Vatas' quote

[sMartins]

75. Science

THUS sang the magician; and all who were present went like birds unawares into the net of his artful and melancholy
voluptuousness. Only the spiritually conscientious one had not been caught: he at once snatched the harp from the magician and
called out: "Air! Let in good air! Let in Zarathustra! you make this cave sultry and poisonous, you bad old magician!
You seduce, you false one, you subtle one, to unknown desires and deserts. And alas, that such as you should talk and make
ado about the truth!
Alas, to all free spirits who are not on their guard against such magicians! It is all over with their freedom: you teach and tempt
back into prisons,-
-You old melancholy devil, out of your lament sounds a lurement: you resemble those who with their praise of chastity secretly
invite to voluptuousness!
Thus spoke the conscientious one; the old magician, however, looked about him, enjoying his triumph, and on that account put
up with the annoyance which the conscientious one caused him. "Be still!" said he with modest voice, "good songs want to reecho well; after good songs one should be long silent.
Thus do all those present, the higher men. You, however, have perhaps understood but little of my song? In you there is little of
the magic spirit.
"You praise me," replied the conscientious one, "in that you separate me from yourself; very well! But, you others, what do I see?
You still sit there, all of you, with lusting eyes-:
You free spirits, where has your freedom gone! You almost seem to me to resemble those who have long looked at bad girls
dancing naked: your souls themselves dance!
In you, you higher men, there must be more of that which the magician calls his evil spirit of magic and deceit:- we must indeed
be different.
And verily, we spoke and thought long enough together before. Zarathustra came home to his cave, for me not to be unaware
that we are different.
We seek different things even here aloft, you and I. For I seek more security; on that account have I come to Zarathustra. For he
is still the most steadfast tower and will-
-Today, when everything totters, when all the earth quakes. You, however, when I see what eyes you make, it almost seems to
me that you seek more insecurity,
-More horror, more danger, more earthquake. You long (it almost seems so to me- forgive my presumption, you higher men)-
-You long for the worst and dangerousest life, which frightens me most,- for the life of wild beasts, for forests, caves, steep
mountains and labyrinthine gorges.
And it is not those who lead out of danger that please you best, but those who lead you away from all paths, the misleaders. But
if such longing in you be actual, it seems to me nevertheless to be impossible.
For fear- that is man's original and fundamental feeling; through fear everything is explained, original sin and original virtue.
Through fear there grew also my virtue, that is to say: Science.
For fear of wild animals- that has been longest fostered in man, inclusive of the animal which he conceals and feares in himself:-
Zarathustra calls it 'the beast inside.'
Such prolonged ancient fear, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual- at present, me thinks, it is called Science."-
Thus spoke the conscientious one; but Zarathustra, who had just come back into his cave and had heard and divined the last
conversation, threw a handful of roses to the conscientious one, and laughed on account of his "truths." "Why!" he exclaimed,
"what did I hear just now? it seems to me, you are a fool, or else I myself am one: and quietly and quickly will I Put your 'truth'
upside down.
For fear- is an exception with us. Courage, however, and adventure, and delight in the uncertain, in the unattempted- courage
seems to me the entire primitive history of man.
The wildest and most courageous animals has he envied and robbed of all their virtues: thus only did he become- man.
This courage, at last become subtle, spiritual and intellectual, this human courage, with eagle's pinions and serpent's wisdom:
this, it seems to me, is called at present-"
"Zarathustra!" cried all of them there assembled, as if with one voice, and burst out at the same time into a great laughter; there
arose, however, from them as it were a heavy cloud. Even the magician laughed, and said wisely: "Well! It is gone, my evil spirit!
And did I not myself warn you against it when I said that it was a deceiver, a lying and deceiving spirit?
Especially when it shows itself naked. But what can I do with regard to its tricks! Have I created it and the world?
Well! Let us be good again, and of good cheer! And although Zarathustra looks with evil eye- just see him! he dislikes me-:
-Ere night comes will he again learn to love and laud me; he cannot live long without committing such follies.
He- loves his enemies: this art knows he better than any one I have seen. But he takes revenge for it- on his friends!"
Thus spoke the old magician, and the higher men applauded him; so that Zarathustra went round, and mischievously and lovingly
shook hands with his friends,- like one who has to make amends and apologise to every one for something. When however he
had thereby come to the door of his cave, lo, then had he again a longing for the good air outside, and for his animals,- and
wished to steal out.

