On Immaculate Knowledge
When the moon rose yesterday, I fancied it wanted to give birth to a sun: so broad and pregnant it lay on the horizon.
But it was a liar to me with its pregnancy; and I would sooner believe in the man in the moon than in the woman.
To be sure, he is not much of a man either, this timid night-roamer. Truly, with a bad conscience he walks over the roofs.
For he is lecherous and jealous, the monk in the moon, lecherous for the earth and for all the joys of lovers.
No, I do not like him, this tomcat on the roofs! Repulsive to me are all who creep around half-closed windows!
Pious and silent he walks along on carpets of stars:—but I do not like any soft-treading feet of men on which not even a spur jingles.
Every honest man’s step speaks; but the cat steals away over the ground. Behold, catlike the moon comes along, and dishonest.—
This parable I give to you sentimental hypocrites, to you, the “pure knowers”! I call you—lecherous!
You too love the earth and the earthly: I have guessed you well!—but there is shame in your love and bad conscience—you are like the moon!
Your spirit has been persuaded to despise the earthly, but not your entrails: and they are the strongest thing in you!
And now your spirit is ashamed that it does the will of your entrails, and goes by sneaking and lying paths before its own shame.
“That would be the highest thing for me—so your lying spirit says to itself—to gaze at life without desire, and not like the dog with its tongue hanging out:
“To be happy in gazing, with a will that has died, without the grasping and greed of selfishness—cold and ash-gray all over the body, but with drunken moon-eyes!”
“That would be the dearest thing to me—so the seduced one seduces himself—to love the earth as the moon loves it, and to touch its beauty with the eye alone.
“And let this be called the immaculate knowledge of all things, that I want nothing from things: except that I may lie before them like a mirror with a hundred eyes.”—
Oh, you sentimental hypocrites, you lecherous ones! You lack innocence in desire: and that is why you now slander desiring!
Truly, you do not love the earth as creators, begetters, ones who rejoice in becoming!
Where is innocence? Where there is will to begetting. And whoever wants to create beyond himself has the purest will, to my mind.
Where is beauty? Where I must will with all my will; where I want to love and go under, so that an image may not remain merely an image.
Loving and going under: these have rhymed since eternities. Will to love: that means being willing to die as well. Thus I speak to you cowards!
But now your emasculated squinting wants to be called “contemplation”! And whatever lets itself be touched by cowardly eyes shall be baptized “beautiful”! oh, you defilers of noble names!
But this shall be your curse, you immaculate ones, you pure knowers, that you will never give birth: even though you lie broad and pregnant on the horizon!
Truly, you fill your mouths with noble words: and we are to believe that your hearts are overflowing, you liars?
But my words are small, despised, crooked words: gladly I pick up what falls under the table at your meals.
With them I can still—tell hypocrites the truth! yes, my fishbones, shells, and prickly leaves shall—tickle the noses of hypocrites!
There is always bad air around you and your meals: your lecherous thoughts, your lies and secrets are in the air, after all!
Dare first to believe yourselves—yourselves and your entrails! Whoever does not believe himself always lies.
A god’s mask you hung before yourselves, you “pure ones”: into a god’s mask your loathsome coiling worm crept.
Truly, you deceive, you “contemplative ones”! Zarathustra too was once the fool of your divine skins; he did not guess the coils of serpents with which they were stuffed.
A god’s soul I once fancied I saw playing in your plays, you pure knowers! No better art I once fancied than your arts!
The serpents’ filth and foul smell were hidden from me by distance: and that a lizard’s cunning crept around here lecherously.
But I came near you: then day came to me—and now it comes to you—the moon’s love affair has come to an end!
Just look! Caught and pale it stands there—before the dawn!
For already she is coming, the glowing one—her love of the earth is coming! Innocence and creator’s desire is all sun-love!
Just look how impatiently she comes over the sea! Do you not feel the thirst and the hot breath of her love?
At the sea she wants to suck, and drink its depth up to herself into the height: then the sea’s desire rises with a thousand breasts.
Kissed and sucked it wants to be by the thirst of the sun; air it wants to become, and height, and footpath of light, and light itself!
Truly, like the sun I love life and all deep seas.
And this is what I call knowledge: all that is deep shall rise up—to my height!
Thus spoke Zarathustra.