On Great Events

There is an island in the sea—not far from Zarathustra’s blissful islands—on which a volcano constantly smokes; of this island the people say, and especially the little old women among the people say, that it has been placed like a block of rock before the gate of the underworld: but through the volcano itself, they say, leads the narrow path downward that brings one to this gate of the underworld.

Now about the time when Zarathustra was staying on the blissful islands, it happened that a ship cast anchor at the island on which the smoking mountain stands; and its crew went ashore to shoot rabbits. Toward the hour of noon, however, when the captain and his men were together again, they suddenly saw a man coming toward them through the air, and a voice said distinctly: “It is time! It is high time!” But when the figure was nearest to them—it flew past quickly, like a shadow, in the direction where the volcano lay—they recognized with the greatest dismay that it was Zarathustra; for they had all seen him before, except the captain himself, and they loved him as the people love: so that love and awe are together in equal parts.

“Just look!” said the old helmsman, “there goes Zarathustra to hell!”—

About the same time that these sailors landed on the fire island, the rumor went around that Zarathustra had disappeared; and when his friends were asked, they said that he had gone on board a ship by night without saying where he meant to travel.

Thus an unrest arose; but after three days the sailors’ story was added to this unrest—and now all the people said that the devil had taken Zarathustra. His disciples laughed at this talk, to be sure; and one of them even said: “I would sooner believe that Zarathustra has taken the devil.” But at the bottom of their souls they were all full of worry and longing: so their joy was great when on the fifth day Zarathustra appeared among them.

And this is the account of Zarathustra’s conversation with the fire dog.

The earth, he said, has a skin; and this skin has diseases. One of these diseases, for example, is called: “human being.”

And another of these diseases is called “fire dog”: about him human beings have told themselves many lies and let themselves be told many lies.

To fathom this secret I went over the sea: and I have seen the truth naked, truly! barefoot up to the neck.

What the fire dog is about, I know now; and likewise all the devils of eruption and overthrow, of whom it is not only little old women who are afraid.

Come out, fire dog, out of your depth! I cried, and confess how deep this depth is! Where does it come from, what you snort up there?

You drink plentifully from the sea: your oversalted eloquence betrays that! In truth, for a dog of the depth you take your nourishment too much from the surface!

At most I take you for the ventriloquist of the earth: and whenever I heard devils of overthrow and eruption speak, I found them like you: salty, lying, and shallow.

You know how to roar and to darken with ash! You are the best braggarts and have learned to the full the art of making mud boil.

Wherever you are, there must always be mud nearby, and much that is spongy, hollow, squeezed in: it wants to get into freedom.

“Freedom” you all like best to roar: but I have unlearned the belief in “great events” whenever there is much roaring and smoke around them.

And just believe me, friend Hellish Noise! The greatest events—they are not our loudest but our stillest hours.

Not around the inventors of new noise: around the inventors of new values the world revolves; inaudibly it revolves.

And just admit it! Little had ever happened when your noise and smoke cleared away. What does it matter that a city became a mummy and a statue lies in the mud!

And this word I say besides to the overthrowers of statues. It is surely the greatest folly to throw salt into the sea and statues into the mud.

In the mud of your contempt the statue lay: but precisely this is its law, that out of contempt life and living beauty grow back into it!

With more divine features it rises now, and seductive in its suffering; and truly! it will yet thank you for overthrowing it, you overthrowers!

But this counsel I give to kings and churches and to everything that is weak with age and virtue—just let yourselves be overthrown! So that you may come back to life, and virtue—to you!—

Thus I spoke before the fire dog: then he interrupted me sullenly and asked: “Church? What is that?”

Church? I answered, that is a kind of state, and indeed the most mendacious kind. But be quiet, you hypocrite dog! You surely know your own kind best already!

Like you yourself, the state is a hypocrite dog; like you, it likes to speak with smoke and roaring—to make people believe, like you, that it speaks from the belly of things.

For the state wants absolutely to be the most important animal on earth; and people believe it, too.—

When I had said that, the fire dog behaved as if mad with envy. “What?” he cried, “the most important animal on earth? And people believe it, too?” And so much steam and such horrible voices came out of his throat that I thought he would suffocate with vexation and envy.

At last he grew quieter, and his panting subsided; but as soon as he was quiet, I said, laughing:

“You are vexed, fire dog: so I am right about you!

“And so that I may stay right, hear about another fire dog: he really speaks from the heart of the earth.

“Gold his breath exhales, and golden rain: so his heart wills it. What are ash and smoke and hot slime to him any longer!

“Laughter flutters out of him like a motley cloud; he is ill-disposed toward your gurgling and spewing and the griping of your bowels!

“But the gold and the laughter—he takes them from the heart of the earth: for, just so you know—the heart of the earth is of gold.”

When the fire dog heard this, he could no longer bear to listen to me. Ashamed, he drew in his tail, said Bow! Wow! in a meek little voice, and crept down into his cave.—

Thus Zarathustra told it. But his disciples hardly listened to him: so great was their eagerness to tell him about the sailors, the rabbits, and the flying man.

“What am I to make of that!” said Zarathustra. “Am I a ghost, then?

“But it must have been my shadow. You have surely heard something already about the wanderer and his shadow?

“But this much is certain: I must keep it on a shorter leash—otherwise it will ruin my reputation yet.”

And once more Zarathustra shook his head and wondered. “What am I to make of that!” he said once more.

“Why did the ghost cry: It is time! It is high time!

“For what is it, then—high time?”—

Thus spoke Zarathustra.