[sMartins]

It doesn't exist any free particle with defined energy.
(cause once you go looking for it, or "trying to understand with reason", the particle is not free anymore)

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

[sMartins]

Jigsaw Falling Into Place by Radiohead

[sMartins]

79. The Drunken Song

1.
MEANWHILE one after another had gone out into the open air, and into the cool, thoughtful night; Zarathustra himself, however,
led the ugliest man by the hand, that he might show him his night-world, and the great round moon, and the silvery water-falls
near his cave. There they at last stood still beside one another; all of them old people, but with comforted, brave hearts, and
astonished in themselves that it was so well with them on earth; the mystery of the night, however, came closer and closer to
their hearts. And anew Zarathustra thought to himself: "Oh, how well do they now please me, these higher men!"- but he did not
say it aloud, for he respected their happiness and their silence.-
Then, however, there happened that which in this astonishing long day was most astonishing: the ugliest man began once more
and for the last time to gurgle and snort, and when he had at length found expression, behold! there sprang a question plump and
plain out of his mouth, a good, deep, clear question, which moved the hearts of all who listened to him.
"My friends, all of you," said the ugliest man, "what think ye? For the sake of this day- I am for the first time content to have lived
my entire life.
And that I testify so much is still not enough for me. It is worth while living on the earth: one day, one festival with Zarathustra,
has taught me to love the earth.
'Was that- life?' will I say to death. 'Well! Once more!'
My friends, what think ye? Will you not, like me, say to death: 'Was that- life? For the sake of Zarathustra, well! Once more!'"- -
Thus spoke the ugliest man; it was not, however, far from midnight. And what took place then, think ye? As soon as the higher
men heard his question, they became all at once conscious of their transformation and convalescence, and of him who was the
cause thereof: then did they rush up to Zarathustra, thanking, honoring, caressing him, and kissing his hands, each in his own
peculiar way; so that some laughed and some wept. The old soothsayer, however, danced with delight; and though he was then,
as some narrators suppose, full of sweet wine, he was certainly still fuller of sweet life, and had renounced all weariness. There
are even those who narrate that the ass then danced: for not in vain had the ugliest man previously given it wine to drink. That
may be the case, or it may be otherwise; and if in truth the ass did not dance that evening, there nevertheless happened then
greater and rarer wonders than the dancing of an ass would have been. In short, as the aphorism of Zarathustra says: "What
does it matter!"
2.
When, however, this took place with the ugliest man, Zarathustra stood there like one drunken: his glance dulled, his tongue
faltered and his feet staggered. And who could divine what thoughts then passed through Zarathustra's soul? Apparently,
however, his spirit retreated and fled in advance and was in remote distances, and as it were "wandering on high mountainridges," as it stands written, "'twixt two seas,
-Wandering 'twixt the past and the future as a heavy cloud." Gradually, however, while the higher men held him in their arms, he
came back to himself a little, and resisted with his hands the crowd of the honoring and caring ones; but he did not speak. All at
once, however, he turned his head quickly, for he seemed to hear something: then laid he his finger on his mouth and said:
"Come!"
And immediately it became still and mysterious round about; from the depth however there came up slowly the sound of a clockbell. Zarathustra listened thereto, like the higher men; then, however, laid he his finger on his mouth the second time, and said
again: "Come! Come! It is getting on to midnight!"- and his voice had changed. But still he had not moved from the spot. Then it
became yet stiller and more mysterious, and everything hearkened, even the ass, and Zarathustra's noble animals, the eagle and
