--- title: "Thus Spake Zarathustra" author: "Friedrich Nietzsche" translator: "Thomas Common" languages: [en] shelf: "Philosophy" section: 37 of 95 url: https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/37/ cite: "Friedrich Nietzsche, tr. Thomas Common, Thus Spake Zarathustra, section 37. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/37/" --- # Thus Spake Zarathustra *Friedrich Nietzsche, tr. Thomas Common* A prophet comes down from his mountain to teach the overman, in sermons and songs. ## 37. XXXIII. The Grave-Song Source: https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/37/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/37/#p-N [¶0] “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.” [¶1] Resolving thus in my heart, did I sail o’er the sea.— [¶2] Oh, ye sights and scenes of my youth! Oh, all ye gleams of love, ye divine fleeting gleams! How could ye perish so soon for me! I think of you to-day as my dead ones. [¶3] From you, my dearest dead ones, cometh unto me a sweet savour, heart-opening and melting. Verily, it convulseth and openeth the heart of the lone seafarer. [¶4] Still am I the richest and most to be envied—I, the lonesomest one! For I HAVE POSSESSED you, and ye possess me still. Tell me: to whom hath there ever fallen such rosy apples from the tree as have fallen unto me? [¶5] Still am I your love’s heir and heritage, blooming to your memory with many-hued, wild-growing virtues, O ye dearest ones! [¶6] Ah, we were made to remain nigh unto each other, ye kindly strange marvels; and not like timid birds did ye come to me and my longing—nay, but as trusting ones to a trusting one! [¶7] Yea, made for faithfulness, like me, and for fond eternities, must I now name you by your faithlessness, ye divine glances and fleeting gleams: no other name have I yet learnt. [¶8] Verily, too early did ye die for me, ye fugitives. Yet did ye not flee from me, nor did I flee from you: innocent are we to each other in our faithlessness. [¶9] To kill ME, did they strangle you, ye singing birds of my hopes! Yea, at you, ye dearest ones, did malice ever shoot its arrows—to hit my heart! [¶10] And they hit it! Because ye were always my dearest, my possession and my possessedness: ON THAT ACCOUNT had ye to die young, and far too early! [¶11] At my most vulnerable point did they shoot the arrow—namely, at you, whose skin is like down—or more like the smile that dieth at a glance! [¶12] But this word will I say unto mine enemies: What is all manslaughter in comparison with what ye have done unto me! [¶13] Worse evil did ye do unto me than all manslaughter; the irretrievable did ye take from me:—thus do I speak unto you, mine enemies! [¶14] Slew ye not my youth’s visions and dearest marvels! My playmates took ye from me, the blessed spirits! To their memory do I deposit this wreath and this curse. [¶15] This curse upon you, mine enemies! Have ye not made mine eternal short, as a tone dieth away in a cold night! Scarcely, as the twinkle of divine eyes, did it come to me—as a fleeting gleam! [¶16] Thus spake once in a happy hour my purity: “Divine shall everything be unto me.” [¶17] Then did ye haunt me with foul phantoms; ah, whither hath that happy hour now fled! [¶18] “All days shall be holy unto me”—so spake once the wisdom of my youth: verily, the language of a joyous wisdom! [¶19] But then did ye enemies steal my nights, and sold them to sleepless torture: ah, whither hath that joyous wisdom now fled? [¶20] Once did I long for happy auspices: then did ye lead an owl-monster across my path, an adverse sign. Ah, whither did my tender longing then flee? [¶21] All loathing did I once vow to renounce: then did ye change my nigh ones and nearest ones into ulcerations. Ah, whither did my noblest vow then flee? [¶22] As a blind one did I once walk in blessed ways: then did ye cast filth on the blind one’s course: and now is he disgusted with the old footpath. [¶23] And when I performed my hardest task, and celebrated the triumph of my victories, then did ye make those who loved me call out that I then grieved them most. [¶24] Verily, it was always your doing: ye embittered to me my best honey, and the diligence of my best bees. [¶25] To my charity have ye ever sent the most impudent beggars; around my sympathy have ye ever crowded the incurably shameless. Thus have ye wounded the faith of my virtue. [¶26] And when I offered my holiest as a sacrifice, immediately did your “piety” put its fatter gifts beside it: so that my holiest suffocated in the fumes of your fat. [¶27] And once did I want to dance as I had never yet danced: beyond all heavens did I want to dance. Then did ye seduce my favourite minstrel. [¶28] And now hath he struck up an awful, melancholy air; alas, he tooted as a mournful horn to mine ear! [¶29] Murderous minstrel, instrument of evil, most innocent instrument! Already did I stand prepared for the best dance: then didst thou slay my rapture with thy tones! [¶30] Only in the dance do I know how to speak the parable of the highest things:—and now hath my grandest parable remained unspoken in my limbs! [¶31] Unspoken and unrealised hath my highest hope remained! And there have perished for me all the visions and consolations of my youth! [¶32] How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and surmount such wounds? How did my soul rise again out of those sepulchres? [¶33] Yea, something invulnerable, unburiable is with me, something that would rend rocks asunder: it is called MY WILL. Silently doth it proceed, and unchanged throughout the years. [¶34] Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will; hard of heart is its nature and invulnerable. [¶35] Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever livest thou there, and art like thyself, thou most patient one! Ever hast thou burst all shackles of the tomb! [¶36] In thee still liveth also the unrealisedness of my youth; and as life and youth sittest thou here hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves. [¶37] Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all graves: Hail to thee, my Will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections.— [¶38] Thus sang Zarathustra.