On Little Old and Young Women

“Why do you creep so shyly through the twilight, Zarathustra? And what are you hiding so carefully under your cloak?

Is it a treasure someone gave you? Or a child that was born to you? Or are you now walking the ways of thieves yourself, you friend of the wicked?”—

Truly, my brother! said Zarathustra, it is a treasure that was given to me: it is a little truth that I am carrying.

But it is unruly as a young child; and if I do not hold its mouth, it screams too loudly.

As I went my way alone today, at the hour when the sun sinks, I met a little old woman, and she spoke thus to my soul:

“Zarathustra has said much to us women too, but he has never spoken to us about woman.”

And I replied to her: “About woman one should speak only to men.”

“Speak to me of woman too,” she said; “I am old enough to forget it again at once.”

And I granted the little old woman her wish and spoke thus to her:

Everything about woman is a riddle, and everything about woman has one solution: it is called pregnancy.

For woman the man is a means: the end is always the child. But what is woman for the man?

The genuine man wants two things: danger and play. That is why he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.

Man shall be brought up for war, and woman for the recreation of the warrior: all else is folly.

Fruits that are all too sweet—the warrior does not like them. That is why he likes woman; even the sweetest woman is still bitter.

Woman understands children better than a man does, but the man is more childlike than the woman.

In the genuine man a child is hidden: it wants to play. Come, you women, discover the child in the man for me!

Let woman be a plaything, pure and fine, like a precious stone, illumined by the virtues of a world that is not yet here.

Let the ray of a star shine in your love! Let your hope be: “May I give birth to the Übermensch!”

Let there be bravery in your love! With your love you shall go at him who inspires fear in you!

Let your honor be in your love! Otherwise woman understands little about honor. But let this be your honor: always to love more than you are loved, and never to be second.

Let the man fear woman when she loves: then she makes every sacrifice, and every other thing counts as worthless to her.

Let the man fear woman when she hates: for at the bottom of his soul the man is merely wicked, but woman is base there.

Whom does woman hate most?—Thus spoke the iron to the magnet: “I hate you most because you attract, but are not strong enough to pull me to you.”

The happiness of man is: I will. The happiness of woman is: he wills.

“Behold, just now the world became perfect!”—so thinks every woman when she obeys out of all her love.

And woman must obey and find a depth for her surface. Surface is woman’s disposition, a mobile, stormy film on shallow water.

But man’s disposition is deep, his current roars in underground caves: woman senses its power but does not comprehend it.—

Then the little old woman replied to me: “Zarathustra has said many nice things, and especially for those who are young enough for them.

It is strange: Zarathustra knows little of women, and yet he is right about them! Does this happen because with woman nothing is impossible?

And now take a little truth by way of thanks! I am surely old enough for it!

Wrap it up and hold its mouth: otherwise it will scream too loudly, this little truth.”

“Give me, woman, your little truth!” I said. And thus spoke the little old woman:

“You are going to women? Do not forget the whip!”—

Thus spoke Zarathustra.