the serpent,- likewise the cave of Zarathustra and the big cool moon, and the night itself. Zarathustra, however, laid his hand
upon his mouth for the third time, and said:
Come! Come! Come! Let us now wander! It is the hour: let us wander into the night!
3.
You higher men, it is getting on to midnight: then will I say something into your ears, as that old clock-bell says it into my ear,-
-As mysteriously, as frightfully, and as cordially as that midnight clock-bell speaks it to me, which has experienced more than one
man:
-Which has already counted the smarting throbbings of your fathers' hearts- ah! ah! how it sighs! how it laughs in its dream! the
old, deep, deep midnight!
Hush! Hush! Then is there many a thing heard which may not be heard by day; now however, in the cool air, when even all the
tumult of your hearts has become still,-
-Now does it speak, now is it heard, now does it steal into overwakeful, nocturnal souls: ah! ah! how the midnight sighs! how it
laughs in its dream!
-Hear you not how it mysteriously, frightfully, and cordially speaks to you, the old deep, deep midnight?
O man, take heed!
4.
Woe to me! Where has time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The world sleepsAh! Ah! The dog howls, the moon shins. Rather will I die, rather will I die, than say to you what my midnight-heart now thinks.
Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why spin you around me? Will you have blood? Ah! Ah! The dew falls, the hour comes-
-The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asks and asks and asks: "Who has sufficient courage for it?
-Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: Thus shall you flow, you great and small streams!"
-The hour approaches: O man, you higher man, take heed! this talk is for fine ears, for your ears- what says deep midnight's
voice indeed?
5.
It carries me away, my soul dances. Day's-work! Day's-work! Who is to be master of the world?
The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have you already flown high enough? You have danced: a leg, nevertheless, is not a
wing.
You good dancers, now is all delight over: wine has become lees, every cup has become brittle, the sepulchres mutter.
You have not flown high enough: now do the sepulchres mutter: "Free the dead! Why is it so long night? does not the moon make
us drunken?"
You higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why does the worm still burrow? There approaches, there
approaches, the hour,-
-There booms the clock-bell, there thrills still the heart, there burrows still the wood-worm, the heart-worm. Ah! Ah! The world is
deep!
6.
Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love your tone, your drunken, ranunculine tone!- how long, how far has come to me your tone, from the
distance, from the ponds of love!
You old clock-bell, you sweet lyre! Every pain has torn your heart, father-pain, fathers'-pain, forefathers'-pain; your speech has
become ripe,-
-Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like my hermit heart- now say you: The world itself has become ripe, the grape
turns brown,
-Now does it wish to die, to die of happiness. You higher men, do you not feel it? There wells up mysteriously an odour,
-A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed, brown, gold-wine-odour of old happiness.
-Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which sings: the world is deep, and deeper than the day could read!
7.
Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for you. Touch me not! has not my world just now become perfect?
My skin is too pure for your hands. Leave me alone, you dull, doltish, stupid day! Is not the midnight brighter?
The purest are to be masters of the world, the least known, the strongest, the midnight-souls, who are brighter and deeper than
any day.
O day, you grope for me? you feel for my happiness? For you am I rich, lonesome, a treasure-pit, a gold chamber?
O world, you want me? Am I worldly for you? Am I spiritual for you? Am I divine for you? But day and world, you are too coarse,-
-Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happiness, after deeper unhappiness, grasp after some God; grasp not after me:
-My unhappiness, my happiness is deep, you strange day, but yet am I no God, no God's-hell: deep is its woe.
8.
