查拉图斯特拉如是说 英文版 Thus Spake Zarathustra
尼采 Friedrich Nietzsche
XXXIX. Poets.
"Since I have known the body better"--said Zarathustra to one of hisdisciples--"the spirit hath only been to me symbolically spirit; and allthe 'imperishable'--that is also but a simile."
"So have I heard thee say once before," answered the disciple, "and thenthou addedst: 'But the poets lie too much.' Why didst thou say that thepoets lie too much?"
"Why?" said Zarathustra. "Thou askest why? I do not belong to those whomay be asked after their Why.
Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced thereasons for mine opinions.
Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have myreasons with me?
It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a birdflieth away.
And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which isalien to me, and trembleth when I lay my hand upon it.
But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too much?--But Zarathustra also is a poet.
Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it?"
The disciple answered: "I believe in Zarathustra." But Zarathustra shookhis head and smiled.--
Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself.
But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lietoo much: he was right--WE do lie too much.
We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie.
And which of us poets hath not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonoushotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing haththere been done.
And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart withthe poor in spirit, especially when they are young women!
And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one anotherin the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us.
And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which CHOKETH UPfor those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in their"wisdom."
This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricketh up his earswhen lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learneth something of thethings that are betwixt heaven and earth.
And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always thinkthat nature herself is in love with them:
And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and amorousflatteries: of this do they plume and pride themselves, before allmortals!
Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only thepoets have dreamed!
And especially ABOVE the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations,poet-sophistications!
Verily, ever are we drawn aloft--that is, to the realm of the clouds: onthese do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them Gods and Supermen:--
Are not they light enough for those chairs!--all these Gods and Supermen?--
Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual!Ah, how I am weary of the poets!
When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented it, but was silent. AndZarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if itgazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath.--
I am of to-day and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in methat is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter.
I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial arethey all unto me, and shallow seas.
They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling didnot reach to the bottom.
Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these haveas yet been their best contemplation.
itmay seem deep.they even bebuffaloes.
Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the jingle-janglingof their harps; what have they known hitherto of the fervour of tones!--
They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that itmay seem deep.
And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediariesand mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!--
Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish; butalways did I draw up the head of some ancient God.
Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves maywell originate from the sea.
Certainly, one findeth pearls in them: thereby they are the more like hardmolluscs. And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime.
They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the peacockof peacocks?
Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it spread out its tail; neverdoth it tire of its lace-fan of silver and silk.
Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh to the sand with itssoul, nigher still to the thicket, nighest, however, to the swamp.
What is beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speakunto the poets.
Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea ofvanity!
Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet--should they even bebuffaloes!--
But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it willbecome weary of itself.
Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towardsthemselves.
Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of thepoets.--
Thus spake Zarathustra.