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 speaks 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, you cold and stiff companion! I carry you to the place where I shall bury you with my 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 spoke was the buffoon from the tower. “Leave this town, Oh Zarathustra,” said he, “there are too many here who hate you. The good and just hate you, and call you their enemy and despiser; the believers in the orthodox belief hate you, and call you a danger to the multitude. It was your good fortune to be laughed at: and truly you spoke like a buffoon. It was your good fortune to associate with the dead dog; by so humiliating yourself you have saved your life today. Depart, however, from this town, or tomorrow I shall jump over you, 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, recognizing Zarathustra, they sorely derided him. “Zarathustra is carrying away the dead dog: a fine thing that Zarathustra has 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, 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 attacks me,” said Zarathustra, “like a robber. Among forests and swamps my hunger attacks me, and late in the night.”
“Strange humors has my hunger. Often it comes to me only after a repast, and all day it has failed to come: where has it been?”
And thereupon Zarathustra knocked at the door of the house. An old man appeared, who carried a light, and asked: “Who comes 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 feeds the hungry refreshes 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 your companion eat and drink also, he is wearier than you.” Zarathustra answered: “My companion is dead; I shall hardly be able to persuade him to eat.” “That does not concern me,” said the old man sullenly; “he that knocks at my door must take what I offer him. Eat, and fare you 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 sees the land; and he shouted for joy: for he saw a new truth. And he spoke thus to his heart:
“A light has 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 has 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 breaks 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 breaks up their tables of values, the breaker, the lawbreaker – he, however, is the creator.
Companions, the creator seeks, not corpses – and not herds or believers either. Fellow‐creators the creator seeks – those who engrave new values on new tables.
Companions, the creator seeks, and fellow‐reapers: for everything is ripe for the harvest with him. But he lacks the hundred sickles: so he plucks the ears of corn and is vexed.
Companions, the creator seeks, 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 seeks; fellow‐reapers and fellow‐rejoicers, Zarathustra seeks: what has he to do with herds and herdsmen and corpses!
And you, my first companion, rest in peace! Well have I buried you in your hollow tree; well have I hid you from the wolves.
But I part from you; the time has 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 has 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 my animals,” said Zarathustra, and rejoiced in his heart.
“The
