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Mine eagle is awake, and like me honoureth the sun. With eagle-talons doth it grasp at the new light. Ye are my proper animals; I love you.
But still do I lack my proper men!”—
Thus spake Zarathustra; then, however, it happened that all on a sudden he became aware that he was flocked around and fluttered around, as if by innumerable birds,—the whizzing of so many wings, however, and the crowding around his head was so great that he shut his eyes. And verily, there came down upon him as it were a cloud, like a cloud of arrows which poureth upon a new enemy. But behold, here it was a cloud of love, and showered upon a new friend.
“What happeneth unto me?” thought Zarathustra in his astonished heart, and slowly seated himself on the big stone which lay close to the exit from his cave. But while he grasped about with his hands, around him, above him and below him, and repelled the tender birds, behold, there then happened to him something still stranger: for he grasped thereby unawares into a mass of thick, warm, shaggy hair; at the same time, however, there sounded before him a roar,—a long, soft lion-roar.
“THE SIGN COMETH,” said Zarathustra, and a change came over his heart. And in truth, when it turned clear before him, there lay a yellow, powerful animal at his feet, resting its head on his knee,—unwilling to leave him out of love, and doing like a dog which again findeth its old master. The doves, however, were no less eager with their love than the lion; and whenever a dove whisked over its nose, the lion shook its head and wondered and laughed.
When all this went on Zarathustra spake only a word: “MY CHILDREN ARE NIGH, MY CHILDREN”—, then he became quite mute. His heart, however, was loosed, and from his eyes there dropped down tears and fell upon his hands. And he took no further notice of anything, but sat there motionless, without repelling the animals further. Then flew the doves to and fro, and perched on his shoulder, and caressed his white hair, and did not tire of their tenderness and joyousness. The strong lion, however, licked always the tears that fell on Zarathustra’s hands, and roared and growled shyly. Thus did these animals do.—
All this went on for a long time, or a short time: for properly speaking, there is NO time on earth for such things—. Meanwhile, however, the higher men had awakened in Zarathustra’s cave, and marshalled themselves for a procession to go to meet Zarathustra, and give him their morning greeting: for they had found when they awakened that he no longer tarried with them. When, however, they reached the door of the cave and the noise of their steps had preceded them, the lion started violently; it turned away all at once from Zarathustra, and roaring wildly, sprang towards the cave. The higher men, however, when they heard the lion roaring, cried all aloud as with one voice, fled back and vanished in an instant.
Zarathustra himself, however, stunned and strange, rose from his seat, looked around him, stood there astonished, inquired of his heart, bethought himself, and remained alone. “What did I hear?” said he at last, slowly, “what happened unto me just now?”
But soon there came to him his recollection, and he took in at a glance all that had taken place between yesterday and to-day. “Here is indeed the stone,” said he, and stroked his beard, “on IT sat I yester-morn; and here came the soothsayer unto me, and here heard I first the cry which I heard just now, the great cry of distress.
O ye higher men, YOUR distress was it that the old soothsayer foretold to me yester-morn,—
—Unto your distress did he want to seduce and tempt me: ‘O Zarathustra,’ said he to me, ‘I come to seduce thee to thy last sin.’
To my last sin?” cried Zarathustra, and laughed angrily at his own words: “WHAT hath been reserved for me as my last sin?”
—And once more Zarathustra became absorbed in himself, and sat down again on the big stone and meditated. Suddenly he sprang up,—
“FELLOW-SUFFERING! FELLOW-SUFFERING WITH THE HIGHER MEN!” he cried out, and his countenance changed into brass. “Well! THAT—hath had its time!
My suffering and my fellow-suffering—what matter about them! Do I then strive after HAPPINESS? I strive after my WORK!
Well! The lion hath come, my children are nigh, Zarathustra hath grown ripe, mine hour hath come:—
This is MY morning, MY day beginneth: ARISE NOW, ARISE, THOU GREAT NOONTIDE!”—
Thus spake Zarathustra and left his cave, glowing and strong, like a morning sun coming out of gloomy mountains.
I have had some opportunities of studying the conditions under which Nietzsche is read in Germany, France, and England, and I have found that, in each of these countries, students of his philosophy, as if actuated by precisely similar motives and desires, and misled by the same mistaken tactics on the part of most publishers, all proceed in the same happy-go-lucky style when “taking him up.” They have had it said to them that he wrote without any system, and they very naturally conclude that it does not matter in the least whether they begin with his first, third, or last book, provided they can obtain a few vague ideas as to what his leading and most sensational principles were.
Now, it is clear that the book with the most mysterious, startling, or suggestive title, will always stand the best chance of being purchased by those who have no other criteria to guide them in their choice than the aspect of a title-page; and this explains why “Thus Spake Zarathustra” is almost always the first and often the only one of Nietzsche’s books that falls into the hands of the uninitiated.
The title suggests all kinds of mysteries; a glance at the chapter-headings quickly confirms the suspicions already aroused, and the sub-title: “A Book for All and None”, generally succeeds in dissipating the last doubts the prospective purchaser may entertain concerning his fitness for the book or its fitness for him. And what happens?
“Thus Spake Zarathustra” is taken home; the reader, who perchance may know no more concerning Nietzsche than a magazine article has told him, tries to read it and, understanding less than half he reads, probably never gets further than the second or third part,—and then only to feel convinced that Nietzsche himself was “rather hazy” as to what he was talking about. Such chapters as “The Child with the Mirror”, “In the Happy Isles”, “The Grave-Song,” “Immaculate Perception,” “The Stillest Hour”, “The Seven Seals”, and many others, are almost utterly devoid of meaning to all those who do not know something of Nietzsche’s life, his aims and his friendships.
