To what do you refer?

To the rejection of imitative poetry, which certainly ought not to be received; as I see far more clearly now that the parts of the soul have been distinguished.

What do you mean?

Speaking in confidence, for I should not like to have my words repeated to the tragedians and the rest of the imitative tribe--but I do not mind saying to you, that all poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, and that the knowledge of their true nature is the only antidote to them.

Explain the purport of your remark.

Well, I will tell you, although I have always from my earliest youth had an awe and love of Homer, which even now makes the words falter on my lips, for he is the great captain and teacher of the whole of that charming tragic company; but a man is not to be reverenced more than the truth, and therefore I will speak out.

Very good, he said.

Listen to me then, or rather, answer me.

Put your question.

Can you tell me what imitation is? for I really do not know.

A likely thing, then, that I should know.

Why not? for the duller eye may often see a thing sooner than the keener.

Very true, he said; but in your presence, even if I had any faint notion, I could not muster courage to utter it. Will you enquire yourself?

Well then, shall we begin the enquiry in our usual manner: Whenever a number of individuals have a common name, we a.s.sume them to have also a corresponding idea or form:--do you understand me?

I do.

Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables in the world-- plenty of them, are there not?

Yes.

But there are only two ideas or forms of them--one the idea of a bed, the other of a table.

True.

And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a table for our use, in accordance with the idea--that is our way of speaking in this and similar instances--but no artificer makes the ideas themselves: how could he?

Impossible.

And there is another artist,--I should like to know what you would say of him.

Who is he?

One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen.

What an extraordinary man!

Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying so. For this is he who is able to make not only vessels of every kind, but plants and animals, himself and all other things--the earth and heaven, and the things which are in heaven or under the earth; he makes the G.o.ds also.

He must be a wizard and no mistake.

Oh! you are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is no such maker or creator, or that in one sense there might be a maker of all these things but in another not? Do you see that there is a way in which you could make them all yourself?

What way?

An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in which the feat might be quickly and easily accomplished, none quicker than that of turning a mirror round and round--you would soon enough make the sun and the heavens, and the earth and yourself, and other animals and plants, and all the other things of which we were just now speaking, in the mirror.

Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only.

Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the painter too is, as I conceive, just such another--a creator of appearances, is he not?

Of course.

But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is untrue. And yet there is a sense in which the painter also creates a bed?

Yes, he said, but not a real bed.

And what of the maker of the bed? were you not saying that he too makes, not the idea which, according to our view, is the essence of the bed, but only a particular bed?

Yes, I did.

Then if he does not make that which exists he cannot make true existence, but only some semblance of existence; and if any one were to say that the work of the maker of the bed, or of any other workman, has real existence, he could hardly be supposed to be speaking the truth.

At any rate, he replied, philosophers would say that he was not speaking the truth.

No wonder, then, that his work too is an indistinct expression of truth.

No wonder.

Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered we enquire who this imitator is?

If you please.

Well then, here are three beds: one existing in nature, which is made by G.o.d, as I think that we may say--for no one else can be the maker?

No.

There is another which is the work of the carpenter?

Yes.

And the work of the painter is a third?

Yes.

Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists who superintend them: G.o.d, the maker of the bed, and the painter?

Yes, there are three of them.

G.o.d, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in nature and one only; two or more such ideal beds neither ever have been nor ever will be made by G.o.d.

Why is that?

Because even if He had made but two, a third would still appear behind them which both of them would have for their idea, and that would be the ideal bed and not the two others.

Very true, he said.

G.o.d knew this, and He desired to be the real maker of a real bed, not a particular maker of a particular bed, and therefore He created a bed which is essentially and by nature one only.

So we believe.

Shall we, then, speak of Him as the natural author or maker of the bed?

Yes, he replied; inasmuch as by the natural process of creation He is the author of this and of all other things.

And what shall we say of the carpenter--is not he also the maker of the bed?

Yes.

But would you call the painter a creator and maker?

Certainly not.

Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed?

I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imitator of that which the others make.

Good, I said; then you call him who is third in the descent from nature an imitator?

Certainly, he said.

And the tragic poet is an imitator, and therefore, like all other imitators, he is thrice removed from the king and from the truth?

That appears to be so.

Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the painter?--I would like to know whether he may be thought to imitate that which originally exists in nature, or only the creations of artists?

The latter.

As they are or as they appear? you have still to determine this.

What do you mean?

I mean, that you may look at a bed from different points of view, obliquely or directly or from any other point of view, and the bed will appear different, but there is no difference in reality. And the same of all things.

Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent.

Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of painting designed to be--an imitation of things as they are, or as they appear--of appearance or of reality?

Of appearance.

