On the Famous Wise Men

You have served the people and the people’s superstition, all you famous wise men!—and not the truth! And that is precisely why you were paid reverence.

And that is also why your unbelief was tolerated, because it was a joke and a detour to the people. So the master lets his slaves have their way and even takes delight in their high spirits.

But the one whom the people hate as dogs hate a wolf: that is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-worshiper, the one who dwells in forests.

To hunt him out of his lair—that was always called “a sense of what is right” by the people: against him it still sets its sharpest-toothed dogs.

“For the truth is here: the people are here, after all! Woe, woe to those who seek!”—thus it has always rung out.

You wanted to prove your people right in their reverence: that you called “will to truth,” you famous wise men!

And your heart always said to itself: “From the people I came: from there too came God’s voice to me.”

Stiff-necked and clever, like the donkey, you have always been as the people’s advocates.

And many a powerful man who wanted to fare well with the people harnessed in front of his horses besides—a little donkey, a famous wise man.

And now, you famous wise men, I wish you would at last throw off the lion’s skin entirely!

The skin of the beast of prey, the motley-spotted one, and the shaggy locks of the investigator, the seeker, the conqueror!

Ah, for me to learn to believe in your “truthfulness,” you would first have to break your reverent will.

Truthful—that is what I call one who goes into godless deserts and has broken his reverent heart.

In the yellow sand and burned by the sun, he may well squint thirstily at the islands rich in springs, where living things rest under dark trees.

But his thirst does not persuade him to become like these comfortable ones: for where there are oases, there are also idols.

Hungry, violent, lonely, godless: so the lion-will wants itself.

Free of the happiness of servants, redeemed from gods and worshipings, fearless and fearsome, great and lonely: such is the will of the truthful one.

In the desert the truthful have always dwelt, the free spirits, as the desert’s masters; but in the cities dwell the well-fed famous wise men—the draft animals.

For they always pull, as donkeys—the people’s cart!

Not that I am angry with them for that: but to me they remain servants and harnessed beasts, even when they gleam in golden harness.

And often they were good servants, and praiseworthy. For thus speaks virtue: if you must be a servant, seek the one whom your service benefits most!

“The spirit and virtue of your master shall grow through your being his servant: thus you yourself grow with his spirit and his virtue!”

And truly, you famous wise men, you servants of the people! You yourselves grew with the people’s spirit and virtue—and the people through you! I say this in your honor!

But people you remain to me even in your virtues, people with dull eyes—people who do not know what spirit is!

Spirit is the life that itself cuts into life: by its own torment it increases its own knowledge—did you know that already?

And the spirit’s happiness is this: to be anointed and consecrated with tears as a sacrificial animal—did you know that already?

And the blindness of the blind man and his seeking and groping shall yet bear witness to the power of the sun into which he gazed—did you know that already?

And with mountains the knower shall learn to build! It is little that the spirit moves mountains—did you know that already?

You know only the spirit’s sparks: but you do not see the anvil that it is, nor the cruelty of its hammer!

Truly, you do not know the spirit’s pride! But still less would you bear the spirit’s modesty, if ever it wanted to speak!

And never yet have you been permitted to throw your spirit into a pit of snow: you are not hot enough for that! And so you do not know the raptures of its coldness either.

But in all things you are too familiar with the spirit for my taste; and of wisdom you have often made a poorhouse and hospital for bad poets.

You are no eagles: so you have not experienced the happiness in the spirit’s terror either. And whoever is not a bird should not make his camp above abysses.

To me you are lukewarm: but all deep knowledge flows cold. Ice-cold are the innermost wells of the spirit: a refreshment to hot hands and men of action.

Respectable you stand there, and stiff, and with straight backs, you famous wise men!—no strong wind and will drives you.

Have you never seen a sail go over the sea, rounded and swelling and trembling before the violence of the wind?

Like the sail, trembling before the violence of the spirit, my wisdom goes over the sea—my wild wisdom!

But you servants of the people, you famous wise men—how could you go with me!—

Thus spoke Zarathustra.