54 - Thus Spake Zarathustra - Friedrich Nietzsche

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I'm caught up in the game.

My attention is on every play and every whistle,

but what I'm missing is a signal coming from my kidneys.

That signal isn't like a ref's whistle.

It's more of a silent SOS,

which could be warning me of an increased risk for events like heart attack or stroke.

And a way I can catch that signal?

A simple urine test called UACR.

If you have type 2 diabetes or high blood pressure,

talk to your doctor about the UACR test.

Detect the SOS.

Visit DetectTheSOS.com to learn more.

In a world of endless notifications,

there could be an important one you're missing.

Your kidneys may be signaling in SOS.

With high blood pressure or type 2 diabetes,

your kidneys could be warning you of early signs of damage,

which may put you at higher risk for events like heart attack or stroke.

But there's a simple test that can help spot a hidden signal.

Ask your doctor about a urine test called UACR

to help detect kidney disease and heart risk early.

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A pair of scales and weighed the world.

Alas, that the rosy dawn came too early to me.

She glows me awake the jealous one.

Jealous is she always of the glows of my morning dream.

Measurable by him who has time,

wayable by a good wayer,

attainable by strong opinions,

the vineable by divine nutcrackers.

Thus did my dream find the world.

My dream, a bold sailor, half-ship,

half-herican, silent as the butterfly, in patience as the falcon.

How had it the patience and leisure today for world-weighing?

That my wisdom perhaps speaks secretly to it.

My laughing, why the wake-day wisdom,

which mocketh all the infinite worlds, for its faith,

where forces there become its number, the master.

It has more force.

How confidently that my dream contemplated this finite world.

Not new-fangedly.

Not old-fangedly.

Not timidly.

Not intreetingly.

As if a big round apple presented itself to my hand.

A ripe, golden apple with a coley-soft, velvety skin.

Thus did the world present itself onto me.

As if a tree nodded onto me.

A broad-branched, strong-willed tree.

Curved as a recline and a footstool for weary travelers.

Thus did the world stand on my promontory.

As if delicate hands carried a casket towards me.

A casket opened for the delictation of modest, adoring eyes.

Thus did the world present itself before me today.

Not riddle enough to scare human love from it.

Not solution enough to put to sleep human wisdom.

A humanly good thing was the world to me today.

Of which such bad things are said.

How I thank my morning dream that I thus, at two days done, weighed the world.

As a humanly good thing did it come unto me.

This dream and hard comforter.

And that I may do the like by day and imitate and copy its best.

Now will I put the three worst things on the scales and weighed them humanly well.

He who taught to bless, taught also to curse.

What all three best cursed things in the world.

These will I put on the scales.

Voluptuousness, passion for power and selfishness.

These three things have hitherto been best cursed and have been in worst and forces repute.

These three things will I weigh humanly well.

Well, here is my promontory, and there is the sea.

It rolleth hither unto me, shaggly and fondingly.

The old, faithful, hundred-headed dog monster that I love.

Well, here will I hold the scales over the well-turing sea.

And also a witness do I choose to look on.

The, the anchorite tree.

The, the strong odoured, broad arched tree that I love.

On what bridge goeth the now, to the hereafter.

By what constraint does the high stoop to the low.

And what enjoineth even the highest still to grow upwards.

Now stand the scales, poised and at rest.

Three heavy questions have I thrown in.

Three heavy answers,

curious the other scale.

Part two.

Voluptuousness.

On to all hair-shirted despises of the body, a sting and stake, and cursed as the world,

by all backworldsmen, for its mocket and the false all-hearing,

mess-inferring teachers.

Voluptuousness.

To the rabble, the slow fire at which it is burnt, to all wormy wood,

to all thinking rags, the prepared heat and stew furnace.

Voluptuousness.

To free hearts, a thing innocent and free, the garden happiness of the earth,

all the futures thanks overflow to the present.

Voluptuousness.

Only to the withered and sweet poison, to the lion-willed, however,

the great cordial and the reverently-saved wine of wines.

Voluptuousness.

The great symbolic happiness of a higher happiness and highest hope,

for too many is marriage-promised and more than marriage.

