Solitude

When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his home and the lake of his home, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But at last his heart…

After ten years of enjoying his spirit and solitude, his heart changes and he leaves the mountain.

Meanwhile the evening came on, and the market-place veiled itself in gloom. Then the people dispersed, for even curiosity and terror become fatigued. Zarathustra, however, still sat beside the dead man on the ground,…

Zarathustra walks the night alone with the corpse, far from men, and hides it in a hollow tree.

In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route thou must have long legs. Proverbs should be peaks, and those spoken to should be big and tall. The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and…

The rare, pure air of the heights is the setting where danger and joyful wickedness fit together.

“Yea, into the evil!” cried the youth. “How is it possible that thou hast discovered my soul?” Zarathustra smiled, and said: “Many a soul one will never discover, unless one first invent it.” “Yea, into the evil!” cried…

The youth finds only frost and loneliness on the height and no longer knows what he seeks there.

Here the youth was silent. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside which they stood, and spake thus: “This tree standeth lonely here on the hills; it hath grown up high above man and beast. And if it wanted to…

The tree has grown so high that nobody could understand it, and it waits alone near the clouds.

And when they had walked a while together, Zarathustra began to speak thus: It rendeth my heart. Better than thy words express it, thine eyes tell me all thy danger. As yet thou art not free; thou still SEEKEST freedom.…

A wakeful, restless seeking of the open height makes the soul sharp but also deceitful and wicked.

My brethren, will ye suffocate in the fumes of their maws and appetites! Better break the windows and jump into the open air! Do go out of the way of the bad odour! Withdraw from the idolatry of the superfluous! Do go…

Escape from the state's idolatry lies in open spaces for lone ones, away from the crowd.

Flee, my friend, into thy solitude! I see thee deafened with the noise of the great men, and stung all over with the stings of the little ones. Admirably do forest and rock know how to be silent with thee. Resemble…

Solitude is named as the refuge: where it ends, the market-place and its buzzing flies begin.

Away from the market-place and from fame taketh place all that is great: away from the market-place and from fame have ever dwelt the devisers of new values.

Solitude is the place where depth and creation can ripen, away from the demand for Yea or Nay.

Flee, my friend, into thy solitude—and thither, where a rough strong breeze bloweth. It is not thy lot to be a fly-flap.— Thus spake Zarathustra.

The closing refrain sends the friend to where a rough, strong breeze blows.

“One, is always too many about me”—thinketh the anchorite. “Always once one—that maketh two in the long run!” I and me are always too earnestly in conversation: how could it be endured, if there were not a friend? The…

The anchorite's conversation of 'I and me' grows too deep to endure, so the solitary longs for a third.

Ye crowd around your neighbour, and have fine words for it. But I say unto you: your neighbour-love is your bad love of yourselves. Ye flee unto your neighbour from yourselves, and would fain make a virtue thereof: but…

Pressing toward the neighbour is presented as an escape from the self one cannot bear alone.

The phantom that runneth on before thee, my brother, is fairer than thou; why dost thou not give unto it thy flesh and thy bones? But thou fearest, and runnest unto thy neighbour. Ye cannot endure it with yourselves,…

Those who cannot endure themselves turn solitude into a prison and seek a witness in their neighbour.

Wouldst thou go into isolation, my brother? Wouldst thou seek the way unto thyself? Tarry yet a little and hearken unto me. “He who seeketh may easily get lost himself. All isolation is wrong”: so say the herd. And long…

Zarathustra warns the would-be recluse that the herd's voice and conscience still echo in him as pain.

To-day sufferest thou still from the multitude, thou individual; to-day hast thou still thy courage unabated, and thy hopes. But one day will the solitude weary thee; one day will thy pride yield, and thy courage quail.…

Solitude will one day weary the lonely one and turn his pride and sublimity into fright and a cry of 'All is false!'

And be on thy guard against the good and just! They would fain crucify those who devise their own virtue—they hate the lonesome ones. Be on thy guard, also, against holy simplicity! All is unholy to it that is not…

The recluse must guard even against his own readiness to offer love and his hand.