Then the imitator, I said, is a long way off the truth, and can do all things because he lightly touches on a small part of them, and that part an image. For example: A painter will paint a cobbler, carpenter, or any other artist, though he knows nothing of their arts; and, if he is a good artist, he may deceive children or simple persons, when he shows them ! No, I do not like them, those animals tangled in the heavenly toils! Far from me also be the G.o.d who limpeth thither to bless what he hath not matched! Laugh not at such marriages! What child hath not had reason to weep over its parents? Worthy did this man seem, and ripe for the meaning of the earth: but when I saw his wife, the earth seemed to me a home for madcaps. Yea, I would that the earth shook with convulsions when a saint and a goose mate with one another. This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero, and at last got for himself a small decked-up lie: his marriage he calleth it. That one was reserved in intercourse and chose choicely. But one time he spoilt his company for all time: his marriage he calleth it. Another sought a handmaid with the virtues of an angel. But all at once he became the handmaid of a woman, and now would he need also to become an angel. Careful, have I found all buyers, and all of them have astute eyes. But even the astutest of them buyeth his wife in a sack. Many short follies--that is called love by you. And your marriage putteth an end to many short follies, with one long stupidity. Your love to woman, and woman's love to man--ah, would that it were sympathy for suffering and veiled deities! But generally two animals alight on one another. But even your best love is only an enraptured simile and a painful ardour. It is a torch to light you to loftier paths. Beyond yourselves shall ye love some day! Then LEARN first of all to love. And on that account ye had to drink the bitter cup of your love. Bitterness is in the cup even of the best love: thus doth it cause longing for the Superman; thus doth it cause thirst in thee, the creating one! Thirst in the creating one, arrow and longing for the Superman: tell me, my brother, is this thy will to marriage? Holy call I such a will, and such a marriage.-- Thus spake Zarathustra. XXI. VOLUNTARY DEATH. Many die too late, and some die too early. Yet strange soundeth the precept: "Die at the right time! Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra. To be sure, he who never liveth at the right time, how could he ever die at the right time? Would that he might never be born!--Thus do I advise the superfluous ones. But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even the hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked. Every one regardeth dying as a great matter: but as yet death is not a festival. Not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals. The consummating death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and promise to the living. His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping and promising ones. Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no festival at which such a dying one doth not consecrate the oaths of the living! Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is to die in battle, and sacrifice a great soul. But to the fighter equally hateful as to the victor, is your grinning death which stealeth nigh like a thief,--and yet cometh as master. My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary death, which cometh unto me because f2i I f0i0 want it. And when shall I want it?--He that hath a goal and an heir, wanteth death at the right time for the goal and the heir. And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no more withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life. Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever backward. Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless mouth hath no longer the right to every truth. And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult art of--going at the right time. One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is known by those who want to be long loved. Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last day of autumn: and at the same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled. In some ageth the heart first, and in others the spirit. And some are h.o.a.ry in youth, but the late young keep long young. To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm gnaweth at their heart. Then let them see to it that their dying is all the more a success. Many never become sweet; they rot even in the summer. It is cowardice that holdeth them fast to their branches. Far too many live, and far too long hang they on their branches. Would that a storm came and shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from the tree! Would that there came preachers of SPEEDY death! Those would be the appropriate storms and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only slow death preached, and patience with all that is "earthly." Ah! ye preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that hath too much patience with you, ye blasphemers! Verily, too early died that Hebrew whom the preachers of slow death honour: and to many hath it proved a calamity that he died too early. As yet had he known only tears, and the melancholy of the Hebrews, together with the hatred of the good and just--the Hebrew Jesus: then was he seized with the longing for death. Had he but remained in the wilderness, and far from the good and just! Then, perhaps, would he have learned to live, and love the earth--and laughter also! Believe it, my brethren! He died too early; he himself would have disavowed his doctrine had he attained to my age! n.o.ble enough was he to disavow! But he was still immature. Immaturely loveth the youth, and immaturely also hateth he man and earth. Confined and awkward are still his soul and the wings of his spirit. But in man there is more of the child than in the youth, and less of melancholy: better understandeth he about life and death. Free for death, and free in death; a holy Naysayer, when there is no longer time for Yea: thus understandeth he about death and life. That your dying may not be a reproach to man and the earth, my friends: that do I solicit from the honey of your soul. In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still shine like an evening after-glow around the earth: otherwise your dying hath been unsatisfactory. Thus will I die myself, that ye friends may love the earth more for my sake; and earth will I again become, to have rest in her that bore me. Verily, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw his ball. Now be ye friends the heirs of my goal; to you throw I the golden ball. Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the golden ball! And so tarry I still a little while on the earth--pardon me for it! Thus spake Zarathustra. XXII. THE BESTOWING VIRTUE. 1. When Zarathustra had taken leave of the town to which his heart was attached, the name of which is "The Pied Cow," there followed him many people who called themselves his disciples, and kept him company. Thus came they to a crossroad. Then Zarathustra told them that he now wanted to go alone; for he was fond of going alone. His disciples, however, presented him at his departure with a staff, on the golden handle of which a serpent twined round the sun. Zarathustra rejoiced on account of the staff, and supported himself thereon; then spake he thus to his disciples: Tell me, pray: how came gold to the highest value? Because it is uncommon, and unprofiting, and beaming, and soft in l.u.s.tre; it always bestoweth itself. Only as image of the highest virtue came gold to the highest value. Goldlike, beameth the glance of the bestower. Gold-l.u.s.tre maketh peace between moon and sun. Uncommon is the highest virtue, and unprofiting, beaming is it, and soft of l.u.s.tre: a bestowing virtue is the highest virtue. Verily, I divine you well, my disciples: ye strive like me for the bestowing virtue. What should ye have in common with cats and wolves? It is your thirst to become sacrifices and gifts yourselves: and therefore have ye the thirst to acc.u.mulate all riches in your soul. Insatiably striveth your soul for treasures and jewels, because your virtue is insatiable in desiring to bestow. Ye constrain all things to flow towards you and into you, so that they shall flow back again out of your fountain as the gifts of your love. Verily, an appropriator of all values must such bestowing love become; but healthy and holy, call I this selfishness.-- Another selfishness is there, an all-too-poor and hungry kind, which would always steal--the selfishness of the sick, the sickly selfishness. With the eye of the thief it looketh upon all that is l.u.s.trous; with the craving of hunger it measureth him who hath abundance; and ever doth it prowl round the tables of bestowers. Sickness speaketh in such craving, and invisible degeneration; of a sickly body, speaketh the larcenous craving of this selfishness. Tell me, my brother, what do we think bad, and worst of all? Is it not DEGENERATION?--And we always suspect degeneration when the bestowing soul is lacking. Upward goeth our course from genera on to super-genera. But a horror to us is the degenerating sense, which saith: "All for myself." Upward soareth our sense: thus is it a simile of our body, a simile of an elevation. Such similes of elevations are the names of the virtues. Thus goeth the body through history, a becomer and fighter. And the spirit--what is it to the body? Its fights' and victories' herald, its companion and echo. Similes, are all names of good and evil; they do not speak out, they only hint. A fool who seeketh knowledge from them! Give heed, my brethren, to every hour when your spirit would speak in similes: there is the origin of your virtue. Elevated is then your body, and raised up; with its delight, enraptureth it the spirit; so that it becometh creator, and valuer, and lover, and everything's benefactor. When your heart overfloweth broad and full like the river, a blessing and a danger to the lowlanders: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye are exalted above praise and blame, and your will would command all things, as a loving one's will: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye despise pleasant things, and the effeminate couch, and cannot couch far enough from the effeminate: there is the origin of your virtue. When ye are willers of one will, and when that change of every need is needful to you: there is the origin of your virtue. Verily, a new good and evil is it! Verily, a new deep murmuring, and the voice of a new fountain! Power is it, this new virtue; a ruling thought is it, and around it a subtle soul: a golden sun, with the serpent of knowledge around it. 2. Here paused Zarathustra awhile, and looked lovingly on his disciples. Then he continued to speak thus--and his voice had changed: Remain true to the earth, my brethren, with the power of your virtue! Let your bestowing love and your knowledge be devoted to be the meaning of the earth! Thus do I pray and conjure you. Let it not fly away from the earthly and beat against eternal walls with its wings! Ah, there hath always been so much flown-away virtue! Lead, like me, the flown-away virtue back to the earth--yea, back to body and life: that it may give to the earth its meaning, a human meaning! A hundred times. .h.i.therto hath spirit as well as virtue flown away and blundered. Alas! in our body dwelleth still all this delusion and blundering: body and will hath it there become. A hundred times. .h.i.therto hath spirit as well as virtue attempted and erred. Yea, an attempt hath man been. Alas, much ignorance and error hath become embodied in us! Not only the rationality of