The Superhuman; or, The Man of Sorrows

I love him who is liberal of his virtue and wants not to be thanked for his virtue: for he wants not to remain himself.
I love him who is ashamed that he might be quite exact, and who thus perishes: for he wants to go over.
I love him who is not too zealous in his virtue, - he has virtue over and above him: thus he perishes over his virtue.
I love him who is not too careful of his spirit, - he has his spirit more than himself: thus he perishes by his spirit.
I love him who is ashamed of the dice of fate and wants to know: Am I a trickster?
I love him who scatters his riches and wants to see them again on the dice: for he wants to be beggared of himself.
I love him who falls on his knees, - and wants to be worshipped, - for he is a traveller.
I love him who casts his virtues before his actions, and his actions before his aim: thus he wants to perish by the aim of his virtue.
I love him who loves not his spirit, but is a friend to his own shame: thus he perishes by his love.
I love him who does not wish to be recompensed, because he does not want to remain, - him who gives himself away.
I love him who is ashamed of the dice of fate, and wants to know: Am I a trickster?
I love him who is ashamed that he might be quite exact, and who thus perishes: for he wants to go over.
I love him who is ashamed that he might be quite exact, and who thus perishes: for he wants to go over.
I love him who is ashamed that he might be quite exact, and who thus perishes: for he wants to go over.
I love him who casts his virtues before his actions, and his actions before his aim: thus he wants to perish by the aim of his virtue.
I love him who loves not his spirit, but is a friend to his own shame: thus he perishes by his love.
I love him who does not wish to be recompensed, because he does not want to remain, - him who gives himself away.
I love him who does not wish to be recompensed, because he does not want to remain, - him who gives himself away.
I love him who does not wish to be recompensed, because he does not want to remain, - him who gives himself away.
I love him who is ashamed that he might be quite exact, and who thus perishes: for he wants to go over.
I love him who is ashamed that he might be quite exact, and who thus perishes: for he wants to go over.
I love him who is ashamed that he might be quite exact, and who thus perishes: for he wants to go over.

I love him who loves his virtue: for virtue is the will to pass away, and an arrow of longing.

I love him who does not reserve a drop of spirit for himself, but wants altogether to be the spirit of his virtue: thus he strides over the bridge as spirit.

I love him who makes his inclination and his fate his virtue: thus he wants to live still, and also not to live.

I love him who does not want too many virtues. One virtue is more virtue than two, because it is more a knot on which fate hangs.

I love him whose soul squanders itself, who wants no thanks and gives back not: for he always gives, and wants to preserve himself.

I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall luckily for him, and who then asks: Am I a trickster?
for he wants to perish.

I love him who casts golden words before his deeds, and still holds more than he promises: for he wants to perish.

I love him who justifies the future and redeems the past: for he wants to perish by the present.

I love him who chastises his god, because he loves his god: for he must perish by the wrath of his god.

I love him whose soul is deep, even in contradiction, and who can perish by a small experience: thus he gladly goes over the bridge.

I love him whose soul is over-full, so that he forgets himself, and all things are in him: thus all things will be his passing away.

I love him who is of free spirit and free heart: thus his head is only the entrails of his heart, but his heart drives him to pass away.

I love all who are heavy drops, falling one by one out of the dark cloud that hangs over man: they announce that the lightning comes, and perish as announcers.

Behold, I am an announcer of the lightning, and a heavy drop out of the cloud: but this lightning is called Superman.

— 5. —

When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he looked again at the people and was silent.
“There they stand,” he said to his heart, “there they laugh: they do not understand me, I am not the mouth for these ears.

Must one first break their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes?
Must one clang like kettledrums and penitential preachers?
Or do they only believe the stammerer?

They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that makes them proud?
Culture they call it; it distinguishes them from the goat-herds.

Therefore they unwillingly hear the word thus: ‘Contempt.’
Therefore I will speak to their pride.

Therefore I will speak to them of the most contemptible: but that is THE LAST MAN.

And thus Zarathustra spoke to the people:

It is time for man to set himself a goal.
It is time for man to plant the seed of his highest hope.

His soil is still rich enough for it.
But this soil will one day become poor and tame, and no great tree will be able to grow out of it anymore.

Alas!
The time is coming when man will no longer aim the arrow of his longing beyond man, and the string of his bow will have unlearned to whizz!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in oneself, to be able to give birth to a dancing star.
I tell you: you still have chaos in yourselves.

Alas!
The time is coming when man will give birth to no star anymore.
Alas!
The time of the most contemptible man is coming, who can no longer hold anything in contempt.

Behold!
I show you THE LAST MAN.

“What is love?
What is creation?
What is longing?
What is a star?” — thus asks the last man, and blinks.

The earth has then become small, and on it hops the last man, who makes everything small.
His race is as ineradicable as the earth-flea; the last man lives longest.

“We have invented happiness,” — say the last men, and blink.

They have left the regions where it was hard to live: for one needs warmth.
One still loves the neighbour and rubs himself against him: for one needs warmth.

To be sick and mistrustful is considered sinful by them: one walks carefully.
A fool, who still stumbles over stones or men!

A little poison now and then: that makes for pleasant dreams.
And much poison at the end, for a pleasant death.

One still works, for work is an entertainment.
But one takes care that the entertainment does not attack.

One is no longer poor or rich: both are too much trouble.
Who still wants to rule?
Who still wants to obey?
Both are too much trouble.

