silence and attention on everything loud and self-
conceited, which smoothes rough souls and makes them
taste a new longing—to lie placid as a mirror, that the
deep heavens may be reflected in them;—the genius of the
heart, which teaches the clumsy and too hasty hand to
hesitate, and to grasp more delicately; which scents the
hidden and forgotten treasure, the drop of goodness and
sweet spirituality under thick dark ice, and is a divining-
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rod for every grain of gold, long buried and imprisoned in
mud and sand; the genius of the heart, from contact with
which every one goes away richer; not favoured or
surprised, not as though gratified and oppressed by the
good things of others; but richer in himself, newer than
before, broken up, blown upon, and sounded by a
thawing wind; more uncertain, perhaps, more delicate,
more fragile, more bruised, but full of hopes which as yet
lack names, full of a new will and current, full of a new ill-
will and counter-current … but what am I doing, my
friends? Of whom am I talking to you? Have I forgotten
myself so far that I have not even told you his name?
Unless it be that you have already divined of your own
accord who this questionable God and spirit is, that wishes
to be PRAISED in such a manner? For, as it happens to
every one who from childhood onward has always been
on his legs, and in foreign lands, I have also encountered
on my path many strange and dangerous spirits; above all,
however, and again and again, the one of whom I have
just spoken: in fact, no less a personage than the God
DIONYSUS, the great equivocator and tempter, to
whom, as you know, I once offered in all secrecy and
reverence my first-fruits—the last, as it seems to me, who
has offered a SACRIFICE to him, for I have found no
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one who could understand what I was then doing. In the
meantime, however, I have learned much, far too much,
about the philosophy of this God, and, as I said, from
mouth to mouth—I, the last disciple and initiate of the
God Dionysus: and perhaps I might at last begin to give
you, my friends, as far as I am allowed, a little taste of this
philosophy? In a hushed voice, as is but seemly: for it has
to do with much that is secret, new, strange, wonderful,
and uncanny. The very fact that Dionysus is a philosopher,
and that therefore Gods also philosophize, seems to me a
novelty which is not unensnaring, and might perhaps
arouse suspicion precisely among philosophers;—among
you, my friends, there is less to be said against it, except
that it comes too late and not at the right time; for, as it
has been disclosed to me, you are loth nowadays to believe
in God and gods. It may happen, too, that in the frankness
of my story I must go further than is agreeable to the strict
usages of your ears? Certainly the God in question went
further, very much further, in such dialogues, and was
always many paces ahead of me … Indeed, if it were
allowed, I should have to give him, according to human
usage, fine ceremonious tides of lustre and merit, I should
have to extol his courage as investigator and discoverer, his
fearless honesty, truthfulness, and love of wisdom. But
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such a God does not know what to do with all that
respectable trumpery and pomp. ‘Keep that,’ he would
say, ‘for thyself and those like thee, and whoever else
require it! I—have no reason to cover my nakedness!’ One
suspects that this kind of divinity and philosopher perhaps
lacks shame?—He once said: ‘Under certain circumstances
I love mankind’—and referred thereby to Ariadne, who
was present; ‘in my opinion man is an agreeable, brave,
inventive animal, that has not his equal upon earth, he
makes his way even through all labyrinths. I like man, and
often think how I can still further advance him, and make
him stronger, more evil, and more profound.’—‘Stronger,
more evil, and more profound?’ I asked in horror. ‘Yes,’
he said again, ‘stronger, more evil, and more profound;
also more beautiful’—and thereby the tempter-god smiled
with his halcyon smile, as though he had just paid some
charming compliment. One here sees at once that it is not
only shame that this divinity lacks;—and in general there
are good grounds for supposing that in some things the
Gods could all of them come to us men for instruction.
We men are—more human.—
296. Alas! what are you, after all, my written and
painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so variegated,
young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices,
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that you made me sneeze and laugh—and now? You have
already doffed your novelty, and some of you, I fear, are
ready to become truths, so immortal do they look, so
pathetically honest, so tedious! And was it ever otherwise?