millenniums--also their madness, breaketh out in us. Dangerous is it to be an heir. Still fight we step by step with the giant Chance, and over all mankind hath hitherto ruled nonsense, the lack-of-sense. Let your spirit and your virtue be devoted to the sense of the earth, my brethren: let the value of everything be determined anew by you! Therefore shall ye be fighters! Therefore shall ye be creators! Intelligently doth the body purify itself; attempting with intelligence it exalteth itself; to the discerners all impulses sanctify themselves; to the exalted the soul becometh joyful. Physician, heal thyself: then wilt thou also heal thy patient. Let it be his best cure to see with his eyes him who maketh himself whole. A thousand paths are there which have never yet been trodden; a thousand salubrities and hidden islands of life. Unexhausted and undiscovered is still man and man's world. Awake and hearken, ye lonesome ones! From the future come winds with stealthy pinions, and to fine ears good tidings are proclaimed. Ye lonesome ones of to-day, ye seceding ones, ye shall one day be a people: out of you who have chosen yourselves, shall a chosen people arise:--and out of it the Superman. Verily, a place of healing shall the earth become! And already is a new odour diffused around it, a salvation-bringing odour--and a new hope! 3. When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he paused, like one who had not said his last word; and long did he balance the staff doubtfully in his hand. At last he spake thus--and his voice had changed: I now go alone, my disciples! Ye also now go away, and alone! So will I have it. Verily, I advise you: depart from me, and guard yourselves against Zarathustra! And better still: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he hath deceived you. The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies, but also to hate his friends. One requiteth a teacher badly if one remain merely a scholar. And why will ye not pluck at my wreath? Ye venerate me; but what if your veneration should some day collapse? Take heed lest a statue crush you! Ye say, ye believe in Zarathustra? But of what account is Zarathustra! Ye are my believers: but of what account are all believers! Ye had not yet sought yourselves: then did ye find me. So do all believers; therefore all belief is of so little account. Now do I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you. Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; with another love shall I then love you. And once again shall ye have become friends unto me, and children of one hope: then will I be with you for the third time, to celebrate the great noontide with you. And it is the great noontide, when man is in the middle of his course between animal and Superman, and celebrateth his advance to the evening as his highest hope: for it is the advance to a new morning. At such time will the down-goer bless himself, that he should be an over- goer; and the sun of his knowledge will be at noontide. "DEAD ARE ALL THE G.o.dS: NOW DO WE DESIRE THE SUPERMAN TO LIVE."--Let this be our final will at the great noontide!-- Thus spake Zarathustra. THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA. SECOND PART. "-and only when ye have all denied me, will I return unto you. Verily, with other eyes, my brethren, shall I then seek my lost ones; with another love shall I then love you."--ZARATHUSTRA, I., "The Bestowing Virtue." XXIII. THE CHILD WITH THE MIRROR. After this Zarathustra returned again into the mountains to the solitude of his cave, and withdrew himself from men, waiting like a sower who hath scattered his seed. His soul, however, became impatient and full of longing for those whom he loved: because he had still much to give them. For this is hardest of all: to close the open hand out of love, and keep modest as a giver. Thus pa.s.sed with the lonesome one months and years; his wisdom meanwhile increased, and caused him pain by its abundance. One morning, however, he awoke ere the rosy dawn, and having meditated long on his couch, at last spake thus to his heart: Why did I startle in my dream, so that I awoke? Did not a child come to me, carrying a mirror? "O Zarathustra"--said the child unto me--"look at thyself in the mirror!" But when I looked into the mirror, I shrieked, and my heart throbbed: for not myself did I see therein, but a devil's grimace and derision. Verily, all too well do I understand the dream's portent and monition: my DOCTRINE is in danger; tares want to be called wheat! Mine enemies have grown powerful and have disfigured the likeness of my doctrine, so that my dearest ones have to blush for the gifts that I gave them. Lost are my friends; the hour hath come for me to seek my lost ones!-- With these words Zarathustra started up, not however like a person in anguish seeking relief, but rather like a seer and a singer whom the spirit inspireth. With amazement did his eagle and serpent gaze upon him: for a coming bliss overspread his countenance like the rosy dawn. What hath happened unto me, mine animals?--said Zarathustra. Am I not transformed? Hath not bliss come unto me like a whirlwind? Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will it speak: it is still too young--so have patience with it! Wounded am I by my happiness: all sufferers shall be physicians unto me! To my friends can I again go down, and also to mine enemies! Zarathustra can again speak and bestow, and show his best love to his loved ones! My impatient love overfloweth in streams,--down towards sunrise and sunset. Out of silent mountains and storms of affliction, rusheth my soul into the valleys. Too long have I longed and looked into the distance. Too long hath solitude possessed me: thus have I unlearned to keep silence. Utterance have I become altogether, and the brawling of a brook from high rocks: downward into the valleys will I hurl my speech. And let the stream of my love sweep into unfrequented channels! How should a stream not finally find its way to the sea! Forsooth, there is a lake in me, sequestered and self-sufficing; but the stream of my love beareth this along with it, down--to the sea! New paths do I tread, a new speech cometh unto me; tired have I become-- like all creators--of the old tongues. No longer will my spirit walk on worn-out soles. Too slowly runneth all speaking for me:--into thy chariot, O storm, do I leap! And even thee will I whip with my spite! Like a cry and an huzza will I traverse wide seas, till I find the Happy Isles where my friends sojourn;- And mine enemies amongst them! How I now love every one unto whom I may but speak! Even mine enemies pertain to my bliss. And when I want to mount my wildest horse, then doth my spear always help me up best: it is my foot's ever ready servant:-- The spear which I hurl at mine enemies! How grateful am I to mine enemies that I may at last hurl it! Too great hath been the tension of my cloud: 'twixt laughters of lightnings will I cast hail-showers into the depths. Violently will my breast then heave; violently will it blow its storm over the mountains: thus cometh its a.s.suagement. Verily, like a storm cometh my happiness, and my freedom! But mine enemies shall think that THE EVIL ONE roareth over their heads. Yea, ye also, my friends, will be alarmed by my wild wisdom; and perhaps ye will flee therefrom, along with mine enemies. Ah, that I knew how to lure you back with shepherds' flutes! Ah, that my lioness wisdom would learn to roar softly! And much have we already learned with one another! My wild wisdom became pregnant on the lonesome mountains; on the rough stones did she bear the youngest of her young. Now runneth she foolishly in the arid wilderness, and seeketh and seeketh the soft sward--mine old, wild wisdom! On the soft sward of your hearts, my friends!--on your love, would she fain couch her dearest one!-- Thus spake Zarathustra. XXIV. IN THE HAPPY ISLES. The figs fall from the trees, they are good and sweet; and in falling the red skins of them break. A north wind am I to ripe figs. Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you, my friends: imbibe now their juice and their sweet substance! It is autumn all around, and clear sky, and afternoon. Lo, what fullness is around us! And out of the midst of superabundance, it is delightful to look out upon distant seas. Once did people say G.o.d, when they looked out upon distant seas; now, however, have I taught you to say, Superman. G.o.d is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond your creating will. Could ye CREATE a G.o.d?--Then, I pray you, be silent about all G.o.ds! But ye could well create the Superman. Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But into fathers and forefathers of the Superman could ye transform yourselves: and let that be your best creating!-- G.o.d is a conjecture: but I should like your conjecturing restricted to the conceivable. Could ye CONCEIVE a G.o.d?--But let this mean Will to Truth unto you, that everything be transformed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discernment shall ye follow out to the end! And what ye have called the world shall but be created by you: your reason, your likeness, your will, your love, shall it itself become! And verily, for your bliss, ye discerning ones! And how would ye endure life without that hope, ye discerning ones? Neither in the inconceivable could ye have been born, nor in the irrational. But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto you, my friends: IF there were G.o.ds, how could I endure it to be no G.o.d! THEREFORE there are no G.o.ds. Yea, I have drawn the conclusion; now, however, doth it draw me.-- G.o.d is a conjecture: but who could drink all the bitterness of this conjecture without dying? Shall his faith be taken from the creating one, and from the eagle his flights into eagle-heights? G.o.d is a thought--it maketh all the straight crooked, and all that standeth reel. What? Time would be gone, and all the perishable would be but a lie? To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human limbs, and even vomiting to the stomach: verily, the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such a thing. Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teaching about the one, and the plenum, and the unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable! All the imperishable--that's but a simile, and the poets lie too much.-- But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall they be, and a justification of all perishableness! Creating--that is the great salvation from suffering, and life's alleviation. But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much transformation. Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers of all perishableness. For the creator himself to be the new-born child, he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and endure the pangs of the child-bearer. Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way, and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes. Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart- breaking last hours. But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or, to tell you it more candidly: just such a fate--willeth my Will. All FEELING suffereth in me, and is in prison: but my WILLING ever cometh to me as mine emanc.i.p.ator and comforter. Willing emanc.i.p.ateth: that is the true doctrine of will and emanc.i.p.ation-- so teacheth you Zarathustra. No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no longer creating! Ah, that that great debility may ever be far from me! And also in discerning do I feel only my will's procreating and evolving delight; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is will to procreation in it. Away from G.o.d and G.o.ds did this will allure me; what would there be to create if there were--G.o.ds! But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer to the stone. Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image for me, the image of my visions! Ah, that it should slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone! Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone fly the fragments: what's that to me? I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me--the stillest and lightest of all things once came unto me! The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my brethren! Of what account now are--the G.o.ds to me!-- Thus spake Zarathustra. XXV. THE PITIFUL. My friends, there hath arisen a satire on your friend: "Behold Zarathustra! Walketh he not amongst us as if amongst animals?" But it is better said in this wise: "The discerning one walketh amongst men AS amongst animals." Man himself is to the discerning one: the animal with red cheeks. How hath that happened unto him? Is it not because he hath had to be ashamed too oft? O my friends! Thus speaketh the discerning one: shame, shame, shame--that is the history of man! And on that account doth the n.o.ble one enjoin upon himself not to abash: bashfulness doth he enjoin on himself in presence of all sufferers. Verily, I like them not, the merciful ones, whose bliss is in their pity: too dest.i.tute are they of bashfulness. If I must be pitiful, I dislike to be called so; and if I be so, it is preferably at a distance. Preferably also do I shroud my head, and flee, before being recognised: and thus do I bid you do, my friends! May my destiny ever lead unafflicted ones like you across my path, and those with whom I MAY have hope and repast and honey in common! Verily, I have done this and that for the afflicted: but something better did I always seem to do when I had learned to enjoy myself better. Since humanity came into being, man hath enjoyed himself too little: that alone, my brethren, is our original sin! And when we learn better to enjoy ourselves, then do we unlearn best to give pain unto others, and to contrive pain. Therefore do I wash the hand that hath helped the sufferer; therefore do I wipe also my soul. For in seeing the sufferer suffering--thereof was I ashamed on account of his shame; and in helping him, sorely did I wound his pride. Great obligations do not make grateful, but revengeful; and when a small kindness is not forgotten, it becometh a gnawing worm. "Be shy in accepting! Distinguish by accepting!"--thus do I advise those who have naught to bestow. I, however, am a bestower: willingly do I bestow as friend to friends. Strangers, however, and the poor, may pluck for themselves the fruit from my tree: thus doth it cause less shame. Beggars, however, one should entirely do away with! Verily, it annoyeth one to give unto them, and it annoyeth one not to give unto them. And likewise sinners and bad consciences! Believe me, my friends: the sting of conscience teacheth one to sting. The worst things, however, are the petty thoughts. Verily, better to have done evilly than to have thought pettily! To be sure, ye say: "The delight in petty evils spareth one many a great evil deed." But here one should not wish to be sparing. Like a boil is the evil deed: it itcheth and irritateth and breaketh forth--it speaketh honourably. "Behold, I am disease," saith the evil deed: that is its honourableness. But like infection is the petty thought: it creepeth and hideth, and wanteth to be nowhere--until the whole body is decayed and withered by the petty infection. To him however, who is possessed of a devil, I would whisper this word in the ear: "Better for thee to rear up thy devil! Even for thee there is still a path to greatness!"-- Ah, my brethren! One knoweth a little too much about every one! And many a one becometh transparent to us, but still we can by no means penetrate him. It is difficult to live among men because silence is so difficult. And not to him who is offensive to us are we most unfair, but to him who doth not concern us at all. If, however, thou hast a suffering friend, then be a resting-place for his suffering; like a hard bed, however, a camp-bed: thus wilt thou serve him best. And if a friend doeth thee wrong, then say: "I forgive thee what thou hast done unto me; that thou hast done it unto THYSELF, however--how could I forgive that!" Thus speaketh all great love: it surpa.s.seth even forgiveness and pity. One should hold fast one's heart; for when one letteth it go, how quickly doth one's head run away! Ah, where in the world have there been greater follies than with the pitiful? And what in the world hath caused more suffering than the follies of the pitiful? Woe unto all loving ones who have not an elevation which is above their pity! Thus spake the devil unto me, once on a time: "Even G.o.d hath his h.e.l.l: it is his love for man." And lately, did I hear him say these words: "G.o.d is dead: of his pity for man hath G.o.d died."-- So be ye warned against pity: FROM THENCE there yet cometh unto men a heavy cloud! Verily, I understand weather-signs! But attend also to this word: All great love is above all its pity: for it seeketh--to create what is loved! "Myself do I offer unto my love, AND MY NEIGHBOUR AS MYSELF"--such is the language of all creators. All creators, however, are hard.-- Thus spake Zarathustra. XXVI. THE PRIESTS. And one day Zarathustra made a sign to his disciples, and spake these words unto them: "Here are priests: but although they are mine enemies, pa.s.s them quietly and with sleeping swords! Even among them there are heroes; many of them have suffered too much--: so they want to make others suffer. Bad enemies are they: nothing is more revengeful than their meekness. And readily doth he soil himself who toucheth them. But my blood is related to theirs; and I want withal to see my blood honoured in theirs."-- And when they had pa.s.sed, a pain attacked Zarathustra; but not long had he struggled with the pain, when he began to speak thus: It moveth my heart for those priests. They also go against my taste; but that is the smallest matter unto me, since I am among men. But I suffer and have suffered with them: prisoners are they unto me, and stigmatised ones. He whom they call Saviour put them in fetters:-- In fetters of false values and fatuous words! Oh, that some one would save them from their Saviour! On an isle they once thought they had landed, when the sea tossed them about; but behold, it was a slumbering monster! False values and fatuous words: these are the worst monsters for mortals-- long slumbereth and waiteth the fate that is in them. But at last it cometh and awaketh and devoureth and engulfeth whatever hath built tabernacles upon it. Oh, just look at those tabernacles which those priests have built themselves! Churches, they call their sweet-smelling caves! Oh, that falsified light, that mustified air! Where the soul--may not fly aloft to its height! But so enjoineth their belief: "On your knees, up the stair, ye sinners!" Verily, rather would I see a shameless one than the distorted eyes of their shame and devotion! Who created for themselves such caves and penitence-stairs? Was it not those who sought to conceal themselves, and were ashamed under the clear sky? And only when the clear sky looketh again through ruined roofs, and down upon gra.s.s and red poppies on ruined walls--will I again turn my heart to the seats of this G.o.d. They called G.o.d that which opposed and afflicted them: and verily, there was much hero-spirit in their worship! And they knew not how to love their G.o.d otherwise than by nailing men to the cross! As corpses they thought to live; in black draped they their corpses; even in their talk do I still feel the evil flavour of charnel-houses. And he who liveth nigh unto them liveth nigh unto black pools, wherein the toad singeth his song with sweet gravity. Better songs would they have to sing, for me to believe in their Saviour: more like saved ones would his disciples have to appear unto me! Naked, would I like to see them: for beauty alone should preach penitence. But whom would that disguised affliction convince! Verily, their Saviours themselves came not from freedom and freedom's seventh heaven! Verily, they themselves never trod the carpets of knowledge! Of defects did the spirit of those Saviours consist; but into every defect had they put their illusion, their stop-gap, which they called G.o.d. In their pity was their spirit drowned; and when they swelled and o'erswelled with pity, there always floated to the surface a great folly. Eagerly and with shouts drove they their flock over their foot-bridge; as if there were but one foot-bridge to the future! Verily, those shepherds also were still of the flock! Small spirits and s.p.a.cious souls had those shepherds: but, my brethren, what small domains have even the most s.p.a.cious souls. .h.i.therto been! Characters of blood did they write on the way they went, and their folly taught that truth is proved by blood. But blood is the very worst witness to truth; blood tainteth the purest teaching, and turneth it into delusion and hatred of heart. And when a person goeth through fire for his teaching--what doth that prove! It is more, verily, when out of one's own burning cometh one's own teaching! Sultry heart and cold head; where these meet, there ariseth the bl.u.s.terer, the "Saviour." Greater ones, verily, have there been, and higher-born ones, than those whom the people call Saviours, those rapturous bl.u.s.terers! And by still greater ones than any of the Saviours must ye be saved, my brethren, if ye would find the way to freedom! Never yet hath there been a Superman. Naked have I seen both of them, the greatest man and the smallest man:-- All-too-similar are they still to each other. Verily, even the greatest found I--all-too-human!-- Thus spake Zarathustra. XXVII. THE VIRTUOUS. With thunder and heavenly fireworks must one speak to indolent and somnolent senses. But beauty's voice speaketh gently: it appealeth only to the most awakened souls. Gently vibrated and laughed unto me to-day my buckler; it was beauty's holy laughing and thrilling. At you, ye virtuous ones, laughed my beauty to-day. And thus came its voice unto me: "They want--to be paid besides!" Ye want to be paid besides, ye virtuous ones! Ye want reward for virtue, and heaven for earth, and eternity for your to-day? And now ye upbraid me for teaching that there is no reward-giver, nor paymaster? And verily, I do not even teach that virtue is its own reward. Ah! this is my sorrow: into the basis of things have reward and punishment been insinuated--and now even into the basis of your souls, ye virtuous ones! But like the snout of the boar shall my word grub up the basis of your souls; a ploughshare will I be called by you. All the secrets of your heart shall be brought to light; and when ye lie in the sun, grubbed up and broken, then will also your falsehood be separated from your truth. For this is your truth: ye are TOO PURE for the filth of the words: vengeance, punishment, recompense, retribution. Ye love your virtue as a mother loveth her child; but when did one hear of a mother wanting to be paid for her love? It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring's thirst is in you: to reach itself again struggleth every ring, and turneth itself. And like the star that goeth out, so is every work of your virtue: ever is its light on its way and travelling--and when will it cease to be on its way? Thus is the light of your virtue still on its way, even when its work is done. Be it forgotten and dead, still its ray of light liveth and travelleth. That your virtue is your Self, and not an outward thing, a skin, or a cloak: that is the truth from the basis of your souls, ye virtuous ones!