God's woe is deeper, you strange world! Grasp at God's woe, not at me! What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,-
-A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog, which no one understands, but which must speak before deaf ones, you higher men! For you do not
understand me!
Gone! Gone! O youth! O noontide! O afternoon! Now have come evening and night and midnight,- the dog howls, the wind:
-Is the wind not a dog? It whines, it barks, it howls. Ah! Ah! how she sighs! how she laughs, how she wheezes and pants, the
midnight!
How she just now speaks soberly, this drunken poetess! has she perhaps overdrunk her drunkenness? has she become
overawake? does she ruminate?
-Her woe does she ruminate over, in a dream, the old, deep midnight- and still more her joy. For joy, although woe be deep, joy is
deeper still than grief can be.
9.
You grape-vine! Why do you praise me? Have I not cut you! I am cruel, you bleedest-: what means your praise of my drunken
cruelty?
"Whatever has become perfect, everything mature- wants to die!" so say you. Blessed, blessed be the vintner's knife! But
everything immature wants to live: alas!
Woe says: "Hence! Go! Away, you woe!" But everything that suffers wants to live, that it may become mature and lively and
longing,
-Longing for the further, the higher, the brighter. "I want heirs," so says everything that suffers, "I want children, I do not want
myself,"-
Joy, however, does not want heirs, it does not want children,- joy wants itself, it wants eternity, it wants recurrence, it wants
everything eternally-like-itself.
Woe says: "Break, bleed, you heart! Wander, you leg! you wing, fly! Onward! upward! you pain!" Well! Cheer up! O my old heart:
Woe says: "Hence! Go!"
10.
You higher men, what think ye? Am I a soothsayer? Or a dreamer? Or a drunkard? Or a dream-reader? Or a midnight-bell?
Or a drop of dew? Or a fume and fragrance of eternity? Hear you it not? Smell you it not? Just now has my world become
perfect, midnight is also mid-day,-
Pain is also a joy, curse is also a blessing, night is also a sun,- go away! or you will learn that a sage is also a fool.
Said you ever Yes to one joy? O my friends, then said you Yes also to all woe. All things are enlinked, enlaced and enamoured,-
-Wanted you ever once to come twice; said you ever: "You please me, happiness! Instant! Moment!" then wanted you all to come
back again!
-All anew, all eternal, all enlinked, enlaced and enamoured, Oh, then did you love the world,-
-You eternal ones, you love it eternally and for all time: and also to woe do you say: Hence! Go! but come back! For joys all wanteternity!
11.
All joy wants the eternity of all things, it wants honey, it wants lees, it wants drunken midnight, it wants graves, it wants gravetears' consolation, it wants gilded evening-red-
-What does not joy want! it is thirstier, heartier, hungrier, more frightful, more mysterious, than all woe: it wants itself, it bites into
itself, the ring's will wriths in it,-
-It wants love, it wants hate, it is over-rich, it gives, it throws away, it begs for some one to take from it, it thanks the taker, it would
rather be hated,-
-So rich is joy that it thirsts for woe, for hell, for hate, for shame, for the lame, for the world,- for this world, Oh, you know it indeed!
You higher men, for you does it long, this joy, this irrepressible, blessed joy- for your woe, you failures! For failures, longs all
eternal joy.
For joys all want themselves, therefore do they also want grief! O happiness, O pain! Oh break, you heart! You higher men, do
learn it, that joys want eternity.
-Joys want the eternity of all things, they want deep, profound eternity!
12.
Have you now learned my song? Have you divined what it would say? Well! Cheer up! You higher men, sing now my roundelay!
Sing now yourselves the song, the name of which is "Once more," the signification of which is "To all eternity!"- sing, you higher
men, Zarathustra's roundelay!
O man! Take heed!
What says deep midnight's voice indeed?
"I slept my sleep-,
"From deepest dream I've woke, and plead:-
"The world is deep,
"And deeper than the day could read.
"Deep is its woe-,
"Joy- deeper still than grief can be:
"Woe says: Hence! Go!
"But joys all want eternity-,
"-Want deep, profound eternity!"

