The Night Wanderer’s Song

1

Meanwhile, however, one after another had stepped out into the open and into the cool, thoughtful night; but Zarathustra himself led the ugliest human being by the hand, to show him his night world and the great round moon and the silver waterfalls near his cave. There at last they stood still together, all of them old people, but with comforted, brave hearts, and wondering within themselves that they felt so well on earth; but the secrecy of the night came closer and closer to their hearts. And anew Zarathustra thought to himself: “Oh, how well I like them now, these higher humans!”—but he did not say it aloud, for he honored their happiness and their silence.—

But then there happened what was the most astonishing thing on that long, astonishing day: the ugliest human being began once more and for the last time to gurgle and snort, and when he had brought it to words, behold, a question sprang round and clean from his mouth, a good, deep, clear question, which moved the heart in the body of all who listened to him.

“My friends, all of you,” said the ugliest human being, “what do you think? For the sake of this day—I am content for the first time that I have lived my whole life.

“And that I testify so much is not yet enough for me. It is worth living on earth: one day, one festival with Zarathustra has taught me to love the earth.

“‘Was that—life?’ I will say to death. ‘Well then! Once more!’

“My friends, what do you think? Will you not, like me, say to death: Was that—life? For Zarathustra’s sake, well then! Once more!”—

Thus spoke the ugliest human being; but it was not long before midnight. And what do you suppose happened then? As soon as the higher humans heard his question, they became aware all at once of their transformation and convalescence, and of who had given it to them: then they sprang toward Zarathustra, thanking, revering, caressing him, kissing his hands, each in the manner peculiar to him: so that some laughed, some wept. But the old soothsayer danced with pleasure; and even if, as some storytellers think, he was full of sweet wine at the time, he was certainly still fuller of sweet life and had renounced all weariness. There are even those who tell that the donkey danced at that time: for not for nothing, they say, had the ugliest human being given it wine to drink beforehand. This may be so, or otherwise; and if in truth the donkey did not dance on that evening, still greater and stranger wonders happened then than the dancing of a donkey would be. In short, as Zarathustra’s proverb goes: “What does it matter!”

2

But when this happened with the ugliest human being, Zarathustra stood there like a drunken man: his gaze went dim, his tongue faltered, his feet staggered. And who could guess what thoughts were running over Zarathustra’s soul then? But evidently his spirit drew back and fled ahead and was in far distances and, as it were, “on a high ridge, as it is written, between two seas,

“—wandering between past and future as a heavy cloud.” But gradually, while the higher humans held him in their arms, he came back to himself a little and warded off with his hands the throng of those who revered him and were concerned for him; yet he did not speak. But all at once he quickly turned his head, for he seemed to hear something: then he laid his finger on his mouth and said: “Come!”

And at once all around grew still and secret; but from the depths there slowly came up the sound of a bell. Zarathustra listened to it, as did the higher humans; but then he laid his finger on his mouth a second time and said again: “Come! Come! It is drawing toward midnight!”—and his voice had changed. But still he did not stir from the spot: then it grew still more still and secret, and everything listened, the donkey too, and Zarathustra’s animals of honor, the eagle and the serpent, likewise Zarathustra’s cave and the great cool moon and the night itself. But Zarathustra laid his hand on his mouth for the third time and said:

Come! Come! Come! Let us wander now! It is the hour: let us wander into the night!

3

You higher humans, it is drawing toward midnight: so I want to say something into your ears, as that old bell says it into my ear,—

—as secretly, as terribly, as heartily as that midnight bell speaks it to me, which has lived through more than one human being:

—which has already counted the heart’s pain-beats of your fathers—alas! alas! how she sighs! how she laughs in her dream! the old, deep, deep midnight!

Still! Still! Things are heard now that may not grow loud by day; but now, in the cool air, since all the noise of your hearts too has grown still,—

—now it speaks, now it is heard, now it creeps into nocturnal, overwakeful souls: alas! alas! how she sighs! how she laughs in her dream!

—do you not hear how she speaks secretly, terribly, heartily to you, the old, deep, deep midnight? O human, take heed!

4

Woe is me! Where has the time gone? Did I not sink into deep wells? The world is asleep—

Alas! Alas! The dog howls, the moon shines. I would rather die, die, than tell you what my midnight heart is thinking now.

Now I have died already. It is gone. Spider, why do you spin around me? Do you want blood? Alas! Alas! the dew is falling, the hour is coming—

—the hour when I shiver and freeze, which asks and asks and asks: “Who has heart enough for it?

“—who shall be master of the earth? Who will say: thus shall you run, you great and little rivers!”

—the hour draws near: O human, you higher human, take heed! this speech is for subtle ears, for your ears: what does the deep midnight say?

5

It carries me away, my soul is dancing. Day’s work! Day’s work! Who shall be master of the earth?

The moon is cool, the wind is silent. Alas! Alas! Have you flown high enough yet? You danced: but a leg is still no wing.

You good dancers, now all joy is over, wine has turned to dregs, every cup has grown brittle, the graves are stammering.

You did not fly high enough: now the graves are stammering: “Redeem the dead! Why is the night so long? Does the moon not make us drunk?”

You higher humans, redeem the graves, awaken the corpses! Alas, why is the worm still digging? It draws near, it draws near, the hour,—

—the bell is humming, the heart is still rasping, the woodworm is still digging, the heartworm. Alas! Alas! The world is deep!

