of love?48They chew gravel,They lie on their belliesBefore little round things,They adore all that falleth not down—These last servants of GodBelievers (in reality)!50They made their God out of nothing,What wonder if now he is naught?51Ye loftier men! There have once beenMore thoughtful times, more reflective,Than is our to-day and to-morrow.52Our time is like a sick woman—Let her but shriek, rave, scold,And break the tables and dishes!54Ye mount?Is it true that ye mount,Ye loftier men?Are ye not, pray,Like to a ballSped to the heightsBy the lowest that's in you?Do ye not flee from yourselves, O ye climbers?55All that you thoughtYou had to despise,Where you only renounced!56All men repeat the refrain!No, no, and thrice say No!What's all this yap-yap talk of heaven?We would not enter the kingdom of heaven,The kingdom of earth shall be ours?57The will redeemeth,He that has nothing to doIn a Nothing finds food for trouble.58You cannot endure it more,Your tyrannous destiny,Love it—you're given no choice!59These alone free us from woes(Choose now I)Sudden deathOr long-drawn-out love.60Of death we are sure,So why not be merry?61The worst of pleasI have hidden from you—that life grew tedious!Throw it away, that ye find it again to your taste!62Lonely days,Ye must walk on valorous feet!63LonelinessPlants naught, it ripens....And even then you must have the sun for yourfriend.64Once more must ye plunge in the throng—Inthe throng ye grow hard and smooth.Solitude withersAnd lastly destroys.—65When on the hermit comes the great fear;When he runs and runsAnd knows not whither;When the storms roar behindAnd the lightning bears witness against him,And his cavern breeds spectresAnd fills him with dread.67Throw thy pain in the depths,Man, forget! Man, forget!Divine is the art of forgetting!Wouldst fly?Wouldst feel at home in the heights?Throw thy heaviest load in the sea!Here is the sea, hurl thyself in the sea!Divine is the art of forgetting!69Look forward, never look back!We sink to the depthsIf we peer ever into the depths.70Beware, bewareOf warning the reckless!Thy warning will drive themTo leap into every abyss!71Why hurled he himself from the heights?What led him astray?His pity for all that is lowly led him astray,And now he lies there, broken, useless, and cold.72Whither went he? Who knows?We only know that he sank.A star went out in the desolate void,And lone was the void.73What we have notBut need,We must take.And so a good conscience I took.74Who is there that could bestow right upon thee?So take thy right!75O ye waves,Wondrous waves, are ye wroth with me?Do ye raise me your crests in wrath?With my rudder I smiteYour folly full square.This bark ye yourselvesTo immortal life will carry along.77When no new voice was heard,Ye made from old wordsA law:When life grows stark, there shoots up the law.78What none can refuteYe say must be true?Oh, ye innocents!79Art thou strong?Strong as an ass? Strong as God?Art thou proud?So proud as to flauntUnashamed thy conceit?80Beware,And ne'er beat the drumOf thy destiny IGo out of the wayFrom all pom-pom of fame!* * * *Be not known too soon!Be one that has hoarded renown!81Wilt thou grasp at the thorns?Thy fingers must pay.Grasp at a poniard.85Be a tablet of gold,They will grave upon theeIn golden script.86Upright he standsWith more sense of "justice"In his outermost toeThan I have in all my head.A virtue-monsterMantled in white.87Already he mimics himself,Already weary he grows,Already he seeks the paths he has trod—Who of late still loved all tracks untrodden!Secretly burnt—Not for his faith,Rather because he had lost the heartTo find new faith.88Too long he sat in the cage,That runaway!Too long he dreadedA gaoler!Timorous now he goeth his ways,All things make him to stumble—The shadow e'en of a stick makes him to stumble.89Ye chambers smoky and musty,Ye cages and narrow hearts,How could your spirit be free?90Narrow souls!Huckster-souls!When money leaps into the boxThe soul leaps into it too![2]92Are ye women,That ye wish to sufferFrom that which ye love?99They are cold, these men of learning!Would that a lightning-flash might strike their food,And their mouths could learn to eat fire!101Your false loveFor the past,A love for the graves of the dead,Is a theft from lifeThat steals all the future.* * * *An antiquaryIs a craftsman of dead things,Who lives among coffins and skeletons.103Only the poet who can lieWilfully, skilfully,Can tell the truth.104Our chase after truth,Is't a chase after happiness?105TruthIs a woman, no better,Cunning in her shame:Of what she likes bestShe will know naught,And covers her face....To what doth she yieldBut to violence?Violence she needs.Be hard, ye sages!Ye must compel her,That shamefaced Truth....For her happinessShe needs constraint—Sheis a woman, no better.106We thought evil of each other?We were too distant,But now in this tiny hut,Pinned to one destiny,How could we still be foes?We must needs love thoseWhom we cannot escape.107Love thy foe,Let the robber rob thee:The woman hears and—does it.110A proud eyeWith silken curtains,Seldom clear,Honours him that may see it unveiled.111Sluggard eyesThat seldom love—But when they love, the levin flashesAs from shafts of goldWhere a dagger keeps guard at the treasure of love.117They are crabs, for whom I have no fellow-feeling.Grasp them, they pinch you;Leave them alone, and they walk backward.119Crooked go great rivers and men,Crooked, but turned to their goal;That is their highest courage,They dreaded not crooked paths.121Wouldst catch them?Then speak to themAs to stray sheep:"Your path, your pathYou have lost!"They follow allThat flatter them so:"What? had we a path?"Each whispers the other:"It really seems that we have a path."
[The numbering given corresponds to that of the original, several fragments having been omitted.—TR.]
[1]Nietzsche here alludes to Christian perfection, which he considers equivalent to harmlessness.—TR.
[1]Nietzsche here alludes to Christian perfection, which he considers equivalent to harmlessness.—TR.
[2]Alluding to the saying of the Dominican monk Tetzel, who sold indulgences in the time of Luther: "When money leaps into the box, the soul leaps from hell to heaven!"—TR.
[2]Alluding to the saying of the Dominican monk Tetzel, who sold indulgences in the time of Luther: "When money leaps into the box, the soul leaps from hell to heaven!"—TR.
For Chorus and Orchestra.WORDS BY LOU SALOMÉ. MUSIC BY FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.Trans.BY HERMAN SCHEFFAUER.Arr. for PianoBY ADRIAN COLLINS. M.A.