"The soul which hath the longest ladder and can step down deepest,
"The vastest soul that can run and stray and rove furthest in its own domain,
"The most necessary soul, that out of desire flingeth itself to chance,
"The stable soul that plungeth into Becoming, the possessing soul that must needs taste of willing and longing,
"The soul that flyeth from itself, and over-taketh itself in the widest circle,
"The wisest soul that folly exhorteth most sweetly,
"The most self-loving soul, in whom all things have their rise, their ebb and flow."
But this is the very idea of Dionysus. Another consideration leads to this idea. The psychological problem presented by the type of Zarathustra is, how can he, who in an unprecedented manner says no, and _acts_ no, in regard to all that which has been affirmed hitherto, remain nevertheless a yea-saying spirit? how can he who bears the heaviest destiny on his shoulders and whose very life-task is a fatality, yet be the brightest and the most transcendental of spirits--for Zarathustra is a dancer? how can he who has the hardest and most terrible grasp of reality, and who has thought the most "abysmal thoughts," nevertheless avoid conceiving these things as objections to existence, or even as objections to the eternal recurrence of existence?--how is it that on the contrary he finds reasons for _being himself_ the eternal affirmation of all things, "the tremendous and unlimited saying of Yea and Amen"?... "Into every abyss do I bear the benediction of my yea to Life." ... But this, once more, is precisely the idea of Dionysus.
7
What language will such a spirit speak, when he speaks unto his soul? The language of the _dithyramb._ I am the inventor of the dithyramb. Hearken unto the manner in which Zarathustra speaks to his soul _Before Sunrise_ (iii. 48). Before my time such emerald joys and divine tenderness had found no tongue. Even the profoundest melancholy of such a Dionysus takes shape as a dithyramb. As an example of this I take "The Night-Song,"--the immortal plaint of one who, thanks to his superabundance of light and power, thanks to the sun within him, is condemned never to love.
"It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul too is a gushing spring.
"It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too is the song of a lover.
"Something unquenched and unquenchable is within me, that would raise its voice. A craving for love is within me, which itself speaketh the language of love.
"Light am I: would that I were night! But this is my loneliness, that I am begirt with light.
"Alas, why am I not dark and like unto the night! How joyfully would I then suck at the breasts of light!
"And even you would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms on high! and be blessed in the gifts of your light.
"But in mine own light do I live, ever back into myself do I drink the flames I send forth.
"I know not the happiness of the hand stretched forth to grasp; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than taking.
"Wretched am I that my hand may never rest from giving: an envious fate is mine that I see expectant eyes and nights made bright with longing.
"Oh, the wretchedness of all them that give! Oh, the clouds that cover the face of my sun! That craving for desire! that burning hunger at the end of the feast!
"They take what I give them; but do I touch their soul? A gulf is there 'twixt giving and taking; and the smallest gulf is the last to be bridged.
"An appetite is born from out my beauty: would that I might do harm to them that I fill with light; would that I might rob them of the gifts I have given:--thus do I thirst for wickedness.
"To withdraw my hand when their hand is ready stretched forth like the waterfall that wavers, wavers even in its fall:--thus do I thirst for wickedness.
"For such vengeance doth my fulness yearn: to such tricks doth my loneliness give birth.
"My joy in giving died with the deed. By its very fulness did my virtue grow weary of itself.
"He who giveth risketh to lose his shame; he that is ever distributing groweth callous in hand and heart therefrom.
"Mine eyes no longer melt into tears at the sight of the suppliant's shame; my hand hath become too hard to feel the quivering of laden hands.
"Whither have ye fled, the tears of mine eyes and the bloom of my heart? Oh, the solitude of all givers! Oh, the silence of all beacons!
"Many are the suns that circle in barren space; to all that is dark do they speak with their light--to me alone are they silent.
"Alas, this is the hatred of light for that which shineth: pitiless it runneth its course.
"Unfair in its inmost heart to that which shineth; cold toward suns,--thus doth every sun go its way.
"Like a tempest do the suns fly over their course: for such is their way. Their own unswerving will do they follow: that is their coldness.
"Alas, it is ye alone, ye creatures of gloom, ye spirits of the night, that take your warmth from that which shineth. Ye alone suck your milk and comfort from the udders of light.
"Alas, about me there is ice, my hand burneth itself against ice!
"Alas, within me is a thirst that thirsteth for your thirst!
"It is night: woe is me, that I must needs be light! And thirst after darkness! And loneliness!
"It is night: now doth my longing burst forth like a spring,--for speech do I long.
"It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul too is a gushing spring.
"It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too is the song of a lover."
