查拉图斯特拉如是说 英文版 Thus Spake Zarathustra
尼采 Friedrich Nietzsche
XLV. The Wanderer.
Then, when it was about midnight, Zarathustra went his way over the ridgeof the isle, that he might arrive early in the morning at the other coast;because there he meant to embark. For there was a good roadstead there, inwhich foreign ships also liked to anchor: those ships took many peoplewith them, who wished to cross over from the Happy Isles. So whenZarathustra thus ascended the mountain, he thought on the way of his manysolitary wanderings from youth onwards, and how many mountains and ridgesand summits he had already climbed.
I am a wanderer and mountain-climber, said he to his heart, I love not theplains, and it seemeth I cannot long sit still.
And whatever may still overtake me as fate and experience--a wandering willbe therein, and a mountain-climbing: in the end one experienceth onlyoneself.
The time is now past when accidents could befall me; and what COULD nowfall to my lot which would not already be mine own!
It returneth only, it cometh home to me at last--mine own Self, and such ofit as hath been long abroad, and scattered among things and accidents.
And one thing more do I know: I stand now before my last summit, andbefore that which hath been longest reserved for me. Ah, my hardest pathmust I ascend! Ah, I have begun my lonesomest wandering!
He, however, who is of my nature doth not avoid such an hour: the hourthat saith unto him: Now only dost thou go the way to thy greatness!Summit and abyss--these are now comprised together!
Thou goest the way to thy greatness: now hath it become thy last refuge,what was hitherto thy last danger!
Thou goest the way to thy greatness: it must now be thy best courage thatthere is no longer any path behind thee!
Thou goest the way to thy greatness: here shall no one steal after thee!Thy foot itself hath effaced the path behind thee, and over it standethwritten: Impossibility.
And if all ladders henceforth fail thee, then must thou learn to mount uponthine own head: how couldst thou mount upward otherwise?
Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest inthee become the hardest.
He who hath always much-indulged himself, sickeneth at last by his much-indulgence. Praises on what maketh hardy! I do not praise the land wherebutter and honey--flow!
To learn TO LOOK AWAY FROM oneself, is necessary in order to see MANYTHINGS:--this hardiness is needed by every mountain-climber.
He, however, who is obtrusive with his eyes as a discerner, how can he eversee more of anything than its foreground!
But thou, O Zarathustra, wouldst view the ground of everything, and itsbackground: thus must thou mount even above thyself--up, upwards, untilthou hast even thy stars UNDER thee!
Yea! To look down upon myself, and even upon my stars: that only would Icall my SUMMIT, that hath remained for me as my LAST summit!--
Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while ascending, comforting his heartwith harsh maxims: for he was sore at heart as he had never been before.And when he had reached the top of the mountain-ridge, behold, there laythe other sea spread out before him: and he stood still and was longsilent. The night, however, was cold at this height, and clear and starry.
I recognise my destiny, said he at last, sadly. Well! I am ready. Nowhath my last lonesomeness begun.
Ah, this sombre, sad sea, below me! Ah, this sombre nocturnal vexation!Ah, fate and sea! To you must I now GO DOWN!
Before my highest mountain do I stand, and before my longest wandering:therefore must I first go deeper down than I ever ascended:
--Deeper down into pain than I ever ascended, even into its darkest flood!So willeth my fate. Well! I am ready.
Whence come the highest mountains? so did I once ask. Then did I learnthat they come out of the sea.
That testimony is inscribed on their stones, and on the walls of theirsummits. Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.--
Thus spake Zarathustra on the ridge of the mountain where it was cold:when, however, he came into the vicinity of the sea, and at last stoodalone amongst the cliffs, then had he become weary on his way, and eagererthan ever before.
Everything as yet sleepeth, said he; even the sea sleepeth. Drowsily andstrangely doth its eye gaze upon me.
But it breatheth warmly--I feel it. And I feel also that it dreameth. Ittosseth about dreamily on hard pillows.
Hark! Hark! How it groaneth with evil recollections! Or evilexpectations?
Ah, I am sad along with thee, thou dusky monster, and angry with myselfeven for thy sake.
Ah, that my hand hath not strength enough! Gladly, indeed, would I freethee from evil dreams!--
And while Zarathustra thus spake, he laughed at himself with melancholy andbitterness. What! Zarathustra, said he, wilt thou even sing consolation tothe sea?
Ah, thou amiable fool, Zarathustra, thou too-blindly confiding one! Butthus hast thou ever been: ever hast thou approached confidently all thatis terrible.
Every monster wouldst thou caress. A whiff of warm breath, a little softtuft on its paw--: and immediately wert thou ready to love and lure it.
LOVE is the danger of the lonesomest one, love to anything, IF IT ONLYLIVE! Laughable, verily, is my folly and my modesty in love!--
Thus spake Zarathustra, and laughed thereby a second time. Then, however,he thought of his abandoned friends--and as if he had done them a wrongwith his thoughts, he upbraided himself because of his thoughts. Andforthwith it came to pass that the laugher wept--with anger and longingwept Zarathustra bitterly.