With thy love, go into thine isolation, my brother, and with thy creating; and late only will justice limp after thee. With my tears, go into thine isolation, my brother. I love him who seeketh to create beyond himself,…

He sends the brother into isolation with love and creating, and justice will come late.

Finally, my brethren, guard against doing wrong to any anchorite. How could an anchorite forget! How could he requite! Like a deep well is an anchorite. Easy is it to throw in a stone: if it should sink to the bottom,…

The anchorite is compared to a deep well: whatever is thrown in sinks and is not forgotten or repaid.

When Zarathustra had taken leave of the town to which his heart was attached, the name of which is “The Pied Cow,” there followed him many people who called themselves his disciples, and kept him company. Thus came they…

Zarathustra leaves the town and his followers, saying he is fond of going alone.

I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go away, and alone! So will I have it. Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath…

Both teacher and disciples are to go on alone.

After this Zarathustra returned again into the mountains to the solitude of his cave, and withdrew himself from men, waiting like a sower who hath scattered his seed. His soul, however, became impatient and full of…

Zarathustra waits in his cave for months and years, withdrawn from men, while his wisdom grows painfully abundant.

What hath happened unto me? How have I freed myself from loathing? Who hath rejuvenated mine eye? How have I flown to the height where no rabble any longer sit at the wells? Did my loathing itself create for me wings…

He finds a pure well of delight only by climbing to the loftiest height, away from the rabble.

For this is OUR height and our home: too high and steep do we here dwell for all uncleanly ones and their thirst. Cast but your pure eyes into the well of my delight, my friends! How could it become turbid thereby! It…

The height is a home for the pure and a nest in the tree of the future, closed to the impure.

And now, ye famous wise ones, I would have you finally throw off entirely the skin of the lion! The skin of the beast of prey, the speckled skin, and the dishevelled locks of the investigator, the searcher, and the…

The free spirits dwell in the wilderness, while the well-fed wise men live in cities as draught-beasts.

‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain. ‘Tis night: now only do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one. Something…

Zarathustra opens the song alone at night, his soul a fountain that longs to speak.

Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt with light! Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light! And you yourselves would I bless, ye twinkling starlets…

He is lonely because he is surrounded by his own light.

Whence have gone the tears of mine eye, and the down of my heart? Oh, the lonesomeness of all bestowers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones! Many suns circle in desert space: to all that is dark do they speak with…

The loneliness of the shining ones is pictured as suns speaking to the dark but silent to one another.

Oh, ye only is it, ye dark, nightly ones, that extract warmth from the shining ones! Oh, ye only drink milk and refreshment from the light’s udders! Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burneth with the iciness! Ah,…

He ends isolated in ice and thirst, longing for the dark and for speech.

Thus sang Zarathustra. But when the dance was over and the maidens had departed, he became sad. “The sun hath been long set,” said he at last, “the meadow is damp, and from the forest cometh coolness. An unknown…

After the dance, the cool and darkness bring him a lonely questioning of why he still lives.

“Yonder is the grave-island, the silent isle; yonder also are the graves of my youth. Thither will I carry an evergreen wreath of life.” Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o’er the sea.— Oh, ye sights and scenes of…

Zarathustra, the lonesome seafarer, finds himself still rich through what he once possessed and lost.

Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me. And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary. Then did I fly backwards, homewards—and always faster. Thus did I come unto you, ye…

Zarathustra's flight into the future leaves him horrified and alone, with time as his only contemporary, before he turns back to present-day men.

Ah, whither shall I now ascend with my longing! From all mountains do I look out for fatherlands and motherlands. But a home have I found nowhere: unsettled am I in all cities, and decamping at all gates. Alien to me,…

Finding no home in any city or fatherland, he is unsettled and exiled.

When I lay asleep, then did a sheep eat at the ivy-wreath on my head,—it ate, and said thereby: “Zarathustra is no longer a scholar.” It said this, and went away clumsily and proudly. A child told it to me. I like to…

He lies apart by the ruined wall with the children, thistles and poppies, rather than among the learned.