No shepherd and one herd!
Everyone wants the same, everyone is the same: whoever feels different goes voluntarily into the madhouse.

“Formerly all the world was mad,” — say the most subtle, and blink.

One is clever and knows everything that has ever happened: so one has no end of scoffing.
One still quarrels, but one soon makes it up — otherwise one spoils one’s digestion.

One has his little pleasure for the day and his little pleasure for the night: but one honors health.

“We have invented happiness,” — say the last men, and blink —

And here ended Zarathustra’s first oration, which is also called “The Discourse:” for at this point the shouting and the delight of the multitude interrupted him.
“Give us this last man, O Zarathustra,—thus they cried,—make us into these last men!
Thus we will give you the Superman!”
And all the people shouted and clicked their tongues.
Zarathustra, however, grew sad and said to his heart:

They do not understand me; I am not the mouth for these ears.

Too long, perhaps, have I lived in the mountains; too much have I listened to brooks and trees: now I speak to them like the goat-herds.

My soul is unmoved and bright like the mountains of the morning.
But they think me cold and a mocker in terrible jests.

And now they look at me and laugh: and while they laugh, they still hate me.
There is ice in their laughter.

— 6. —

But then something happened that made every mouth mute and every eye rigid.
Meanwhile, namely, the rope-dancer had begun his work: he had stepped out of a small door and was walking over the rope which was stretched between two towers, so that it hung over the market-place and the people.
When he was just in the middle of his way, the small door opened once more, and a colorful fellow, like a buffoon, sprang out and went with quick steps after the first.
“Forward, lame-foot!” cried his terrible voice, “forward, sluggish beast, sneak-thief, pale-face!
May I not tickle you with my heel!
What are you doing here between towers?
You belong in a tower, one should lock you up, you block the free way for one better than yourself!”
And at every word he came nearer and nearer to him: but when he was only one step behind him, then happened the terrible thing that made every mouth mute and every eye rigid:—
he uttered a cry like a devil and leaped over him who was in his path!
But he, when he saw his rival thus triumph, lost his head and the rope; he threw away his pole and shot downward faster than it, like a whirl of arms and legs.
The market-place and the people resembled the sea when the storm drives into it: all fled from each other and over each other, and most of all where the body had to fall.

Zarathustra, however, stood still, and right beside him the body fell, badly damaged and broken, but not yet dead.
After a while the crushed man regained consciousness and saw Zarathustra kneeling beside him.
“What are you doing here?” he said at last, “I knew long ago that the devil would trip me.
Now he drags me to hell: will you prevent him?”

“By my honor, friend,” answered Zarathustra, “there is nothing of all that whereof you speak; there is no devil and no hell.
Your soul will be dead even sooner than your body: fear nothing now!”

The man looked up mistrustfully.
“If you speak the truth,” he said then, “I lose nothing when I lose my life.
I am not much more than an animal that has been taught to dance, by blows and narrow crusts of bread.”

“Not at all,” said Zarathustra; “you have made your profession out of danger, there is nothing contemptible in that.
Now you are perishing by your profession: for that I will bury you with my own hands.”

When Zarathustra had said this, the dying man no longer answered; but he moved his hand as if seeking Zarathustra’s hand in thanks.

— 7. —

Meanwhile evening came, and the market-place concealed itself in darkness: then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and horror become tired.
Zarathustra, however, sat on the ground beside the dead man and was lost in thought: thus he forgot the time.
Finally, however, it became night, and a cold wind blew over the lonely one.
Then Zarathustra arose and said to his heart:

Verily, Zarathustra made a fine catch today!
He caught no man, but a corpse.

Human existence is uncanny and still without meaning: a buffoon can become its doom.

I want to teach men the meaning of their existence: which is the Superman, the lightning out of the dark cloud, man.

But I am still far from them, and my meaning speaks not to their meanings.
I am still a middle between a fool and a corpse for men.

Dark is the night, dark are Zarathustra’s ways.
Come, thou cold and rigid companion!
I will carry you, that I may bury you with my hands.

— 8. —

When Zarathustra had said this to his heart, he laid the corpse on his back and set out.
And he had not yet gone a hundred steps, when a man crept up to him and whispered in his ear—and behold! he who spoke was the buffoon from the tower.
“Go away from this city, O Zarathustra,” he said; “too many hate you here.
The good and the righteous hate you, and call you their enemy and despraïser; the believers in the right faith hate you, and call you the danger of the multitude.
Your good fortune was that people laughed at you: and verily, you spoke like a buffoon.
Your good fortune was that you joined yourself to the dead dog; by thus abasing yourself, you saved yourself for today.
But go away from this city—or tomorrow I shall leap over you, a living one over a dead one.”
And when he had said this, the man disappeared; Zarathustra, however, went on through the dark alleys.

At the gate of the city the grave-diggers met him: they shone the torch in his face, recognized Zarathustra, and mocked him greatly.
“Zarathustra carries the dead dog away: bravo that Zarathustra became a grave-digger!
For our hands are too clean for this roast.
Does Zarathustra want to steal the devil’s morsel?
Well then! And good luck with the meal!
If only the devil is not a better thief than Zarathustra!—he steals both, he eats both!”
And they laughed with each other and put their heads together.

Zarathustra said nothing to this and went his way.
When he had gone two hours, past forests and marshes, then he—