Thus Spake Zarathustra · 11 of 41
Part Two: The Tarantulas to The Night-Song
LO, THIS is the tarantula’s den! Would’st thou see the tarantula itself? Here hangeth its web: touch this, so that it may tremble.
There cometh the tarantula willingly: Welcome, tarantula! Black on thy back is thy triangle and symbol; and I know also what is in thy soul.
Revenge is in thy soul: wherever thou bitest, there ariseth black scab; with revenge, thy poison maketh the soul giddy!
Thus do I speak unto you in parable, ye who make the soul giddy, ye preachers of equality! Tarantulas are ye unto me, and secretly revengeful ones!
But I will soon bring your hiding-places to the light: therefore do I laugh in your face my laughter of the height.
Therefore do I tear at your web, that your rage may lure you out of your den of lies, and that your revenge may leap forth from behind your word “justice.”
Because, for man to be redeemed from revenge- that is for me the bridge to the highest hope, and a rainbow after long storms.
Otherwise, however, would the tarantulas have it. “Let it be very justice for the world to become full of the storms of our vengeance”- thus do they talk to one another.
“Vengeance will we use, and insult, against all who are not like us”- thus do the tarantula-hearts pledge themselves.
“And ‘Will to Equality’- that itself shall henceforth be the name of virtue; and against all that hath power will we raise an outcry!”
Ye preachers of equality, the tyrant-frenzy of impotence crieth thus in you for “equality”: your most secret tyrant-longings disguise themselves thus in virtue-words!
Fretted conceit and suppressed envy- perhaps your fathers’ conceit and envy: in you break they forth as flame and frenzy of vengeance.
What the father hath hid cometh out in the son; and oft have I found in the son the father’s revealed secret.
Inspired ones they resemble: but it is not the heart that inspireth them- but vengeance. And when they become subtle and cold, it is not spirit, but envy, that maketh them so.
Their jealousy leadeth them also into thinkers’ paths; and this is the sign of their jealousy- they always go too far: so that their fatigue hath at last to go to sleep on the snow.
In all their lamentations soundeth vengeance, in all their eulogies is maleficence; and being judge seemeth to them bliss.
But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful!
They are people of bad race and lineage; out of their countenances peer the hangman and the sleuth-hound.
Distrust all those who talk much of their justice! Verily, in their souls not only honey is lacking.
And when they call themselves “the good and just,” forget not, that for them to be Pharisees, nothing is lacking but- power!
My friends, I will not be mixed up and confounded with others.
There are those who preach my doctrine of life, and are at the same time preachers of equality, and tarantulas.
That they speak in favour of life, though they sit in their den, these poison-spiders, and withdrawn from life- is because they would thereby do injury.
To those would they thereby do injury who have power at present: for with those the preaching of death is still most at home.
Were it otherwise, then would the tarantulas teach otherwise: and they themselves were formerly the best world-maligners and heretic-burners.
With these preachers of equality will I not be mixed up and confounded. For thus speaketh justice unto me: “Men are not equal.”
And neither shall they become so! What would be my love to the Superman, if I spake otherwise?
On a thousand bridges and piers shall they throng to the future, and always shall there be more war and inequality among them: thus doth my great love make me speak!
Inventors of figures and phantoms shall they be in their hostilities; and with those figures and phantoms shall they yet fight with each other the supreme fight!
Good and evil, and rich and poor, and high and low, and all names of values: weapons shall they be, and sounding signs, that life must again and again surpass itself!
Aloft will it build itself with columns and stairs- life itself into remote distances would it gaze, and out towards blissful beauties- therefore doth it require elevation!
And because it requireth elevation, therefore doth it require steps, and variance of steps and climbers! To rise striveth life, and in rising to surpass itself.
And just behold, my friends! Here where the tarantula’s den is, riseth aloft an ancient temple’s ruins- just behold it with enlightened eyes!
Verily, he who here towered aloft his thoughts in stone, knew as well as the wisest ones about the secret of life!
That there is struggle and inequality even in beauty, and war for power and supremacy: that doth he here teach us in the plainest parable.
How divinely do vault and arch here contrast in the struggle: how with light and shade they strive against each other, the divinely striving ones.-
Thus, steadfast and beautiful, let us also be enemies, my friends! Divinely will we strive against one another!-
Alas! There hath the tarantula bit me myself, mine old enemy! Divinely steadfast and beautiful, it hath bit me on the finger!
“Punishment must there be, and justice”- so thinketh it: “not gratuitously shall he here sing songs in honour of enmity!”
Yea, it hath revenged itself! And alas! now will it make my soul also dizzy with revenge!
That I may not turn dizzy, however, bind me fast, my friends, to this pillar! Rather will I be a pillar-saint than a whirl of vengeance!
Verily, no cyclone or whirlwind is Zarathustra: and if he be a dancer, he is not at all a tarantula-dancer!-
Thus spake Zarathustra.
THE people have ye served and the people’s superstition- not the truth!- all ye famous wise ones! And just on that account did they pay you reverence.
And on that account also did they tolerate your unbelief, because it was a pleasantry and a by-path for the people. Thus doth the master give free scope to his slaves, and even enjoyeth their presumptuousness.
But he who is hated by the people, as the wolf by the dogs- is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-adorer, the dweller in the woods.
To hunt him out of his lair- that was always called “sense of right” by the people: on him do they still hound their sharpest-toothed dogs.
