--- title: "Thus Spake Zarathustra" author: "Friedrich Nietzsche" translator: "Thomas Common" languages: [en] shelf: "Philosophy" section: 43 of 95 url: https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/43/ cite: "Friedrich Nietzsche, tr. Thomas Common, Thus Spake Zarathustra, section 43. Scriptura (scriptura.si), https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/43/" --- # Thus Spake Zarathustra *Friedrich Nietzsche, tr. Thomas Common* A prophet comes down from his mountain to teach the overman, in sermons and songs. ## 43. XXXIX. Poets Source: https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/43/ · cite a paragraph as https://scriptura.si/works/nietzsche-zarathustra/43/#p-N [¶0] “Since I have known the body better”—said Zarathustra to one of his disciples—“the spirit hath only been to me symbolically spirit; and all the ‘imperishable’—that is also but a simile.” [¶1] “So have I heard thee say once before,” answered the disciple, “and then thou addedst: ‘But the poets lie too much.’ Why didst thou say that the poets lie too much?” [¶2] “Why?” said Zarathustra. “Thou askest why? I do not belong to those who may be asked after their Why. [¶3] Is my experience but of yesterday? It is long ago that I experienced the reasons for mine opinions. [¶4] Should I not have to be a cask of memory, if I also wanted to have my reasons with me? [¶5] It is already too much for me even to retain mine opinions; and many a bird flieth away. [¶6] And sometimes, also, do I find a fugitive creature in my dovecote, which is alien to me, and trembleth when I lay my hand upon it. [¶7] But what did Zarathustra once say unto thee? That the poets lie too much?—But Zarathustra also is a poet. [¶8] Believest thou that he there spake the truth? Why dost thou believe it?” [¶9] The disciple answered: “I believe in Zarathustra.” But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled.— [¶10] Belief doth not sanctify me, said he, least of all the belief in myself. [¶11] But granting that some one did say in all seriousness that the poets lie too much: he was right—WE do lie too much. [¶12] We also know too little, and are bad learners: so we are obliged to lie. [¶13] And which of us poets hath not adulterated his wine? Many a poisonous hotchpotch hath evolved in our cellars: many an indescribable thing hath there been done. [¶14] And because we know little, therefore are we pleased from the heart with the poor in spirit, especially when they are young women! [¶15] And even of those things are we desirous, which old women tell one another in the evening. This do we call the eternally feminine in us. [¶16] And as if there were a special secret access to knowledge, which CHOKETH UP for those who learn anything, so do we believe in the people and in their “wisdom.” [¶17] This, however, do all poets believe: that whoever pricketh up his ears when lying in the grass or on lonely slopes, learneth something of the things that are betwixt heaven and earth. [¶18] And if there come unto them tender emotions, then do the poets always think that nature herself is in love with them: [¶19] And that she stealeth to their ear to whisper secrets into it, and amorous flatteries: of this do they plume and pride themselves, before all mortals! [¶20] Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreamed! [¶21] And especially ABOVE the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations, poet-sophistications! [¶22] Verily, ever are we drawn aloft—that is, to the realm of the clouds: on these do we set our gaudy puppets, and then call them Gods and Supermen:— [¶23] Are not they light enough for those chairs!—all these Gods and Supermen?— [¶24] Ah, how I am weary of all the inadequate that is insisted on as actual! Ah, how I am weary of the poets! [¶25] When Zarathustra so spake, his disciple resented it, but was silent. And Zarathustra also was silent; and his eye directed itself inwardly, as if it gazed into the far distance. At last he sighed and drew breath.— [¶26] I am of to-day and heretofore, said he thereupon; but something is in me that is of the morrow, and the day following, and the hereafter. [¶27] I became weary of the poets, of the old and of the new: superficial are they all unto me, and shallow seas. [¶28] They did not think sufficiently into the depth; therefore their feeling did not reach to the bottom. [¶29] Some sensation of voluptuousness and some sensation of tedium: these have as yet been their best contemplation. [¶30] Ghost-breathing and ghost-whisking, seemeth to me all the jingle-jangling of their harps; what have they known hitherto of the fervour of tones!— [¶31] They are also not pure enough for me: they all muddle their water that it may seem deep. [¶32] And fain would they thereby prove themselves reconcilers: but mediaries and mixers are they unto me, and half-and-half, and impure!— [¶33] Ah, I cast indeed my net into their sea, and meant to catch good fish; but always did I draw up the head of some ancient God. [¶34] Thus did the sea give a stone to the hungry one. And they themselves may well originate from the sea. [¶35] Certainly, one findeth pearls in them: thereby they are the more like hard molluscs. And instead of a soul, I have often found in them salt slime. [¶36] They have learned from the sea also its vanity: is not the sea the peacock of peacocks? [¶37] Even before the ugliest of all buffaloes doth it spread out its tail; never doth it tire of its lace-fan of silver and silk. [¶38] Disdainfully doth the buffalo glance thereat, nigh to the sand with its soul, nigher still to the thicket, nighest, however, to the swamp. [¶39] What is beauty and sea and peacock-splendour to it! This parable I speak unto the poets. [¶40] Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of vanity! [¶41] Spectators, seeketh the spirit of the poet—should they even be buffaloes!— [¶42] But of this spirit became I weary; and I see the time coming when it will become weary of itself. [¶43] Yea, changed have I seen the poets, and their glance turned towards themselves. [¶44] Penitents of the spirit have I seen appearing; they grew out of the poets.— [¶45] Thus spake Zarathustra.