And when I lived with them, then did I live above them. Therefore did they take a dislike to me. They want to hear nothing of any one walking above their heads; and so they put wood and earth and rubbish betwixt me and…

Living above others earns Zarathustra their dislike and leaves him isolated.

Verily, said he unto his disciples, a little while, and there cometh the long twilight. Alas, how shall I preserve my light through it! That it may not smother in this sorrowfulness! To remoter worlds shall it be a…

He withdraws into silence and sleep, away even from his watching disciples.

—But at this point in his discourse it chanced that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances pierced as with arrows…

Zarathustra's remark on the difficulty of silence hints at what he holds back.

But disguised do I want to see YOU, ye neighbours and fellowmen, and well-attired and vain and estimable, as “the good and just;”— And disguised will I myself sit amongst you—that I may MISTAKE you and myself: for that…

He keeps his own nature masked among men, hiding his knowledge.

What hath happened unto me, my friends? Ye see me troubled, driven forth, unwillingly obedient, ready to go—alas, to go away from YOU! Yea, once more must Zarathustra retire to his solitude: but unjoyously this time…

Zarathustra announces that he must once more retire to his cave, and does so unjoyously.

And I answered: “I am ashamed.” Then was there again spoken unto me without voice: “Thou must yet become a child, and be without shame. The pride of youth is still upon thee; late hast thou become young: but he who…

Told that his fruits are ripe but he is not ripe for them, he must return to solitude to grow mellow.

—Now have ye heard all, and why I have to return into my solitude. Nothing have I kept hidden from you, my friends. But even this have ye heard from me, WHO is still the most reserved of men—and will be so! Ah, my…

He goes off alone into the night, returning to solitude.

Then, when it was about midnight, Zarathustra went his way over the ridge of 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…

Zarathustra recalls his solitary wanderings and sees that he now begins his lonesomest one.

He, however, who is of my nature doth not avoid such an hour: the hour that 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…

No path remains behind him and no one may follow; he must rely on his own courage.

Thus spake Zarathustra to himself while ascending, comforting his heart with 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 lay…

He declares that his last lonesomeness has now begun.

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 stood alone amongst the cliffs, then had he become weary on his way, and eagerer…

Alone among the cliffs, he laughs at himself and then weeps in longing for his abandoned friends.

When it got abroad among the sailors that Zarathustra was on board the ship—for a man who came from the Happy Isles had gone on board along with him,—there was great curiosity and expectation. But Zarathustra kept…

Zarathustra calls his vision that of 'the lonesomest one' and tells it only after two days of cold, sad silence.

With such enigmas and bitterness in his heart did Zarathustra sail o’er the sea. When, however, he was four day-journeys from the Happy Isles and from his friends, then had he surmounted all his pain—: triumphantly and…

Zarathustra sails back alone, taking his fate up again after surmounting his pain.

And verily, it were time that I went away; and the wanderer’s shadow and the longest tedium and the stillest hour—have all said unto me: “It is the highest time!” The word blew to me through the keyhole and said “Come!”…

Frost and winter are longed for as relief from the stewing warmth of attachment.

O heaven above me, thou pure, thou deep heaven! Thou abyss of light! Gazing on thee, I tremble with divine desires. Up to thy height to toss myself—that is MY depth! In thy purity to hide myself—that is MINE innocence!…

Zarathustra, the lonesomest one, finds in the silent heaven a friend who shares his grief and knowledge without speech.

The world is deep:—and deeper than e’er the day could read.

The two-ness of friend and friend, and the unutterable depth of the world, bid him part from the heaven as day comes.

When Zarathustra was again on the continent, he did not go straightway to his mountains and his cave, but made many wanderings and questionings, and ascertained this and that; so that he said of himself jestingly: “Lo,…

He longs for his home, where he need no longer stoop before the small ones.

