The bestowing virtue

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…

He is weary of his wisdom like a bee with too much honey and wants to give it away.

Zarathustra, however, looked at the people and wondered. Then he spake thus: Man is a rope stretched between the animal and the Superman—a rope over an abyss. A dangerous crossing, a dangerous wayfaring, a dangerous…

He praises the lavish soul who wants no thanks and bestows.

There is comradeship: may there be friendship!

He gives to a foe all that others give to friends, without becoming poorer.

One day had Zarathustra fallen asleep under a fig-tree, owing to the heat, with his arms over his face. And there came an adder and bit him in the neck, so that Zarathustra screamed with pain. When he had taken his arm…

Zarathustra thanks the adder for waking him and refuses its poison, because the adder is not rich enough to give it; the story shows a giving that is not weighed as debt.

I do not like your cold justice; out of the eye of your judges there always glanceth the executioner and his cold steel. Tell me: where find we justice, which is love with seeing eyes? Devise me, then, the love which…

Since no one can give everyone his due, he settles for giving each what is his own.

The consummating death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and promise to the living. His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping and promising ones. Thus should one learn to die; and…

The dying man gives his death to the living as a consecration of their oaths.

That your dying may not be a reproach to man and the earth, my friends: that do I solicit from the honey of your soul. In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still shine like an evening after-glow around the…

Zarathustra will die so that the friends become the heirs of his goal, and throws them the golden ball.

Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in lustre; it always bestoweth itself. Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to the highest…

Gold is valued because it always bestows itself, so it is the image of the highest virtue.

Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and hungry kind, which would always steal—the selfishness of the sick, the sickly selfishness. With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that is lustrous; with the…

The bestowing soul is set against the thieving, hungry selfishness of the sick.

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…

His wisdom and love press to be given; it is hardest to close the open hand out of love and stay a modest giver.

With these words Zarathustra started up, not however like a person in anguish seeking relief, but rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and serpent gaze upon him: for a…

His happiness wounds him and seeks an outlet; he longs to show his best love.

My impatient love overfloweth in streams,—down towards sunrise and sunset. Out of silent mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul into the valleys. Too long have I longed and looked into the distance. Too…

His love overflows in streams toward the sea, and he is weary of the old tongues.

Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but something better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself better. Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that…

He gives as a friend to friends and lets strangers take fruit themselves to lessen shame.

With thunder and heavenly fireworks must one speak to indolent and somnolent senses. But beauty’s voice speaketh gently: it appealeth only to the most awakened souls. Gently vibrated and laughed unto me to-day my…

The virtuous want reward for virtue, the opposite of a virtue that gives without a price.

Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child; but when did one hear of a mother wanting to be paid for her love?

Real virtue is love of one's own Self and expects no payment, as a mother's love does not.

But Zarathustra came not to say unto all those liars and fools: “What do YE know of virtue! What COULD ye know of virtue!”— But that ye, my friends, might become weary of the old words which ye have learned from the…

The formula he offers is that one's own Self be in the action as the mother is in the child.

Ah! my friends! That YOUR very Self be in your action, as the mother is in the child: let that be YOUR formula of virtue!

Gives the chapter's positive formula for virtue.

‘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…

The unappeased craving to express himself is the overflow of a soul that wants to give.

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…

The giver's overflow becomes his poverty: he can only give and never knows the happiness of receiving.

They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap ‘twixt giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over. A hunger ariseth out of my beauty: I should like to injure those I…

Unceasing giving wearies the virtue itself and makes the giver callous and shameless.

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,…

Only the dark receive warmth from the light, while the giver is left thirsting for their thirst.

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…

He gave like a well among empty buckets and ended thirsty among the drunken.

Passion for power: the glowing scourge of the hardest of the heart-hard; the cruel torture reserved for the cruellest themselves; the gloomy flame of living pyres. Passion for power: the wicked gadfly which is mounted…

The height's wish to descend to the plains is named the 'bestowing virtue'.

Behold, here is a new table; but where are my brethren who will carry it with me to the valley and into hearts of flesh?— Thus demandeth my great love to the remotest ones: BE NOT CONSIDERATE OF THY NEIGHBOUR! Man is…

Noble souls want nothing gratuitously and ask what they can give back to life.

O my soul, to thy domain gave I all wisdom to drink, all new wines, and also all immemorially old strong wines of wisdom. O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every silence and every longing:—then…

Giver and receiver are turned about: bestowing is a necessity, and the giver asks whether he owes thanks.

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…

Over-abundance itself stretches out longing hands for the vintager and the vintage-knife.

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 thank thee!—

Bidding the soul sing is the last thing left to give, and Zarathustra now thanks the soul, so the question of who owes thanks is reversed.

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:…

He says he does not sacrifice but squanders, giving with a thousand hands.

Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and turned then his own look towards Zarathustra—for hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine—: then, however, he put on a different expression. “Who is this with whom I talk?”…

Zarathustra says that giving properly is harder than taking and is the last, subtlest master-art of kindness.