查拉图斯特拉如是说 英文版 Thus Spake Zarathustra
尼采 Friedrich Nietzsche
LVIII. The Great Longing.
O my soul, I have taught thee to say "to-day" as "once on a time" and"formerly," and to dance thy measure over every Here and There and Yonder.
O my soul, I delivered thee from all by-places, I brushed down from theedust and spiders and twilight.
O my soul, I washed the petty shame and the by-place virtue from thee, andpersuaded thee to stand naked before the eyes of the sun.
With the storm that is called "spirit" did I blow over thy surging sea; allclouds did I blow away from it; I strangled even the strangler called"sin."
O my soul, I gave thee the right to say Nay like the storm, and to say Yeaas the open heaven saith Yea: calm as the light remainest thou, and nowwalkest through denying storms.
O my soul, I restored to thee liberty over the created and the uncreated;and who knoweth, as thou knowest, the voluptuousness of the future?
O my soul, I taught thee the contempt which doth not come like worm-eating,the great, the loving contempt, which loveth most where it contemneth most.
O my soul, I taught thee so to persuade that thou persuadest even thegrounds themselves to thee: like the sun, which persuadeth even the sea toits height.
O my soul, I have taken from thee all obeying and knee-bending and homage-paying; I have myself given thee the names, "Change of need" and "Fate."
O my soul, I have given thee new names and gay-coloured playthings, I havecalled thee "Fate" and "the Circuit of circuits" and "the Navel-string oftime" and "the Azure bell."
O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom to drink, all new wines, andalso all immemorially old strong wines of wisdom.
O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every silenceand every longing:--then grewest thou up for me as a vine.
O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine withswelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes:--
--Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance, andyet ashamed of thy waiting.
O my soul, there is nowhere a soul which could be more loving and morecomprehensive and more extensive! Where could future and past be closertogether than with thee?
O my soul, I have given thee everything, and all my hands have become emptyby thee:--and now! Now sayest thou to me, smiling and full of melancholy:"Which of us oweth thanks?--
--Doth the giver not owe thanks because the receiver received? Isbestowing not a necessity? Is receiving not--pitying?"--
O my soul, I understand the smiling of thy melancholy: thine over-abundance itself now stretcheth out longing hands!
Thy fulness looketh forth over raging seas, and seeketh and waiteth: thelonging of over-fulness looketh forth from the smiling heaven of thineeyes!
And verily, O my soul! Who could see thy smiling and not melt into tears?The angels themselves melt into tears through the over-graciousness of thysmiling.
Thy graciousness and over-graciousness, is it which will not complain andweep: and yet, O my soul, longeth thy smiling for tears, and thy tremblingmouth for sobs.
"Is not all weeping complaining? And all complaining, accusing?" Thusspeakest thou to thyself; and therefore, O my soul, wilt thou rather smilethan pour forth thy grief--
--Than in gushing tears pour forth all thy grief concerning thy fulness,and concerning the craving of the vine for the vintager and vintage-knife!
But wilt thou not weep, wilt thou not weep forth thy purple melancholy,then wilt thou have to SING, O my soul!--Behold, I smile myself, whoforetell thee this:
--Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm tohearken unto thy longing,--
withswelling udders and full clusters.
--Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, aroundthe gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:--
--Also many large and small animals, and everything that hath lightmarvellous feet, so that it can run on violet-blue paths,--
--Towards the golden marvel, the spontaneous bark, and its master: he,however, is the vintager who waiteth with the diamond vintage-knife,--
--Thy great deliverer, O my soul, the nameless one--for whom future songsonly will find names! And verily, already hath thy breath the fragrance offuture songs,--
--Already glowest thou and dreamest, already drinkest thou thirstily at alldeep echoing wells of consolation, already reposeth thy melancholy in thebliss of future songs!--
O my soul, now have I given thee all, and even my last possession, and allmy hands have become empty by thee:--THAT I BADE THEE SING, behold, thatwas my last thing to give!
That I bade thee sing,--say now, say: WHICH of us now--oweth thanks?--Better still, however: sing unto me, sing, O my soul! And let me thankthee!--
Thus spake Zarathustra.