“For there the truth is, where the people are! Woe, woe to the seeking ones!”- thus hath it echoed through all time.
Your people would ye justify in their reverence: that called ye “Will to Truth,” ye famous wise ones!
And your heart hath always said to itself: “From the people have I come: from thence came to me also the voice of God.”
Stiff-necked and artful, like the ass, have ye always been, as the advocates of the people.
And many a powerful one who wanted to run well with the people, hath harnessed in front of his horses- a donkey, a famous wise man.
And now, ye famous wise ones, I would have you finally throw off entirely the skin of the lion!
The skin of the beast of prey, the speckled skin, and the dishevelled locks of the investigator, the searcher, and the conqueror!
Ah! for me to learn to believe in your “conscientiousness,” ye would first have to break your venerating will.
Conscientious- so call I him who goeth into God-forsaken wildernesses, and hath broken his venerating heart.
In the yellow sands and burnt by the sun, he doubtless peereth thirstily at the isles rich in fountains, where life reposeth under shady trees.
But his thirst doth not persuade him to become like those comfortable ones: for where there are oases, there are also idols.
Hungry, fierce, lonesome, God-forsaken: so doth the lion-will wish itself.
Free from the happiness of slaves, redeemed from deities and adorations, fearless and fear-inspiring, grand and lonesome: so is the will of the conscientious.
In the wilderness have ever dwelt the conscientious, the free spirits, as lords of the wilderness; but in the cities dwell the well-foddered, famous wise ones- the draught-beasts.
For, always do they draw, as asses- the people’s carts!
Not that I on that account upbraid them: but serving ones do they remain, and harnessed ones, even though they glitter in golden harness.
And often have they been good servants and worthy of their hire. For thus saith virtue: “If thou must be a servant, seek him unto whom thy service is most useful!
The spirit and virtue of thy master shall advance by thou being his servant: thus wilt thou thyself advance with his spirit and virtue!”
And verily, ye famous wise ones, ye servants of the people! Ye yourselves have advanced with the people’s spirit and virtue- and the people by you! To your honour do I say it!
But the people ye remain for me, even with your virtues, the people with purblind eyes- the people who know not what spirit is!
Spirit is life which itself cutteth into life: by its own torture doth it increase its own knowledge,- did ye know that before?
And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and consecrated with tears as a sacrificial victim,- did ye know that before?
And the blindness of the blind one, and his seeking and groping, shall yet testify to the power of the sun into which he hath gazed,- did ye know that before?
And with mountains shall the discerning one learn to build! It is a small thing for the spirit to remove mountains,- did ye know that before?
Ye know only the sparks of the spirit: but ye do not see the anvil which it is, and the cruelty of its hammer!
Verily, ye know not the spirit’s pride! But still less could ye endure the spirit’s humility, should it ever want to speak!
And never yet could ye cast your spirit into a pit of snow: ye are not hot enough for that! Thus are ye unaware, also, of the delight of its coldness.
In all respects, however, ye make too familiar with the spirit; and out of wisdom have ye often made an alms-house and a hospital for bad poets.
Ye are not eagles: thus have ye never experienced the happiness of the alarm of the spirit. And he who is not a bird should not camp above abysses.
Ye seem to me lukewarm ones: but coldly floweth all deep knowledge. Ice-cold are the innermost wells of the spirit: a refreshment to hot hands and handlers.
Respectable do ye there stand, and stiff, and with straight backs, ye famous wise ones!- no strong wind or will impelleth you.
Have ye ne’er seen a sail crossing the sea, rounded and inflated, and trembling with the violence of the wind?
Like the sail trembling with the violence of the spirit, doth my wisdom cross the sea- my wild wisdom!
But ye servants of the people, ye famous wise ones- how could ye go with me!-
Thus spake Zarathustra.
’TIS night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
’Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.
Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it longeth to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaketh itself the language of love.
Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light!
Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light!
And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms aloft!- and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.
But I live in mine own light, I drink again into myself the flames that break forth from me.
I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.
It is my poverty that my hand never ceaseth bestowing; it is mine envy that I see waiting eyes and the brightened nights of longing.
Oh, the misery of all bestowers! Oh, the darkening of my sun! Oh, the craving to crave! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety!
They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap ’twixt giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.
A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I illumine; I should like to rob those I have gifted:- thus do I hunger for wickedness.
Withdrawing my hand when another hand already stretcheth out to it; hesitating like the cascade, which hesitateth even in its leap:- thus do I hunger for wickedness!
Such revenge doth mine abundance think of such mischief welleth out of my lonesomeness.
My happiness in bestowing died in bestowing; my virtue became weary of itself by its abundance!
He who ever bestoweth is in danger of losing his shame; to him who ever dispenseth, the hand and heart become callous by very dispensing.
Mine eye no longer overfloweth for the shame of suppliants; my hand hath become too hard for the trembling of filled hands.
Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones!
Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with their light- but to me they are silent.
Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpityingly doth it pursue its course.
Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold to the suns:- thus travelleth every sun.
Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. Their inexorable will do they follow: that is their coldness.
Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light’s udders!
Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me; it panteth after your thirst!
’Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the nightly! And lonesomeness!
’Tis night: now doth my longing break forth in me as a fountain,- for speech do I long.
’Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.
’Tis night: now do all songs of loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.-
Thus sang Zarathustra.