What then do we write and paint, we mandarins with
Chinese brush, we immortalisers of things which LEND
themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of
painting? Alas, only that which is just about to fade and
begins to lose its odour! Alas, only exhausted and
departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! Alas, only
birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let
themselves be captured with the hand—with OUR hand!
We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer,
things only which are exhausted and mellow! And it is
only for your AFTERNOON, you, my written and
painted thoughts, for which alone I have colours, many
colours, perhaps, many variegated softenings, and fifty
yellows and browns and greens and reds;— but nobody
will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you
sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old,
beloved— EVIL thoughts!
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FROM THE HEIGHTS
By F W Nietzsche
Translated by L A Magnus
1.
MIDDAY of Life! Oh, season of delight!
My summer’s park!
Uneaseful joy to look, to lurk, to hark—
I peer for friends, am ready day and night,—
Where linger ye, my friends? The time is right!
2.
Is not the glacier’s grey today for you
Rose-garlanded?
The brooklet seeks you, wind, cloud, with longing thread
And thrust themselves yet higher to the blue,
To spy for you from farthest eagle’s view
3.
My table was spread out for you on high—
Who dwelleth so
Star-near, so near the grisly pit below?—
My realm—what realm hath wider boundary?
My honey—who hath sipped its fragrancy?
4.
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Friends, ye are there! Woe me,—yet I am not
He whom ye seek?
Ye stare and stop—better your wrath could speak!
I am not I? Hand, gait, face, changed? And what
I am, to you my friends, now am I not?
5.
Am I an other? Strange am I to Me?
Yet from Me sprung?
A wrestler, by himself too oft self-wrung?
Hindering too oft my own self’s potency,
Wounded and hampered by self-victory?
6.
I sought where-so the wind blows keenest. There
I learned to dwell
Where no man dwells, on lonesome ice-lorn fell,
And unlearned Man and God and curse and prayer?
Became a ghost haunting the glaciers bare?
7.
Ye, my old friends! Look! Ye turn pale, filled o’er
With love and fear!
Go! Yet not in wrath. Ye could ne’er live here.
Here in the farthest realm of ice and scaur,
A huntsman must one be, like chamois soar.
8.
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An evil huntsman was I? See how taut
My bow was bent!
Strongest was he by whom such bolt were sent—
Woe now! That arrow is with peril fraught,
Perilous as none.—Have yon safe home ye sought!
9.
Ye go! Thou didst endure enough, oh, heart;—
Strong was thy hope;
Unto new friends thy portals widely ope,
Let old ones be. Bid memory depart!
Wast thou young then, now—better young thou art!
10.
What linked us once together, one hope’s tie—
(Who now doth con
Those lines, now fading, Love once wrote thereon?)—
Is like a parchment, which the hand is shy
To touch—like crackling leaves, all seared, all dry.
11.
Oh! Friends no more! They are—what name for those?—
Friends’ phantom-flight
Knocking at my heart’s window-pane at night,
Gazing on me, that speaks ‘We were’ and goes,—
Oh, withered words, once fragrant as the rose!
12.
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Pinings of youth that might not understand!
For which I pined,
Which I deemed changed with me, kin of my kind:
But they grew old, and thus were doomed and banned:
None but new kith are native of my land!
13.
Midday of life! My second youth’s delight!
My summer’s park!
Unrestful joy to long, to lurk, to hark!
I peer for friends!—am ready day and night,
For my new friends. Come! Come! The time is right!
14.
This song is done,—the sweet sad cry of rue
Sang out its end;
A wizard wrought it, he the timely friend,
The midday-friend,—no, do not ask me who;
At midday ‘twas, when one became as two.
15.
We keep our Feast of Feasts, sure of our bourne,
Our aims self-same:
The Guest of Guests, friend Zarathustra, came!
The world now laughs, the grisly veil was torn,
And Light and Dark were one that wedding-morn.
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