6

Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love your tone, your drunken toad’s tone!—from how long ago, from how far away your tone comes to me, from far away, from the ponds of love!

You old bell, you sweet lyre! Every pain has torn into your heart, father-pain, fathers’-pain, forefathers’-pain; your speech has grown ripe,—

—ripe like golden autumn and afternoon, like my hermit’s heart—now you say: the world itself has grown ripe, the grape is turning brown,

—now it wants to die, to die of happiness. You higher humans, do you not smell it? A smell is secretly welling up,

—a scent and smell of eternity, a rose-blissful, brown, golden-wine smell of old happiness,

of drunken midnight happiness of dying, which sings: the world is deep, and deeper than conceived by day!

7

Leave me! Leave me! I am too pure for you. Do not touch me! Has my world not just become perfect?

My skin is too pure for your hands. Leave me, you stupid, clumsy, dull day! Is midnight not brighter?

The purest shall be masters of the earth, the most unknown, the strongest, the midnight souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day.

O day, you grope for me? You fumble for my happiness? To you I am rich, lonely, a treasure pit, a chamber of gold?

O world, you want me? Am I worldly to you? Am I spiritual to you? Am I divine to you? But day and world, you are too clumsy,—

—have cleverer hands, reach for deeper happiness, for deeper unhappiness, reach for some god, do not reach for me:

—my unhappiness, my happiness is deep, you strange day, but still I am no god, no god’s hell: deep is its woe.

8

God’s woe is deeper, you strange world! Reach for God’s woe, not for me! What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,—

a midnight lyre, a bell-toad that no one understands, but that must speak, before the deaf, you higher humans! For you do not understand me!

Gone! Gone! O youth! O noon! O afternoon! Now evening has come, and night and midnight,—the dog howls, the wind:

—is the wind not a dog? It whimpers, it yelps, it howls. Alas! Alas! how she sighs! how she laughs, how she rattles and gasps, midnight!

How soberly she speaks just now, this drunken poetess! has she perhaps overstepped her drunkenness? has she grown overwakeful? is she chewing the cud?

—her woe she is chewing over, in her dream, the old, deep midnight, and still more her joy. For joy, though woe is deep: joy is deeper still than heartache.

9

You vine! Why do you praise me? Did I not cut you! I am cruel, you bleed—: what does your praise of my drunken cruelty mean?

“What has become perfect, all that is ripe—wants to die!” so you say. Blessed, blessed be the vintner’s knife! But all that is unripe wants to live: woe!

Woe says: “Begone! Away, you woe!” But everything that suffers wants to live, that it may grow ripe and merry and longing,

—longing for what is farther, higher, brighter. “I want heirs,” so says everything that suffers, “I want children, I do not want myself,”—

But joy does not want heirs, nor children,—joy wants itself, wants eternity, wants return, wants everything eternally the same.

Woe says: “Break, bleed, heart! Walk, leg! Wing, fly! Onward! Upward! Pain!” Well then! Up! O my old heart: Woe says: “Begone!”

10

You higher humans, what do you think? Am I a soothsayer? A dreamer? A drunkard? An interpreter of dreams? A midnight bell?

A drop of dew? A vapor and fragrance of eternity? Do you not hear it? Do you not smell it? Just now my world has become perfect; midnight is also noon,—

Pain is also a joy, a curse is also a blessing, night is also a sun,—go away, or you will learn: a sage is also a fool.

Did you ever say Yes to a single joy? Oh, my friends, then you said Yes to all woe as well. All things are chained together, entwined, in love,—

—if ever you wanted one time twice, if ever you said, “You please me, happiness! Quick! Moment!” then you wanted everything back!

—everything anew, everything eternal, everything chained together, entwined, in love, oh, then you loved the world,—

—you eternal ones, love it eternally and for all time: and to woe too you say: begone, but come back! For all joy wants—eternity!

11

All joy wants the eternity of all things, wants honey, wants dregs, wants drunken midnight, wants graves, wants the comfort of tears at graves, wants gilded evening glow—

—what does joy not want! it is thirstier, heartier, hungrier, more terrible, more secret than all woe, it wants itself, it bites into itself, the ring’s will wrestles in it,—

—it wants love, it wants hate, it is overrich, gives, throws away, begs someone to take it, thanks the one who takes, it would gladly be hated,—

—so rich is joy that it thirsts for woe, for hell, for hate, for disgrace, for the cripple, for world,—for this world, oh, you know it well!

You higher humans, it longs for you, joy, the unruly, blissful one,—for your woe, you failures! All eternal joy longs for failures.

For all joy wants itself, therefore it also wants heartache! O happiness, O pain! Oh break, heart! You higher humans, learn this, joy wants eternity,

—joy wants the eternity of all things, wants deep, deep eternity!

12

Have you learned my song now? Have you guessed what it wants? Well then! Up! You higher humans, now sing me my roundelay!

Now sing me yourselves the song whose name is “Once More,” whose meaning is “to all eternity!”; sing, you higher humans, Zarathustra’s roundelay!

O human! Take heed!
What does the deep midnight say?
“I slept, I slept—,
From a deep dream I have awoken:—
The world is deep,
And deeper than conceived by day.
Deep is its woe—,
Joy—deeper still than heart’s misery:
Woe says: Begone!
But all joy wants eternity
wants deep, deep eternity!”