To many, that are more unknown to each other than man and woman,

and who has fully understood how unknown to each other are man and woman.

Voluptuousness.

But I will have hedges around my thoughts, and even around my woods,

lessed swine and liberty should break into my gardens.

Passion for power.

The glowing scourge of the hardest of the heart-hard.

The cruel torture reserved for the cruelest themselves,

the gloomy flame of living pious.

Passion for power.

The wicked get-fly, which is mounted on the vainest peoples,

the corner of all uncertain virtue, which riders on every horse and on every pride.

Passion for power.

The earthquake, which breaketh and upbreaketh all that is rotten in hollow.

The rolling, rumbling, punitive demolisher of whited sepokers.

The flashing interrogative sign behind premature answers.

Passion for power.

Before whose glands man creepest and crouchest and drudges,

and the comest lowered and the serpent and the swine.

Until at last great contempt cried out of him.

Passion for power.

The terrible teacher of great contempt, which preaches to their face to cities and empires,

away with thee, until a voice cries out of themselves, away with me.

Passion for power.

Which, however,

Mountess alluringly even to the pure and lonesome.

End up to self-satisfied elevations, glowing like a love that paint us purple

felicities alluring on earthly heavens.

Passion for power.

But who would call it passion when the height longed to stoop for power?

Verily, nothing sick or diseased is there in such longing and descending.

That the lonsome height may not forever remain in lonsome and self-sufficing,

that the mountains may come to the valleys and the winds of the heights to the plains.

Oh, who could find the right prenemen an honouring name for such longing?

The stowing virtue thus did Zaretustra once name the unnamable.

And then it happened also, and virally, it happened for the first time,

that his word blessed selfishness, the wholesome, healthy selfishness,

that springeth from the powerful soul.

From the powerful soul to which the high body of pertaineth,

the handsome, triumphant, refreshing body, around which everything becomes a mirror.

The client persuasive body, the denser, whose symbol and epitome is the self-enjoying soul

of such bodies and souls, the self-enjoyment calls itself

virtue.

With its words of good and bad thus such self-enjoyment shelter itself as with sacred groves,

with the names of its happiness doth ad banish from itself everything contemptible.

Away from itself doth ad banish everything cowardly. It says,

bad, that is cowardly.

Contemptible seemed to it the ever-solicitus, the sighing, the complaining,

and whoever pick up the most triveling advantage.

It despises also all bitter-sweet wisdom.

For virally, there is also wisdom that bloometh in the dark, a night-shade wisdom,

which ever sious, all is vain.

Shy distrust is regarded by it as a base, and everyone who wants us out, instead of looks and

hands, also, all over distrustful wisdom, for such is the mode of cowardly souls.

Basel still, it regarded the obsequious, dogish one, who immediately lies on his back,

the submissive one, and there is also wisdom in that submissive and dogish and pious and obsequious,

hateful to it all together, and the loathing is he who will never defend himself.

He, who swalloweth down poisonous spittle and bad looks, the all-too-patient one,

the all-endurer, the old-satisfied one, for that is the mode of slaves.

Where do they be servile before gods and divine spurnings, or before men and stupid human opinions?

At all kinds of slaves does it spit, this blessed selfishness,

bad, thus does it call all that its spirit broke in and sortedly servile, constrained,

blinking eyes, depressed hearts, and the false submissive style, which kisses with broad cowardly lips,

and spurious wisdom. So does it call all the wit that slaves and horrid headed and weary ones

affect, and especially all the cunning, spurious-witted, curious-witted, foolishness of priest.

The spurious, wise, however, all the priest, the world weary, and those whose souls

are of feminine and servile nature. Oh, how has their game all along abused selfishness?

And precisely, that was to be virtue, and was to be called virtue, to abuse selfishness,

and selfless, so that they wished themselves with good reason, all those world weary,

covered, and crust-spitters. But to all those comments now the day, the change,

the sword of judgment, the great noontide, then shall many things be revealed,

and he who proclaimed the ego holds some in holy, and selfishness blessed,

rarely, he, the prognosticator, speak it also what he knows,

behold, it cometh, it is nigh, the great noontide, thus speak Zarathustra.

End of Part 3, Chapter 54