-- But sure enough there are those to whom virtue meaneth writhing under the lash: and ye have hearkened too much unto their crying! And others are there who call virtue the slothfulness of their vices; and when once their hatred and jealousy relax the limbs, their "justice" becometh lively and rubbeth its sleepy eyes. And others are there who are drawn downwards: their devils draw them. But the more they sink, the more ardently gloweth their eye, and the longing for their G.o.d. Ah! their crying also hath reached your ears, ye virtuous ones: "What I am NOT, that, that is G.o.d to me, and virtue!" And others are there who go along heavily and creakingly, like carts taking stones downhill: they talk much of dignity and virtue--their drag they call virtue! And others are there who are like eight-day clocks when wound up; they tick, and want people to call ticking--virtue. Verily, in those have I mine amus.e.m.e.nt: wherever I find such clocks I shall wind them up with my mockery, and they shall even whirr thereby! And others are proud of their modic.u.m of righteousness, and for the sake of it do violence to all things: so that the world is drowned in their unrighteousness. Ah! how ineptly cometh the word "virtue" out of their mouth! And when they say: "I am just," it always soundeth like: "I am just--revenged!" With their virtues they want to scratch out the eyes of their enemies; and they elevate themselves only that they may lower others. And again there are those who sit in their swamp, and speak thus from among the bulrushes: "Virtue--that is to sit quietly in the swamp. We bite no one, and go out of the way of him who would bite; and in all matters we have the opinion that is given us." And again there are those who love att.i.tudes, and think that virtue is a sort of att.i.tude. Their knees continually adore, and their hands are eulogies of virtue, but their heart knoweth naught thereof. And again there are those who regard it as virtue to say: "Virtue is necessary"; but after all they believe only that policemen are necessary. And many a one who cannot see men's loftiness, calleth it virtue to see their baseness far too well: thus calleth he his evil eye virtue.-- And some want to be edified and raised up, and call it virtue: and others want to be cast down,--and likewise call it virtue. And thus do almost all think that they partic.i.p.ate in virtue; and at least every one claimeth to be an authority on "good" and "evil." But Zarathustra came not to say unto all those liars and fools: "What do YE know of virtue! What COULD ye know of virtue!"-- But that ye, my friends, might become weary of the old words which ye have learned from the fools and liars: That ye might become weary of the words "reward," "retribution," "punishment," "righteous vengeance."-- That ye might become weary of saying: "That an action is good is because it is unselfish." Ah! my friends! That YOUR very Self be in your action, as the mother is in the child: let that be YOUR formula of virtue! Verily, I have taken from you a hundred formulae and your virtue's favourite playthings; and now ye upbraid me, as children upbraid. They played by the sea--then came there a wave and swept their playthings into the deep: and now do they cry. But the same wave shall bring them new playthings, and spread before them new speckled sh.e.l.ls! Thus will they be comforted; and like them shall ye also, my friends, have your comforting--and new speckled sh.e.l.ls!-- Thus spake Zarathustra. XXVIII. THE RABBLE. Life is a well of delight; but where the rabble also drink, there all fountains are poisoned. To everything cleanly am I well disposed; but I hate to see the grinning mouths and the thirst of the unclean. They cast their eye down into the fountain: and now glanceth up to me their odious smile out of the fountain. The holy water have they poisoned with their l.u.s.tfulness; and when they called their filthy dreams delight, then poisoned they also the words. Indignant becometh the flame when they put their damp hearts to the fire; the spirit itself bubbleth and smoketh when the rabble approach the fire. Mawkish and over-mellow becometh the fruit in their hands: unsteady, and withered at the top, doth their look make the fruit-tree. And many a one who hath turned away from life, hath only turned away from the rabble: he hated to share with them fountain, flame, and fruit. And many a one who hath gone into the wilderness and suffered thirst with beasts of prey, disliked only to sit at the cistern with filthy camel- drivers. And many a one who hath come along as a destroyer, and as a hailstorm to all cornfields, wanted merely to put his foot into the jaws of the rabble, and thus stop their throat. And it is not the mouthful which hath most choked me, to know that life itself requireth enmity and death and torture-crosses:-- But I asked once, and suffocated almost with my question: What? is the rabble also NECESSARY for life? Are poisoned fountains necessary, and stinking fires, and filthy dreams, and maggots in the bread of life? Not my hatred, but my loathing, gnawed hungrily at my life! Ah, ofttimes became I weary of spirit, when I found even the rabble spiritual! And on the rulers turned I my back, when I saw what they now call ruling: to traffic and bargain for power--with the rabble! Amongst peoples of a strange language did I dwell, with stopped ears: so that the language of their trafficking might remain strange unto me, and their bargaining for power. And holding myd, the souls which came from earth curiously enquiring about the things above, and the souls which came from heaven about the things beneath. And they told one another of what had happened by the way, those from below weeping and sorrowing at the remembrance of the things which they had endured and seen in their journey beneath the earth (now the journey lasted a thousand years), while those from above were describing heavenly delights and visions of inconceivable beauty. The story, Glaucon, would take too long to tell; but the sum was this:--He said that for every wrong which they had done to any one they suffered tenfold; or once in a hundred years--such being reckoned to be the length of man's life, and the penalty being thus paid ten times in a thousand years. If, for example, there were any who had been the cause of many deaths, or had betrayed or enslaved cities or armies, or been guilty of any other evil behaviour, for each and all of their offences they received punishment ten times over, and the rewards of beneficence and justice and holiness were in the same proportion. I need hardly repeat what he said concerning young children dying almost as soon as they were born. Of piety and impiety to G.o.ds and parents, and of murderers, there were retributions other and greater far which he described. He mentioned that he was present when one of the spirits asked another, 'Where is Ardiaeus the Great?' (Now this Ardiaeus lived a thousand years before the time of Er: he had been the tyrant of some city of Pamphylia, and had murdered his aged father and his elder brother, and was said to have committed many other abominable crimes.) The answer of the other spirit was: 'He comes not hither and will never come. And this,' said he, 'was one of the dreadful sights which we ourselves witnessed. We were at the mouth of the cavern, and, having completed all our experiences, were about to reascend, when of a sudden Ardiaeus appeared and several others, most of whom were tyrants; and there were also besides the tyrants private individuals who had been great criminals: they were just, as they fancied, about to return into the upper world, but the mouth, instead of admitting them, gave a roar, whenever any of these incurable sinners or some one who had not been sufficiently punished tried to ascend; and then wild men of fiery aspect, who were standing by and heard the sound, seized and carried them off; and Ardiaeus and others they bound head and foot and hand, and threw them down and flayed them with scourges, and dragged them along the road at the side, carding them on thorns like wool, and declaring to the pa.s.sers-by what were their crimes, and that they were being taken away to be cast into h.e.l.l.' And of all the many terrors which they had endured, he said that there was none like the terror which each of them felt at that moment, lest they should hear the voice; and when there was silence, one by one they ascended with exceeding joy. These, said Er, were the penalties and retributions, and there were blessings as great. Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had tarried seven days, on the eighth they were obliged to proceed on their journey, and, on the fourth day after, he said that they came to a place where they could see from above a line of light, straight as a column, extending right through the whole heaven and through the earth, in colour resembling the rainbow, only brighter and purer; another day's journey brought them to the place, and there, in the midst of the light, they saw the ends of the chains of heaven let down from above: for this light is the belt of heaven, and holds together the circle of the universe, like the under-girders of a trireme. From these ends is extended the spindle of Necessity, on which all the revolutions turn. The shaft and hook of this spindle are made of steel, and the whorl is made partly of steel and also partly of other materials. Now the whorl is in form like the whorl used on earth; and the description of it implied that there is one large hollow whorl which is quite scooped out, and into this is fitted another lesser one, and another, and another, and four others, making eight in all, like vessels which fit into one another; the whorls show their edges on the upper side, and on their lower side all together form one continuous whorl. This is pierced by the spindle, which is driven home through the centre of the eighth. The first and outermost whorl has the rim broadest, and the seven inner whorls are narrower, in the following proportions--the sixth is next to the first in size, the fourth next to the sixth; then comes the eighth; the seventh is fifth, the fifth is sixth, the third is seventh, last and eighth comes the second. The largest (or fixed stars) is spangled, and the seventh (or sun) is brightest; the eighth (or moon) coloured by the reflected light of the seventh; the second and fifth (Saturn and Mercury) are in colour like one another, and yellower than the preceding; the third (Venus) has the whitest light; the fourth (Mars) is reddish; the sixth (Jupiter) is in whiteness second. Now the whole spindle has the same motion; but, as the whole revolves in one direction, the seven inner circles move slowly in the other, and of these the swiftest is the eighth; next in swiftness are the seventh, sixth, and fifth, which move together; third in swiftness appeared to move according to the law of this reversed motion the fourth; the third appeared fourth and the second fifth. The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity; and on the upper surface of each circle is a siren, who goes round with them, hymning a single tone or note. The eight together form one harmony; and round about, at equal intervals, there is another band, three in number, each sitting upon her throne: these are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, who are clothed in white robes and have chaplets upon their heads, Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos, who accompany with their voices the harmony of the sirens--Lachesis singing of the past, Clotho of the present, Atropos of the future; Clotho from time to time a.s.sisting with a touch of her right hand the revolution of the outer circle of the whorl or spindle, and Atropos with her left hand touching and guiding the inner ones, and Lachesis laying hold of either in turn, first with one hand and then with the other.