I pass through this people and keep mine eyes open: they do not forgive me for not envying their virtues. They bite at me, because I say unto them that for small people, small virtues are necessary—and because it is…

Their noise and praise spread a mantle over his thoughts and leave him feeling a stranger.

Winter, a bad guest, sitteth with me at home; blue are my hands with his friendly hand-shaking. I honour him, that bad guest, but gladly leave him alone. Gladly do I run away from him; and when one runneth WELL, then…

Zarathustra withdraws to his sunny corner of the mountain and prefers hard winter to the steaming comforts of fire-idols and crowds.

With a wickedness do I begin every day: I mock at the winter with a cold bath: on that account grumbleth my stern house-mate. Also do I like to tickle him with a wax-taper, that he may finally let the heavens emerge…

Silence is his art for guarding his depth and ultimate will from watchers.

Thou snow-bearded, silent, winter-sky, thou round-eyed whitehead above me! Oh, thou heavenly simile of my soul and its wantonness! And MUST I not conceal myself like one who hath swallowed gold—lest my soul should be…

He shows the envious only the ice of his peaks and hides his warm, sunlit happiness.

To one man, lonesomeness is the flight of the sick one; to another, it is the flight FROM the sick ones.

Distinguishes the solitude of the sick from his own, a flight from the sick and their heated rooms.

Here, however, did Zarathustra interrupt the foaming fool, and shut his mouth.— Stop this at once! called out Zarathustra, long have thy speech and thy species disgusted me! Why didst thou live so long by the swamp,…

He asks why the fool sat by the swamp rather than going to the forest or the sea's islands.

Where one can no longer love, there should one—PASS BY!

Zarathustra passes by the city and continues his way home.

Thus talked Zarathustra in the city he loved, which is surnamed “The Pied Cow.” For from here he had but two days to travel to reach once more his cave and his animals; his soul, however, rejoiced unceasingly on account…

Zarathustra rejoices that his cave and animals are only two days away.

O lonesomeness! My HOME, lonesomeness! Too long have I lived wildly in wild remoteness, to return to thee without tears! Now threaten me with the finger as mothers threaten; now smile upon me as mothers smile; now say…

Zarathustra greets solitude as his true home, where he can speak openly and without concealment.

One thing is forsakenness, another matter is lonesomeness: THAT hast thou now learned!

Separates the pain of being forsaken among men from the fullness of chosen solitude.

Another matter, however, is forsakenness. For, dost thou remember, O Zarathustra? When thy bird screamed overhead, when thou stoodest in the forest, irresolute, ignorant where to go, beside a corpse:— —When thou…

Forsakenness is defined by concrete past episodes of isolation among men and in his own mission.

O lonesomeness! My home, lonesomeness! How blessedly and tenderly speaketh 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…

Solitude is clear, open and unhurried, and all being wants to become words for him.

But down there—there speaketh everything, there is everything misheard. If one announce one’s wisdom with bells, the shopmen in the market-place will out-jingle it with pennies! Everything among them talketh; no one…

He is relieved to have the human hubbub behind him.

The grave-diggers dig for themselves diseases. Under old rubbish rest bad vapours. One should not stir up the marsh. One should live on mountains. With blessed nostrils do I again breathe mountain-freedom. Freed at last…

He chooses the mountains and their pure air over the marsh of men.

My mouthpiece—is of the people: too coarsely and cordially do I talk for Angora rabbits. And still stranger soundeth my word unto all ink-fish and pen-foxes. My hand—is a fool’s hand: woe unto all tables and walls, and…

He will sing his song even alone in an empty house, unlike singers who need a full house.

I form circles around me and holy boundaries; ever fewer ascend with me ever higher mountains: I build a mountain-range out of ever holier mountains.— But wherever ye would ascend with me, O my brethren, take care lest…

He draws ever-narrower circles and holier mountains around himself, so that fewer climb with him.

When the animals had spoken these words they were silent and waited, so that Zarathustra might say something to them: but Zarathustra did not hear that they were silent. On the contrary, he lay quietly with closed eyes…

The animals leave him in silence while he communes with his soul.

