On the Virtuous

With thunder and heavenly fireworks one must speak to slack and sleeping senses.

But beauty’s voice speaks softly: it steals only into the most awakened souls.

Softly my shield trembled and laughed for me today; that is beauty’s holy laughter and trembling.

At you, you virtuous ones, my beauty laughed today. And thus its voice came to me: “They want to be—paid besides!”

You want to be paid besides, you virtuous ones! You want reward for virtue, and heaven for earth, and the eternal for your today?

And now you are angry with me because I teach that there is no paymaster and no keeper of accounts? And truly, I do not even teach that virtue is its own reward.

Ah, this is my sorrow: into the ground of things reward and punishment have been lied—and now into the ground of your souls as well, you virtuous ones!

But like the snout of the boar my word shall tear open the ground of your souls; I want you to call me a plowshare.

All the secrets of your ground shall come to light; and when you lie rooted up and broken in the sun, your lie too will have been separated from your truth.

For this is your truth: you are too clean for the filth of the words: revenge, punishment, reward, retribution.

You love your virtue as the mother loves her child; but when was it ever heard that a mother wanted to be paid for her love?

It is your dearest Self, your virtue. The ring’s thirst is in you: to reach itself again, for that every ring strives and turns.

And like the star that goes out is every work of your virtue: its light is always still on its way and wandering—and when will it no longer be on its way?

Thus the light of your virtue is still on its way even when the work is done. Let it now be forgotten and dead: its ray of light still lives and wanders.

That your virtue be your Self and not something foreign, a skin, a cloak: that is the truth from the ground of your soul, you virtuous ones!—

But there are those, to be sure, for whom virtue means writhing under a whip: and you have listened too much to their crying!

And there are others who call it virtue when their vices grow lazy; and once their hatred and their jealousy stretch their limbs, their “justice” comes awake and rubs its sleepy eyes.

And there are others who are drawn downward: their devils draw them. But the more they sink, the more ardently their eye glows, and their desire for their god.

Ah, their crying too has reached your ears, you virtuous ones: what I am not, that, that is God and virtue to me!

And there are others who come along heavy and creaking, like carts carrying stones downhill: they talk much of dignity and virtue—their brake they call virtue!

And there are others who are like everyday clocks that have been wound up; they make their ticktock and want ticktock to be called—virtue.

Truly, I take my joy in these: wherever I find such clocks I shall wind them up with my mockery; and they shall even purr for me while I do it!

And others are proud of their handful of justice and for its sake commit outrages against all things: so that the world is drowned in their injustice.

Ah, how foully the word “virtue” runs from their mouths! And when they say: “I am just,” it always sounds just like: “I am even!”

With their virtue they want to scratch out their enemies’ eyes; and they raise themselves up only to lower others.

And again there are those who sit in their swamp and speak out of the reeds like this: “Virtue—that is sitting still in the swamp.

“We bite no one and get out of the way of anyone who wants to bite; and in all things we hold the opinion that is given us.”

And again there are those who love gestures and think: virtue is a kind of gesture.

Their knees are always worshiping, and their hands are hymns of praise to virtue, but their heart knows nothing of it.

And again there are those who consider it virtue to say: “Virtue is necessary”; but at bottom they believe only that police are necessary.

And many a one who cannot see what is high in human beings calls it virtue that he sees their lowness all too closely: thus he calls his evil eye virtue.

And some want to be edified and raised up, and call it virtue; and others want to be thrown down—and call that virtue too.

And in this way almost all believe they have a share in virtue; and at the very least each wants to be a connoisseur of “good” and “evil.”

But Zarathustra did not come to say to all these liars and fools: “What do you know of virtue! What could you know of virtue!”—

But so that you, my friends, might grow weary of the old words you have learned from the fools and liars:

Grow weary of the words “reward,” “retribution,” “punishment,” “revenge in justice”—

Grow weary of saying: “What makes an action good is that it is selfless.”

Ah, my friends! That your Self be in the action as the mother is in the child: let that be your word on virtue!

Truly, I have taken from you a hundred words, I suppose, and your virtue’s dearest toys; and now you are angry with me as children are angry.

They were playing by the sea—then came the wave and swept their toy into the depths: now they are crying.

But the same wave shall bring them new toys and pour out new motley shells before them!

So they will be comforted; and like them you too, my friends, shall have your comforts—and new motley shells!—

Thus spoke Zarathustra.