XLV. The Wanderer

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…

At midnight Zarathustra crosses the ridge to reach the far coast and a ship. He reflects that in the end one experiences only oneself, and that he now faces his last summit and hardest path.

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…

Zarathustra speaks to himself in a series of hard commands: the path behind is effaced, the gentlest in him must become hardest, and he must learn to look away from himself to see many things.

Upon thine own head, and beyond thine own heart! Now must the gentlest in thee become the hardest.

He commands himself to climb beyond his own heart and harden what is gentlest in him.

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…

On the ridge, with the other sea spread before him, he accepts his fate and says he must descend into the darkest flood. The highest mountains, he recalls, come out of the sea.

Out of the deepest must the highest come to its height.

Zarathustra says the origin of the highest mountains in the sea is written on their stones.

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…

At the shore Zarathustra feels the sleeping sea groan with evil dreams and wants to console it, then mocks himself as a too-confiding fool. Thinking of his friends he weeps with anger and longing.