[sMartins]

Dawn Chorus by Thom Yorke

[sMartins]

80. The Sign

IN THE morning, however, after this night, Zarathustra jumped up from his couch, and, having girded his loins, he came out of his
cave glowing and strong, like a morning sun coming out of gloomy mountains.
"You great star," spoke he, as he had spoken once before, "you deep eye of happiness, what would be all your happiness if you
had not those for whom you shine!
And if they remained in their chambers whilst you are already awake, and come and give and distribute, how would your proud
modesty upbraid for it!
Well! they still sleep, these higher men, whilst I am awake: they are not my proper companions! Not for them do I wait here in my
mountains.
At my work I want to be, at my day: but they understand not what are the signs of my morning, my step- is not for them the
awakening-call.
They still sleep in my cave; their dream still drinks at my drunken songs. The audient ear for me- the obedient ear, is yet lacking
in their limbs."
-This had Zarathustra spoken to his heart when the sun arose: then looked he inquiringly aloft, for he heard above him the sharp
call of his eagle. "Well!" called he upwards, "thus is it pleasing and proper to me. My animals are awake, for I am awake.
My eagle is awake, and like me honors the sun. With eagle-talons does it grasp at the new light. You are my proper animals; I
love you.
But still do I lack my proper men!"-
Thus spoke Zarathustra; then, however, it happened that all on a sudden he became aware that he was flocked around and
fluttered around, as if by innumerable birds,- the whizzing of so many wings, however, and the crowding around his head was so
great that he shut his eyes. And verily, there came down upon him as it were a cloud, like a cloud of arrows which pours upon a
new enemy. But behold, here it was a cloud of love, and showered upon a new friend.
"What happens to me?" thought Zarathustra in his astonished heart, and slowly seated himself on the big stone which lay close
to the exit from his cave. But while he grasped about with his hands, around him, above him and below him, and repelled the
tender birds, behold, there then happened to him something still stranger: for he grasped thereby unawares into a mass of thick,
warm, shaggy hair; at the same time, however, there sounded before him a roar,- a long, soft lion-roar.
"The sign comes," said Zarathustra, and a change came over his heart. And in truth, when it turned clear before him, there lay a
yellow, powerful animal at his feet, resting its head on his knee,- unwilling to leave him out of love, and doing like a dog which
again finds its old master. The doves, however, were no less eager with their love than the lion; and whenever a dove whisked
over its nose, the lion shook its head and wondered and laughed.
When all this went on Zarathustra spoke only a word: "My children are nigh, my children"-, then he became quite mute. His heart,
however, was loosed, and from his eyes there dropped down tears and fell upon his hands. And he took no further notice of
anything, but sat there motionless, without repelling the animals further. Then flew the doves to and fro, and perched on his
shoulder, and caressed his white hair, and did not tire of their tenderness and joyousness. The strong lion, however, licked
always the tears that fell on Zarathustra's hands, and roared and growled shyly. Thus did these animals do.-
All this went on for a long time, or a short time: for properly speaking, there is no time on earth for such things-. Meanwhile,
however, the higher men had awakened in Zarathustra's cave, and marshalled themselves for a procession to go to meet
Zarathustra, and give him their morning greeting: for they had found when they awakened that he no longer tarried with them.
When, however, they reached the door of the cave and the noise of their steps had preceded them, the lion started violently; it
turned away all at once from Zarathustra, and roaring wildly, sprang towards the cave. The higher men, however, when they
heard the lion roaring, cried all aloud as with one voice, fled back and vanished in an instant.
Zarathustra himself, however, stunned and strange, rose from his seat, looked around him, stood there astonished, inquired of
his heart, bethought himself, and remained alone. "What did I hear?" said he at last, slowly, "what happened to me just now?"
But soon there came to him his recollection, and he took in at a glance all that had taken place between yesterday and to-day.
"Here is indeed the stone," said he, and stroked his beard, "on it sat I yester-morn; and here came the soothsayer to me, and
here heard I first the cry which I heard just now, the great cry of distress.
O you higher men, your distress was it that the old soothsayer foretold to me yester-morn,-
-To your distress did he want to seduce and tempt me: 'O Zarathustra,' said he to me, 'I come to seduce you to your last sin.'
To my last sin?" cried Zarathustra, and laughed angrily at his own words: "what has been reserved for me as my last sin?"
-And once more Zarathustra became absorbed in himself, and sat down again on the big stone and meditated. Suddenly he
sprang up,-
"Fellow-suffering! Fellow-suffering with the higher men!" he cried out, and his countenance changed into brass. "Well! That- has
had its time!
My suffering and my fellow-suffering- what matter about them! Do I then strive after happiness? I strive after my work!
Well! The lion has come, my children are nigh, Zarathustra has grown ripe, my hour has come:-
This is my morning, my day begins: arise now, arise, you great noontide!"- -
Thus spoke Zarathustra and left his cave, glowing and strong, like a morning sun coming out of gloomy mountains.

THE END of Thuse Spoke Zarathustra