On Passing By

Thus, slowly passing through many peoples and many kinds of towns, Zarathustra went back by roundabout ways to his mountains and his cave. And behold, on the way he came unexpectedly to the city gate of the great city: but here a foaming fool sprang toward him with outspread hands and blocked his way. This was the same fool whom the people called “Zarathustra’s ape”: for he had picked up from him something of the phrasing and cadence of his speech, and no doubt he also liked to borrow from the treasure of his wisdom. And the fool spoke thus to Zarathustra:

“O Zarathustra, here is the great city: here you have nothing to seek and everything to lose.

“Why would you wade through this mire? Have pity on your foot! Spit on the city gate instead and—turn back!

“Here is hell for a hermit’s thoughts: here great thoughts are boiled alive and cooked small.

“Here all great feelings rot: here only rattle-thin little feelings may rattle!

“Do you not smell already the slaughterhouses and cookshops of the spirit? Does this city not steam with the fumes of slaughtered spirit?

“Do you not see the souls hanging like limp, dirty rags?—And they even make newspapers out of these rags!

“Do you not hear how the spirit has turned into wordplay here? It vomits up repulsive word-swill!—And they even make newspapers out of this word-swill.

“They chase one another and do not know where to? They heat one another up and do not know why? They jingle their tin, they clink their gold.

“They are cold and seek warmth from distilled waters; they are overheated and seek coolness from frozen spirits; they are all sickly and addicted to public opinions.

“All lusts and vices are at home here; but there are virtuous people here too, there is much employable, employed virtue:—

“Much employable virtue with writing fingers and hard flesh for sitting and waiting, blessed with little stars on its breast and with padded, rumpless daughters.

“There is also much piety here, and much devout spittle-licking and flattery-baking before the God of Hosts.

“For it is ‘from above’ that the star and the gracious spittle trickle down; it is upward that every starless bosom longs.

“The moon has its court, and the court has its mooncalves: but to everything that comes from the court the beggar-people prays, and all employable beggar-virtue.

“‘I serve, you serve, we serve’—so all employable virtue prays up to the prince: that the deserved star may at last be pinned to its narrow bosom!

“But the moon still revolves around everything earthly: so the prince too still revolves around what is most earthly of all—: and that is the gold of the shopkeepers.

“The God of Hosts is no god of gold bars; the prince proposes, but the shopkeeper—disposes!

“By everything that is bright and strong and good in you, O Zarathustra! Spit on this city of shopkeepers and turn back!

“Here all blood flows rotten and lukewarm and frothy through all the veins: spit on the great city, which is the great rubbish heap where all the scum froths together!

“Spit on the city of dented souls and narrow chests, of sharp eyes, of sticky fingers—

“—on the city of the pushy, the shameless, the scribblers and screamers, the overheated ambitious:—

“—where everything crumbling, ill-famed, lustful, gloomy, overripe, ulcerous, conspiratorial festers together:—

“—spit on the great city and turn back!”—

But here Zarathustra interrupted the foaming fool and put his hand over his mouth.

“Stop at last!” cried Zarathustra. “Your speech and your manner have disgusted me for a long time!

“Why did you live so long by the swamp that you had to become a frog and a toad yourself?

“Does not a rotten, frothy swamp-blood now flow through your own veins, that you have learned to croak and rail like this?

“Why did you not go into the forest? Or plow the earth? Is the sea not full of green islands?

“I despise your despising; and if you warned me—why did you not warn yourself?

“Out of love alone shall my despising and my warning bird fly up: but not out of the swamp!—

“They call you my ape, you foaming fool: but I call you my grunting pig—with your grunting you are spoiling even my praise of folly.

“What was it, then, that first made you grunt? That no one flattered you enough:—that is why you sat down beside this filth, so that you might have reason to grunt a great deal—

“—so that you might have reason for much revenge! For revenge, you vain fool, is all your foaming; I have guessed you well!

“But your fool’s word does harm to me, even where you are right! And even if Zarathustra’s word were a hundred times right: with my word you would always—do wrong!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra; and he looked at the great city, sighed, and was silent a long time. At last he spoke thus:

I am disgusted with this great city too, and not only with this fool. Here as there, there is nothing to make better, nothing to make worse.

Woe to this great city!—And I wish I already saw the pillar of fire in which it will be burned!

For such pillars of fire must go before the great noon. But this has its time and its own fate.—

But this teaching I give you, you fool, in parting: where one can no longer love, there one should—pass by!—

Thus spoke Zarathustra, and passed by the fool and the great city.