Thus Spoke Zarathustra

here is an isle in the sea—not far from the Happy Isles of
Zarathustra—on which a volcano ever smoketh; of which isle the people,
and especially the old women amongst them, say that it is placed as a
rock before the gate of the nether-world; but that through the volcano
itself the narrow way leadeth downwards which conducteth to this gate.

Now about the time that Zarathustra sojourned on the Happy Isles, it
happened that a ship anchored at the isle on which standeth the smoking
mountain, and the crew went ashore to shoot rabbits. About the noontide
hour, however, when the captain and his men were together again, they
saw suddenly a man coming towards them through the air, and a voice said
distinctly: “It is time! It is the highest time!” But when the figure
was nearest to them (it flew past quickly, however, like a shadow, in
the direction of the volcano), then did they recognise with the greatest
surprise that it was Zarathustra; for they had all seen him before
except the captain himself, and they loved him as the people love: in
such wise that love and awe were combined in equal degree.

“Behold!” said the old helmsman, “there goeth Zarathustra to hell!”

About the same time that these sailors landed on the fire-isle, there
was a rumour that Zarathustra had disappeared; and when his friends were
asked about it, they said that he had gone on board a ship by night,
without saying whither he was going.

Thus there arose some uneasiness. After three days, however, there came
the story of the ship’s crew in addition to this uneasiness—and
then did all the people say that the devil had taken Zarathustra. His
disciples laughed, sure enough, at this talk; and one of them said even:
“Sooner would I believe that Zarathustra hath taken the devil.” But at
the bottom of their hearts they were all full of anxiety and longing: so
their joy was great when on the fifth day Zarathustra appeared amongst
them.

And this is the account of Zarathustra’s interview with the fire-dog:

The earth, said he, hath a skin; and this skin hath diseases. One of
these diseases, for example, is called “man.”

And another of these diseases is called “the fire-dog”: concerning HIM
men have greatly deceived themselves, and let themselves be deceived.

To fathom this mystery did I go o’er the sea; and I have seen the truth
naked, verily! barefooted up to the neck.

Now do I know how it is concerning the fire-dog; and likewise concerning
all the spouting and subversive devils, of which not only old women are
afraid.

“Up with thee, fire-dog, out of thy depth!” cried I, “and confess how
deep that depth is! Whence cometh that which thou snortest up?

Thou drinkest copiously at the sea: that doth thine embittered eloquence
betray! In sooth, for a dog of the depth, thou takest thy nourishment
too much from the surface!

At the most, I regard thee as the ventriloquist of the earth: and ever,
when I have heard subversive and spouting devils speak, I have found
them like thee: embittered, mendacious, and shallow.

Ye understand how to roar and obscure with ashes! Ye are the best
braggarts, and have sufficiently learned the art of making dregs boil.

Where ye are, there must always be dregs at hand, and much that is
spongy, hollow, and compressed: it wanteth to have freedom.

‘Freedom’ ye all roar most eagerly: but I have unlearned the belief in
‘great events,’ when there is much roaring and smoke about them.

And believe me, friend Hullabaloo! The greatest events—are not our
noisiest, but our stillest hours.

Not around the inventors of new noise, but around the inventors of new
values, doth the world revolve; INAUDIBLY it revolveth.

And just own to it! Little had ever taken place when thy noise and smoke
passed away. What, if a city did become a mummy, and a statue lay in the
mud!

And this do I say also to the o’erthrowers of statues: It is certainly
the greatest folly to throw salt into the sea, and statues into the mud.

In the mud of your contempt lay the statue: but it is just its law, that
out of contempt, its life and living beauty grow again!

With diviner features doth it now arise, seducing by its suffering; and
verily! it will yet thank you for o’erthrowing it, ye subverters!

This counsel, however, do I counsel to kings and churches, and to all
that is weak with age or virtue—let yourselves be o’erthrown! That ye
may again come to life, and that virtue—may come to you!—”

Thus spake I before the fire-dog: then did he interrupt me sullenly, and
asked: “Church? What is that?”

“Church?” answered I, “that is a kind of state, and indeed the most
mendacious. But remain quiet, thou dissembling dog! Thou surely knowest
thine own species best!

Like thyself the state is a dissembling dog; like thee doth it like
to speak with smoke and roaring—to make believe, like thee, that it
speaketh out of the heart of things.

For it seeketh by all means to be the most important creature on earth,
the state; and people think it so.”

When I had said this, the fire-dog acted as if mad with envy. “What!”
cried he, “the most important creature on earth? And people think it
so?” And so much vapour and terrible voices came out of his throat, that
I thought he would choke with vexation and envy.

At last he became calmer and his panting subsided; as soon, however, as
he was quiet, I said laughingly:

“Thou art angry, fire-dog: so I am in the right about thee!

And that I may also maintain the right, hear the story of another
fire-dog; he speaketh actually out of the heart of the earth.

Gold doth his breath exhale, and golden rain: so doth his heart desire.
What are ashes and smoke and hot dregs to him!

Laughter flitteth from him like a variegated cloud; adverse is he to thy
gargling and spewing and grips in the bowels!

The gold, however, and the laughter—these doth he take out of the heart
of the earth: for, that thou mayst know it,—THE HEART OF THE EARTH IS
OF GOLD.”

When the fire-dog heard this, he could no longer endure to listen to me.
Abashed did he draw in his tail, said “bow-wow!” in a cowed voice, and
crept down into his cave.—

Thus told Zarathustra. His disciples, however, 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 think of it!” said Zarathustra. “Am I indeed a ghost?

But it may have been my shadow. Ye have surely heard something of the
Wanderer and his Shadow?

One thing, however, is certain: I must keep a tighter hold of it;
otherwise it will spoil my reputation.”

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

“Why did the ghost cry: ‘It is time! It is the highest time!’

For what is it then—the highest time?”—

Thus spake Zarathustra.