When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty was to go at once to Lachesis; but first of all there came a prophet who arranged them in order; then he took from the knees of Lachesis lots and samples of lives, and having mounted a high pulpit, spoke as follows: 'Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. Mortal souls, behold a new cycle of life and mortality. Your genius will not be allotted to you, but you will choose your genius; and let him who draws the first lot have the first choice, and the life which he chooses shall be his destiny. Virtue is free, and as a man honours or dishonours her he will have more or less of her; the responsibility is with the chooser--G.o.d is justified.' When the Interpreter had thus spoken he scattered lots indifferently among them all, and each of them took up the lot which fell near him, all but Er himself (he was not allowed), and each as he took his lot perceived the number which he had obtained. Then the Interpreter placed on the ground before them the samples of lives; and there were many more lives than the souls present, and they were of all sorts. There were lives of every animal and of man in every condition. And there were tyrannies among them, some lasting out the tyrant's life, others which broke off in the middle and came to an end in poverty and exile and beggary; and there were lives of famous men, some who were famous for their form and beauty as well as for their strength and success in games, or, again, for their birth and the qualities of their ancestors; and some who were the reverse of famous for the opposite qualities. And of women likewise; there was not, however, any definite character in them, because the soul, when choosing a new life, must of necessity become different. But there was every other quality, and the all mingled with one another, and also with elements of wealth and poverty, and disease and health; and there were mean states also. And here, my dear Glaucon, is the supreme peril of our human state; and therefore the utmost care should be taken. Let each one of us leave every other kind of knowledge and seek and follow one thing only, if peradventure he may be able to learn and may find some one who will make him able to learn and discern between good and evil, and so to choose always and everywhere the better life as he has opportunity. He should consider the bearing of all these things which have been mentioned severally and collectively upon virtue; he should know what the effect of beauty is when combined with poverty or wealth in a particular soul, and what are the good and evil consequences of n.o.ble and humble birth, of private and public station, of strength and weakness, of cleverness and dullness, and of all the natural and acquired gifts of the soul, and the operation of them when conjoined; he will then look at the nature of the soul, and from the consideration of all these qualities he will be able to determine which is the better and which is the worse; and so he will choose, giving the name of evil to the life which will make his soul more unjust, and good to the life which will make his soul more just; all else he will disregard. For we have seen and know that this is the best choice both in life and after death. A man must take with him into the world below an adamantine faith in truth and right, that there too he may be undazzled by the desire of wealth or the other allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies and similar villainies, he do irremediable wrongs to others and suffer yet worse himself; but let him know how to choose the mean and avoid the extremes on either side, as far as possible, not only in this life but in all that which is to come. For this is the way of happiness.

