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Thus Spake Zarathustra, a non-fiction book by Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche |
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Second Part - 36. The Land Of Culture |
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_ SECOND PART XXXVI. THE LAND OF CULTURE Too far did I fly into the future: a horror seized upon me. And when I looked around me, lo! there time was my sole contemporary. Then did I fly backwards, homewards--and always faster. Thus did I come unto you, ye present-day men, and into the land of culture. For the first time brought I an eye to see you, and good desire: verily, with longing in my heart did I come. But how did it turn out with me? Although so alarmed--I had yet to laugh! Never did mine eye see anything so motley-coloured! I laughed and laughed, while my foot still trembled, and my heart as well. "Here forsooth, is the home of all the paintpots,"--said I. With fifty patches painted on faces and limbs--so sat ye there to mine astonishment, ye present-day men! And with fifty mirrors around you, which flattered your play of colours, and repeated it! Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces! Who could--RECOGNISE you! Written all over with the characters of the past, and these characters also pencilled over with new characters--thus have ye concealed yourselves well from all decipherers! And though one be a trier of the reins, who still believeth that ye have reins! Out of colours ye seem to be baked, and out of glued scraps. All times and peoples gaze divers-coloured out of your veils; all customs and beliefs speak divers-coloured out of your gestures. He who would strip you of veils and wrappers, and paints and gestures, would just have enough left to scare the crows. Verily, I myself am the scared crow that once saw you naked, and without paint; and I flew away when the skeleton ogled at me. Rather would I be a day-labourer in the nether-world, and among the shades of the by-gone!--Fatter and fuller than ye, are forsooth the nether-worldlings! This, yea this, is bitterness to my bowels, that I can neither endure you naked nor clothed, ye present-day men! All that is unhomelike in the future, and whatever maketh strayed birds shiver, is verily more homelike and familiar than your "reality." For thus speak ye: "Real are we wholly, and without faith and superstition": thus do ye plume yourselves--alas! even without plumes! Indeed, how would ye be ABLE to believe, ye divers-coloured ones!--ye who are pictures of all that hath ever been believed! Perambulating refutations are ye, of belief itself, and a dislocation of all thought. UNTRUSTWORTHY ONES: thus do I call you, ye real ones! All periods prate against one another in your spirits; and the dreams and pratings of all periods were even realer than your awakeness! Unfruitful are ye: THEREFORE do ye lack belief. But he who had to create, had always his presaging dreams and astral premonitions--and believed in believing!-- Half-open doors are ye, at which grave-diggers wait. And this is YOUR reality: "Everything deserveth to perish." Alas, how ye stand there before me, ye unfruitful ones; how lean your ribs! And many of you surely have had knowledge thereof. Many a one hath said: "There hath surely a God filched something from me secretly whilst I slept? Verily, enough to make a girl for himself therefrom! "Amazing is the poverty of my ribs!" thus hath spoken many a present-day man. Yea, ye are laughable unto me, ye present-day men! And especially when ye marvel at yourselves! And woe unto me if I could not laugh at your marvelling, and had to swallow all that is repugnant in your platters! As it is, however, I will make lighter of you, since I have to carry what is heavy; and what matter if beetles and May-bugs also alight on my load! Verily, it shall not on that account become heavier to me! And not from you, ye present-day men, shall my great weariness arise.-- Ah, whither shall I now ascend with my longing! From all mountains do I look out for fatherlands and motherlands. But a home have I found nowhere: unsettled am I in all cities, and decamping at all gates. Alien to me, and a mockery, are the present-day men, to whom of late my heart impelled me; and exiled am I from fatherlands and motherlands. Thus do I love only my CHILDREN'S LAND, the undiscovered in the remotest sea: for it do I bid my sails search and search. Unto my children will I make amends for being the child of my fathers: and unto all the future--for THIS present-day!-- Thus spake Zarathustra. _ |
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