The Child with the Mirror

After this Zarathustra went back again into the mountains and into the solitude of his cave and withdrew from human beings: waiting like a sower who has cast out his seed. But his soul grew full of impatience and desire for those whom he loved: for he still had much to give them. For this is the hardest thing: to close the open hand out of love, and to keep one’s modesty as one who bestows.

Thus months and years passed for the solitary one; but his wisdom grew and gave him pain with its fullness.

But one morning he woke even before the dawn, lay long on his bed in thought, and at last spoke to his heart:

What frightened me so in my dream that I woke? Did not a child come to me, carrying a mirror?

“O Zarathustra—the child said to me—look at yourself in the mirror!”

But when I looked into the mirror, I cried out, and my heart was shaken: for it was not myself I saw there, but a devil’s grimace and sneering laughter.

Truly, all too well do I understand the dream’s sign and warning: my teaching is in danger, weeds want to be called wheat!

My enemies have grown powerful and have distorted the image of my teaching, so that my dearest ones must be ashamed of the gifts I gave them.

My friends are lost to me; the hour has come for me to seek my lost ones!—

With these words Zarathustra leapt up, but not like a frightened man gasping for air, rather like a seer and singer whom the spirit seizes. His eagle and his serpent looked at him in wonder: for a coming happiness lay on his face like the dawn.

What has happened to me, my animals?—said Zarathustra. Am I not transformed! Did not bliss come to me like a whirlwind?

Foolish is my happiness, and foolish things will it speak: it is still too young—so have patience with it!

I am wounded by my happiness: all who suffer shall be physicians to me!

I may go down again to my friends, and to my enemies too! Zarathustra may speak again and bestow and do the dearest thing for those he loves!

My impatient love overflows in torrents, downward, toward sunrise and sunset. Out of silent mountains and thunderstorms of pain my soul rushes into the valleys.

Too long I longed and gazed into the distance. Too long I belonged to solitude: so I have unlearned silence.

I have become mouth through and through, and the roar of a brook from high cliffs: down into the valleys I want to hurl my speech.

And let my river of love plunge into the pathless! How should a river not find its way at last to the sea!

There is a lake in me, it is true, a hermit lake, sufficient to itself; but my river of love sweeps it along with it, down—to the sea!

New ways I go, a new speech comes to me; like all creators, I grew weary of the old tongues. My spirit no longer wants to walk on worn-out soles.

All speaking runs too slowly for me:—into your chariot I leap, storm! And even you I will whip with my malice!

Like a cry and a shout of joy I want to travel over wide seas, until I find the blissful islands where my friends are dwelling:—

And my enemies among them! How I love everyone now to whom I may so much as speak! My enemies too belong to my bliss.

And when I want to mount my wildest horse, my spear always helps me up best: it is always the ready servant of my foot:—

The spear that I hurl against my enemies! How I thank my enemies that at last I may hurl it!

Too great was the tension of my cloud: between the laughter of lightning bolts I want to throw showers of hail into the depths.

Mightily will my breast heave then, mightily will it blow its storm over the mountains: thus relief comes to it.

Truly, like a storm comes my happiness and my freedom! But my enemies shall believe that the Evil One is raging over their heads.

Yes, you too will be frightened, my friends, by my wild wisdom; and perhaps you will flee from it along with my enemies.

Ah, if only I knew how to lure you back with shepherds’ flutes! Ah, if only my lioness wisdom would learn to roar tenderly! And we have learned much together already!

My wild wisdom became pregnant on lonely mountains; on rough stones she bore her young, her youngest.

Now she runs foolishly through the hard desert and seeks and seeks for soft turf—my old wild wisdom!

On the soft turf of your hearts, my friends!—on your love she would like to bed her dearest!

Thus spoke Zarathustra.