8
Such things have never been written, never been felt, never been _suffered:_ only a God, only Dionysus suffers in this way. The reply to such a dithyramb on the sun's solitude in light would be Ariadne. ... Who knows, but I, who Ariadne is! To all such riddles no one heretofore had ever found an answer; I doubt even whether any one had ever seen a riddle here. One day Zarathustra severely determines his life-task--and it is also mine. Let no one misunderstand its meaning. It's a yea-saying to the point of justifying, to the point of redeeming even all that is past.
"I walk among men as among fragments of the future: of that future which I see.
"And all my creativeness and effort is but this, that I may be able to think and recast all these fragments and riddles and dismal accidents into one piece.
"And how could I bear to be a man, if man were not also a poet, a riddle reader, and a redeemer of chance!
"To redeem all the past, and to transform every 'it was' into 'thus would I have it'--that alone would be my salvation!"
In another passage he defines as strictly as possible what to him alone "man" can be,--not a subject for love nor yet for pity--Zarathustra became master even of his loathing of man: man is to him a thing unshaped, raw material, an ugly stone that needs the sculptor's chisel.
"No longer to will, no longer to value, no longer to create! Oh, that this great weariness may never be mine!
"Even in the lust of knowledge, I feel only the joy of my will to beget and to grow; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because my procreative will is in it.
"Away from God and gods did this will lure me: what would there be to create if there were gods?
"But to man doth it ever drive me anew, my burning, creative will. Thus driveth it the hammer to the stone.
"Alas, ye men, within the stone there sleepeth an image for me, the image of all my dreams! Alas, that it should have to sleep in the hardest and ugliest stone!
"_Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison._ From the stone the fragments fly: what's that to me?
"I will finish it: for a shadow came unto me--the stillest and lightest thing on earth once came unto me!
"The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Alas, my brethren! What are the--gods to me now?"
Let me call attention to one last point of view. The line in italics is my pretext for this remark. A Dionysian life-task needs the hardness of the hammer, and one of its first essentials is without doubt the _joy even of destruction._ The command, "Harden yourselves!" and the deep conviction that _all creators are hard,_ is the really distinctive sign of a Dionysian nature.
BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL:
"THE PRELUDE TO A PHILOSOPHY OF THE FUTURE"
1
My work for the years that followed was prescribed as distinctly as possible. Now that the yea-saying part of my life-task was accomplished, there came the turn of the negative portion, both in word and deed: the transvaluation of all values that had existed hitherto, the great war,--the conjuring-up of the day when the fatal outcome of the struggle would be decided. Meanwhile, I had slowly to look about me for my peers, for those who, _out of strength,_ would proffer me a helping hand in my work of destruction. From that time onward, all my writings are so much bait: maybe I understand as much about fishing as most people? If nothing was _caught,_ it was not I who was at fault _There were no fish to come and bite._
2
In all its essential points, this book (1886) is a criticism of _modernity,_ embracing the modern sciences, arts, even politics, together with certain indications as to a type which would be the reverse of modern man, or as little like him as possible, a noble and yea-saying type. In this last respect the book is a _school for gentlemen_--the term _gentleman_ being understood here in a much more spiritual and radical sense than it has implied hitherto. All those things of which the age is proud,--as, for instance, far-famed "objectivity," "sympathy with all that suffers," "the historical sense," with its subjection to foreign tastes, with its lying-in-the-dust before _petits faits,_ and the rage for science,--are shown to be the contradiction of the type recommended, and are regarded as almost ill-bred. If you remember that this book follows upon _Zarathustra,_ you may possibly guess to what system of diet it owes its life. The eye which, owing to tremendous constraint, has become accustomed to see at a great distance,--_Zarathustra_ is even more far-sighted than the Tsar,--is here forced to focus sharply that which is close at hand, the present time, the things that lie about him. In all the aphorisms and more particularly in the form of this book, the reader will find the same _voluntary_ turning away from those instincts which made a _Zarathustra_ a possible feat. Refinement in form, in aspiration, and in the art of keeping silent, are its more or less obvious qualities; psychology is handled with deliberate hardness and cruelty,--the whole book does not contain one single good-natured word.... All this sort of thing refreshes a man. Who can guess the kind of recreation that is necessary after such an expenditure of goodness as is to be found in _Zarathustra_? From a theological standpoint--now pay ye heed; for it is but on rare occasions that I speak as a theologian--it was God Himself who, at the end of His great work, coiled Himself up in the form of a serpent at the foot of the tree of knowledge. It was thus that He recovered from being a God.... He had made everything too beautiful.... The devil is simply God's moment of idleness, on that seventh day.