And according to the report of the messenger from the other world this was what the prophet said at the time: 'Even for the last comer, if he chooses wisely and will live diligently, there is appointed a happy and not undesirable existence. Let not him who chooses first be careless, and let not the last despair.' And when he had spoken, he who had the first choice came forward and in a moment chose the greatest tyranny; his mind having been darkened by folly and sensuality, he had not thought out the whole matter before he chose, and did not at first sight perceive that he was fated, among other evils, to devour his own children. But when he had time to reflect, and saw what was in the lot, he began to beat his breast and lament over his choice, forgetting the proclamation of the prophet; for, instead of throwing the blame of his misfortune on himself, he accused chance and the G.o.ds, and everything rather than himself. Now he was one of those who came from heaven, and in a former life had dwelt in a well-ordered State, but his virtue was a matter of habit only, and he had no philosophy. And it was true of others who were similarly overtaken, that the greater number of them came from heaven and therefore they had never been schooled by trial, whereas the pilgrims who came from earth having themselves suffered and seen others suffer, were not in a hurry to choose. And owing to this inexperience of theirs, and also because the lot was a chance, many of the souls exchanged a good destiny for an evil or an evil for a good. For if a man had always on his arrival in this world dedicated himself from the first to sound philosophy, and had been moderately fortunate in the number of the lot, he might, as the messenger reported, be happy here, and also his journey to another life and return to this, instead of being rough and underground, would be smooth and heavenly. Most curious, he said, was the spectacle--sad and laughable and strange; for the choice of the souls was in most cases based on their experience of a previous life. There he saw the soul which had once been Orpheus choosing the life of a swan out of enmity to the race of women, hating to be born of a woman because they had been his murderers; he beheld also the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of a nightingale; birds, on the other hand, like the swan and other musicians, wanting to be men. The soul which obtained the twentieth lot chose the life of a lion, and this was the soul of Ajax the son of Telamon, who would not be a man, remembering the injustice which was done him in the judgment about the arms. The next was Agamemnon, who took the life of an eagle, because, like Ajax, he hated human nature by reason of his sufferings. About the middle came the lot of Atalanta; she, seeing the great fame of an athlete, was unable to resist the temptation: and after her there followed the soul of Epeus the son of Panopeus pa.s.sing into the nature of a woman cunning in the arts; and far away among the last who chose, the soul of the jester Thersites was putting on the form of a monkey. There came also the soul of Odysseus having yet to make a choice, and his lot happened to be the last of them all. Now the recollection of former toils had disenchanted him of ambition, and he went about for a considerable time in search of the life of a private man who had no cares; he had some difficulty in finding this, which was lying about and had been neglected by everybody else; and when he saw it, he said that he would have done the same had his lot been first instead of last, and that he was delighted to have it. And not only did men pa.s.s into animals, but I must also mention that there were animals tame and wild who changed into one another and into corresponding human natures--the good into the gentle and the evil into the savage, in all sorts of combinations.