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: the longing of over-fulness…

The soul's longing is the melancholy of fullness that has no one to receive it, and it refuses to complain.

—And again passed moons and years over Zarathustra’s soul, and he heeded it not; his hair, however, became white. One day when he sat on a stone in front of his cave, and gazed calmly into the distance—one there gazeth…

Zarathustra, white-haired, sits before his cave and speaks with his animals about his happiness and his ripening.

When Zarathustra, however, was aloft on the summit, he sent his animals home that had accompanied him, and found that he was now alone:—then he laughed from the bottom of his heart, looked around him, and spake thus:…

Alone on the summit, he can speak more freely than in front of his cave and his animals.

Thus may men now come UP to me; for as yet do I await the signs that it is time for my down-going; as yet do I not myself go down, as I must do, amongst men. Therefore do I here wait, crafty and scornful upon high…

He waits on the heights, scornful and merry, having unlearnt patience.

And Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further and lower down, through forests and past moory bottoms; as it happeneth, however, to every one who meditateth upon hard matters, he trod thereby unawares upon a man. And lo,…

Zarathustra's parable of the dog and the wanderer calls both of them 'lonesome ones'.

Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra however got up, and prepared to go on: for he felt frozen to the very bowels. “Thou nondescript,” said he, “thou warnedst me against thy path. As thanks for it I praise mine to…

Zarathustra offers his cave as a hiding-place for the one who has cast himself out from men and their pity.

When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he was chilled and felt lonesome: for much coldness and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so that even his limbs became colder thereby. When, however, he wandered on and on,…

Zarathustra, chilled and lonesome after leaving the ugliest man, is warmed by the nearness of living creatures.

Scarcely however was the voluntary beggar gone in haste, and Zarathustra again alone, when he heard behind him a new voice which called out: “Stay! Zarathustra! Do wait! It is myself, forsooth, O Zarathustra, myself,…

Zarathustra is irritated by the crowd in his mountains and longs for his lost lonesomeness and new mountains.

“What!” said he, “have not the most ludicrous things always happened to us old anchorites and saints? Verily, my folly hath grown big in the mountains! Now do I hear six old fools’ legs rattling behind one another! But…

He recognises his own folly in fleeing and sees how comically the anchorites are pursued.

Thus spake the shadow, and Zarathustra’s countenance lengthened at his words. “Thou art my shadow!” said he at last sadly. “Thy danger is not small, thou free spirit and wanderer! Thou hast had a bad day: see that a…

He needs to run alone so that it grows bright again around him.

—And Zarathustra ran and ran, but he found no one else, and was alone and ever found himself again; he enjoyed and quaffed his solitude, and thought of good things—for hours. About the hour of noontide, however, when…

Zarathustra, alone, enjoys and drinks in his solitude and thinks good thoughts for hours.

“O Zarathustra, by the way in which thou hast given us thy hand and thy greeting, we recognise thee as Zarathustra. Thou hast humbled thyself before us; almost hast thou hurt our reverence—: —Who however could have…

He says solitude is breaking open and resurrected ones are everywhere seeking Zarathustra.

Be not virtuous beyond your powers! And seek nothing from yourselves opposed to probability! Walk in the footsteps in which your fathers’ virtue hath already walked! How would ye rise high, if your fathers’ will should…

Solitude brings out what one brings into it, including the brute, as the filthy saints of the wilderness show.

When Zarathustra spake these sayings, he stood nigh to the entrance of his cave; with the last words, however, he slipped away from his guests, and fled for a little while into the open air. “O pure odours around me,”…

Zarathustra slips away from his guests to breathe pure air with his animals, relieved to be out of the company of the higher men.

“Go not away!” said then the wanderer who called himself Zarathustra’s shadow, “abide with us—otherwise the old gloomy affliction might again fall upon us. Now hath that old magician given us of his worst for our good,…

He praises the clear, strong air of Zarathustra's cave as the opposite of cloudy, damp Old-Europe.