53 - Thus Spake Zarathustra - Friedrich Nietzsche

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Part 3, Chapter 52, The Return Home

Oh, Lonsomeness, my home, Lonsomeness.

Too long have I loved wildly in world remoteness, to return to thee without tears.

Now threaten me with the finger as mother's threaten.

Now smile upon me as mother's smile.

Now say just, who was it that like a whirlwind once rushed away from me?

Who, when departing called out, too long have I sat with Lonsomeness, there have

I unlearned silence, that has thou learned now, surely?

Oh, Zyustra, everything do I know, and that thouvert more forsaken amongst them many,

thou unique one, than thou eververt with me.

One thing is for sickness.

The matter is Lonsomeness.

That has thou now learned, and that amongst men thou wilt ever be wild and strange, wild

and strange, even when they love thee, for above all they want to be treated indulgently.

Here however, arch thou at home, and house with thyself, here can stow utter everything,

and unbuzzle all motives.

Nothing is here ashamed of concealed, conjued feelings.

Here do all things come caressingly to thy talk and flatter thee, for they want to ride

upon thy back.

On every smile, thou stow here, ride to every truth.

Up rightly and openly, may it thou hear talk to all things, and verily, it sounds as

praise in their ears, for one to talk to all things directly.

The matter, however, is for sickness, for thus thou remember O Zarathustra.

When thy bird screamed overhead, when thou stoodest in the forest, your resolute ignorance

where to go, beside the corpse, when thou speakest, that mine animals lead me, more dangerous

have I found it among men than among animals, that was forsakenness.

And thus thou remember O Zarathustra, when thou satest in thine eye, a well of wine giving

and granting amongst empty buckets, bestowing and disturbing amongst the thirsty.

For at last thou alone satest thirsty among the drunken ones, and willed nightly, is

taking not more blessed than giving and stealing yet more blessed than taking, that was forsakenness.

And thus thou remember O Zarathustra, when thy silly hour came and drove thee forth from

thy self, when with wicked whispering it said, speak and succumb.

When it disgusted thee with all thy waiting and silence, and discouraged thy humble

courage, that was forsakenness, O lonsumness, my home lonsumness, how blessed and tenderly

speakest thy voice unto me.

We do not question each other, we do not complain to each other, we go together openly through

open doors, for all is open with thee and clear, and even the hours run here on lighter

feet, for in the dark time waited heavier upon one than in the light.

Here fly open unto me all beings' words and word cabinets, here all being wanted to

become words, here all becoming wanted to learn of me how to talk.

Down there however, all talking is in vain, there forgetting and passing by are the best

wisdom that have I learned now.

We who would understand everything in man must handle everything, but for that I have

two clean hands.

I do not like even to inhale their breath alas, that I have lived so long among their nose

and bad breaths, oh blessed stillness around me, oh pure odors around me, oh pure odors

around me, how from a deep breast this stillness fetches pure breath, how it harkens this blessed

stillness, but down there there speaketh everything, there is everything misheard, if one announce

one's wisdom with bells, the shopmen in the marketplace will outgingle it with pennies.

Everything among them talketh, no one knows any longer how to understand.

Everything falleth into the water, nothing falleth any longer into deep worlds.

Everything among them talketh, nothing succeeds any longer and accomplisheth itself.

Everything crackled, but who will still sit quietly on the nest and hatch eggs?

Everything among them talketh, everything is outtalked, and that which yesterday was

still too hard for time itself, and its tooth, hangeth today, outchempt, and outchewed

from the mounts of the men of today.

Everything among them talketh, everything is betrayed, and what was once called the secret

and secrecy of profound souls, belongedeth today to the street trumpeters and other butterflies.

O human hubbub, that wonderful thing, down noise in dark streets, now out there again behind me,

my greatest danger lies behind me, in indulging and pitying lay ever my greatest danger,

in all human hubbub wishes to be indulged and tolerated, with suppressed truths,

with false hand and before heart, in rich, in petty lies of pity, thus have I ever lived among men,

disguised that I sit amongst them, ready to misjudge myself, that I might endure them,

and willingly sing to myself, thou fool, thou dost not know them.

One unlearneth men, when one livin's amongst them, there is too much foreground in all men,

what can foreseeing far-longing eyes do there, and for that I was, when they misjudged me,

I indulged them on that account more than myself, being habitually hard on myself,

and often even taking revenge on myself for the indulgence.

Stong all over by poisonous flies, and hollowed like the stone by many drops of wickedness,

thus did I sit among them, and still said to myself, innocent is everything petty of its pettiness,

especially did I find those who call themselves the good, the most poisonous flies,

a sting in all innocence, they lie in all innocence, how could they be just toward me?

He who lives amongst the good, pity, teaches him to lie,

pity, make it stiffening air for all free souls, for the stupidity of the good is unfathomable,

to conceal myself and my riches, that did I learn down there,

for everyone did I still find poor in spirit, it was the lie of my pity that I knew in everyone,

that I saw and centered in everyone, what was enough of spirit for him, and what was too much,

there's stiff wise men, I call them wise not stiff, thus did I learn to slur over words,

the gravediggers dig for themselves diseases, under old rubbish, rest-bad vapors,

one should not stir up the marsh, one should live on mountains,

was blessed nostrils, the way again breathes mountain freedom,

free that last is my nose, from the smell of all human hubbub,

with the sharp breezes tickled, as with sparkling wine,

sneezes my soul, sneezes and sheltered self-congratulatingly,

held to thee, thus spakes their azustra,

and of part three, chapter 53,