All the souls had now chosen their lives, and they went in the order of their choice to Lachesis, who sent with them the genius whom they had severally chosen, to be the guardian of their lives and the fulfiller of the choice: this genius led the souls first to Clotho, and drew them within the revolution of the spindle impelled by her hand, thus ratifying the destiny of each; and then, when they were fastened to this, carried them to Atropos, who spun the threads and made them irreversible, whence without turning round they pa.s.sed beneath the throne of Necessity; and when they had all pa.s.sed, they marched on in a scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness, which was a barren waste dest.i.tute of trees and verdure; and then towards evening they encamped by the river of Unmindfulness, whose water no vessel can hold; of this they were all obliged to drink a certain quant.i.ty, and those who were not saved by wisdom drank more than was necessary; and each one as he drank forgot all things. Now after they had gone to rest, about the middle of the night there was a thunderstorm and earthquake, and then in an instant they were driven upwards in all manner of ways to their birth, like stars shooting. He himself was hindered from drinking the water. But in what manner or by what means he returned to the body he could not say; only, in the morning, awaking suddenly, he found himself lying on the pyre.

And thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved and has not perished, and will save us if we are obedient to the word spoken; and we shall pa.s.s safely over the river of Forgetfulness and our soul will not be defiled. Wherefore my counsel is, that we hold fast ever to the heavenly way and follow after justice and virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal and able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Thus shall we live dear to one another and to the G.o.ds, both while remaining here and when, like conquerors in the games who go round to gather gifts, we receive our reward. And it shall be well with us both in this life and in the pilgrimage of a thousand years which we have been describing.