Thus Spake Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche [top fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

Who warm’th me, who lov’th me still?
Give ardent fingers!
Give heartening charcoal-warmers!
Prone, outstretched, trembling,
Like him, half dead and cold, whose feet one warm’th⁠—
And shaken, ah! by unfamiliar fevers,
Shivering with sharpened, icy-cold frost-arrows,
By thee pursued, my fancy!
Ineffable! Recondite! Sore-frightening!
Thou huntsman ’hind the cloud-banks!
Now lightning-struck by thee,
Thou mocking eye that me in darkness watcheth:
—Thus do I lie,
Bend myself, twist myself, convulsed
With all eternal torture,
And smitten
By thee, cruellest huntsman,
Thou unfamiliar⁠—God⁠ ⁠…

Smite deeper!
Smite yet once more!
Pierce through and rend my heart!
What mean’th this torture
With dull, indented arrows?
Why look’st thou hither,
Of human pain not weary,
With mischief-loving, godly flash-glances?
Not murder wilt thou,
But torture, torture?
For why⁠—me torture,
Thou mischief-loving, unfamiliar God?⁠—

Ha! Ha!
Thou stealest nigh
In midnight’s gloomy hour?⁠ ⁠…
What wilt thou?
Speak!
Thou crowdst me, pressest⁠—
Ha! now far too closely!
Thou hearst me breathing,
Thou o’erhearst my heart,
Thou ever jealous one!
—Of what, pray, ever jealous?
Off! Off!
For why the ladder?
Wouldst thou get in?
To heart in-clamber?
To mine own secretest
Conceptions in-clamber?
Shameless one! Thou unknown one!⁠—Thief!
What seekst thou by thy stealing?
What seekst thou by thy hearkening?
What seekst thou by thy torturing?
Thou torturer!
Thou⁠—hangman-God!
Or shall I, as the mastiffs do,
Roll me before thee? And cringing, enraptured, frantical,
My tail friendly⁠—waggle!

In vain!
Goad further!
Cruellest goader!
No dog⁠—thy game just am I,
Cruellest huntsman!
Thy proudest of captives,
Thou robber ’hind the cloud-banks⁠ ⁠…
Speak finally!
Thou lightning-veiled one! Thou unknown one! Speak!
What wilt thou, highway-ambusher, from⁠—me?
What wilt thou, unfamiliar⁠—God?
What?
Ransom-gold?
How much of ransom-gold?
Solicit much⁠—that bid’th my pride!
And be concise⁠—that bid’th mine other pride!

Ha! Ha!
Me⁠—wantst thou? me?
—Entire?⁠ ⁠…

Ha! Ha!
And torturest me, fool that thou art,
Dead-torturest quite my pride?
Give love to me⁠—who warm’th me still?
Who lov’th me still?⁠—
Give ardent fingers,
Give heartening charcoal-warmers,
Give me, the lonesomest,
The ice (ah! sevenfold frozen ice,
For very enemies,
For foes, doth make one thirst),
Give, yield to me,
Cruellest foe,
—Thyself!⁠⸺

Away!
There fled he surely,
My final, only comrade,
My greatest foe,
Mine unfamiliar⁠—
My hangman-God!⁠ ⁠…

—Nay!
Come thou back!
With all of thy great tortures!
To me the last of lonesome ones,
Oh, come thou back!
All my hot tears in streamlets trickle
Their course to thee!
And all my final hearty fervour⁠—
Up-glow’th to thee!
Oh, come thou back,
Mine unfamiliar God! my pain!
My final bliss!

—Here, however, Zarathustra could no longer restrain himself; he took his staff and struck the wailer with all his might. “Stop this,” cried he to him with wrathful laughter, “stop this, thou stage-player! Thou false coiner! Thou liar from the very heart! I know thee well!

“I will soon make warm legs to thee, thou evil magician: I know well how⁠—to make it hot for such as thou!”

—“Leave off,” said the old man, and sprang up from the ground, “strike me no more, O Zarathustra! I did it only for amusement!

“That kind of thing belongeth to mine art. Thee thyself, I wanted to put to the proof when I gave this performance. And verily, thou hast well detected me!

“But thou thyself⁠—hast given me no small proof of thyself: thou art hard, thou wise Zarathustra! Hard strikest thou with thy ‘truths,’ thy cudgel forceth from me⁠—this truth!”

—“Flatter not,” answered Zarathustra, still excited and frowning, “thou stage-player from the heart! Thou art false: why speakest thou⁠—of truth!

“Thou peacock of peacocks, thou sea of vanity; what didst thou represent before me, thou evil magician; whom was I meant to believe in when thou wailedst in such wise?”

“The penitent in spirit,” said the old man, “it was him⁠—I represented; thou thyself once devisedst this expression⁠—

“⁠—The poet and magician who at last turneth his spirit against himself, the transformed one who freezeth to death by his bad science and conscience.

“And just acknowledge it: it was long, O Zarathustra, before thou discoveredst my trick and lie! Thou believedst in my distress when thou heldest my head with both thy hands⁠—

“⁠—I heard thee lament ‘we have loved him too little, loved him too little!’ Because I so far deceived thee, my wickedness rejoiced in me.”

“Thou mayest have deceived subtler ones than I,” said Zarathustra sternly. “I am not on my guard against deceivers; I have to be without precaution: so willeth my lot.

“Thou, however⁠—must deceive: so far do I know thee! Thou must ever be equivocal, trivocal, quadrivocal, and quinquivocal! Even what thou hast now confessed, is not nearly true enough nor false enough for me!

“Thou bad false coiner, how couldst thou do otherwise! Thy very malady wouldst thou whitewash if thou showed thyself naked to thy physician.

“Thus didst thou whitewash thy lie before me when thou saidst: ‘I did so only for amusement!’ There was also seriousness therein, thou art something of a penitent-in-spirit!

“I divine thee well: thou hast become the enchanter of all the world; but for thyself thou hast no lie or artifice left⁠—thou art disenchanted to thyself!

“Thou hast reaped disgust as thy one truth. No word in thee is any longer genuine, but thy mouth is so: that is to say, the disgust that cleaveth unto thy mouth.”⁠⸺

—“Who art thou at all!” cried here the old magician with defiant voice, “who dareth to speak thus unto me, the greatest man now living?”⁠—and a green flash shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But immediately after he changed, and said sadly:

“O Zarathustra, I am weary of it, I am disgusted with mine arts, I am not great, why do I dissemble! But thou knowest it well⁠—I sought for greatness!

“A great man I wanted to appear, and persuaded many; but the lie hath been beyond my power. On it do I collapse.

“O Zarathustra, everything is a lie in me; but that I collapse⁠—this my collapsing is genuine!”⁠—

“It honoureth thee,” said Zarathustra gloomily, looking down with sidelong glance, “it honoureth thee that thou soughtest for greatness, but it betrayeth thee also. Thou art not great.

“Thou bad old magician, that is the best and the honestest thing I honour in thee, that thou hast become weary of thyself, and hast expressed it: ‘I am not great.’

“Therein do I honour thee as a penitent-in-spirit, and although only for the twinkling of an eye, in that one moment wast thou⁠—genuine.

“But tell me, what seekest thou here in my forests and rocks? And if thou hast put thyself in my way, what proof of me wouldst thou have?⁠—

“⁠—Wherein didst thou