Thus Spoke Zarathustra

nd Zarathustra went thoughtfully on, further and lower down, through
forests and past moory bottoms; as it happeneth, however, to every one
who meditateth upon hard matters, he trod thereby unawares upon a man.
And lo, there spurted into his face all at once a cry of pain, and two
curses and twenty bad invectives, so that in his fright he raised his
stick and also struck the trodden one. Immediately afterwards, however,
he regained his composure, and his heart laughed at the folly he had
just committed.

“Pardon me,” said he to the trodden one, who had got up enraged, and had
seated himself, “pardon me, and hear first of all a parable.

As a wanderer who dreameth of remote things on a lonesome highway,
runneth unawares against a sleeping dog, a dog which lieth in the sun:

—As both of them then start up and snap at each other, like deadly
enemies, those two beings mortally frightened—so did it happen unto us.

And yet! And yet—how little was lacking for them to caress each other,
that dog and that lonesome one! Are they not both—lonesome ones!”

—“Whoever thou art,” said the trodden one, still enraged, “thou
treadest also too nigh me with thy parable, and not only with thy foot!

Lo! am I then a dog?”—And thereupon the sitting one got up, and pulled
his naked arm out of the swamp. For at first he had lain outstretched
on the ground, hidden and indiscernible, like those who lie in wait for
swamp-game.

“But whatever art thou about!” called out Zarathustra in alarm, for he
saw a deal of blood streaming over the naked arm,—“what hath hurt thee?
Hath an evil beast bit thee, thou unfortunate one?”

The bleeding one laughed, still angry, “What matter is it to thee!” said
he, and was about to go on. “Here am I at home and in my province.
Let him question me whoever will: to a dolt, however, I shall hardly
answer.”

“Thou art mistaken,” said Zarathustra sympathetically, and held him
fast; “thou art mistaken. Here thou art not at home, but in my domain,
and therein shall no one receive any hurt.

Call me however what thou wilt—I am who I must be. I call myself
Zarathustra.

Well! Up thither is the way to Zarathustra’s cave: it is not far,—wilt
thou not attend to thy wounds at my home?

It hath gone badly with thee, thou unfortunate one, in this life: first
a beast bit thee, and then—a man trod upon thee!”—

When however the trodden one had heard the name of Zarathustra he was
transformed. “What happeneth unto me!” he exclaimed, “WHO preoccupieth
me so much in this life as this one man, namely Zarathustra, and that
one animal that liveth on blood, the leech?

For the sake of the leech did I lie here by this swamp, like a fisher,
and already had mine outstretched arm been bitten ten times, when there
biteth a still finer leech at my blood, Zarathustra himself!

O happiness! O miracle! Praised be this day which enticed me into the
swamp! Praised be the best, the livest cupping-glass, that at present
liveth; praised be the great conscience-leech Zarathustra!”—

Thus spake the trodden one, and Zarathustra rejoiced at his words and
their refined reverential style. “Who art thou?” asked he, and gave
him his hand, “there is much to clear up and elucidate between us, but
already methinketh pure clear day is dawning.”

“I am THE SPIRITUALLY CONSCIENTIOUS ONE,” answered he who was asked,
“and in matters of the spirit it is difficult for any one to take it
more rigorously, more restrictedly, and more severely than I, except him
from whom I learnt it, Zarathustra himself.

Better know nothing than half-know many things! Better be a fool on
one’s own account, than a sage on other people’s approbation! I—go to
the basis:

—What matter if it be great or small? If it be called swamp or sky?
A handbreadth of basis is enough for me, if it be actually basis and
ground!

—A handbreadth of basis: thereon can one stand. In the true
knowing-knowledge there is nothing great and nothing small.”

“Then thou art perhaps an expert on the leech?” asked Zarathustra; “and
thou investigatest the leech to its ultimate basis, thou conscientious
one?”

“O Zarathustra,” answered the trodden one, “that would be something
immense; how could I presume to do so!

That, however, of which I am master and knower, is the BRAIN of the
leech:—that is MY world!

And it is also a world! Forgive it, however, that my pride here findeth
expression, for here I have not mine equal. Therefore said I: ‘here am I
at home.’

How long have I investigated this one thing, the brain of the leech, so
that here the slippery truth might no longer slip from me! Here is MY
domain!

—For the sake of this did I cast everything else aside, for the sake of
this did everything else become indifferent to me; and close beside my
knowledge lieth my black ignorance.

My spiritual conscience requireth from me that it should be so—that I
should know one thing, and not know all else: they are a loathing unto
me, all the semi-spiritual, all the hazy, hovering, and visionary.

Where mine honesty ceaseth, there am I blind, and want also to be blind.
Where I want to know, however, there want I also to be honest—namely,
severe, rigorous, restricted, cruel and inexorable.

Because THOU once saidest, O Zarathustra: ‘Spirit is life which itself
cutteth into life’;—that led and allured me to thy doctrine. And
verily, with mine own blood have I increased mine own knowledge!”

—“As the evidence indicateth,” broke in Zarathustra; for still was the
blood flowing down on the naked arm of the conscientious one. For there
had ten leeches bitten into it.

“O thou strange fellow, how much doth this very evidence teach
me—namely, thou thyself! And not all, perhaps, might I pour into thy
rigorous ear!

Well then! We part here! But I would fain find thee again. Up thither is
the way to my cave: to-night shalt thou there be my welcome guest!

Fain would I also make amends to thy body for Zarathustra treading upon
thee with his feet: I think about that. Just now, however, a cry of
distress calleth me hastily away from thee.”

Thus spake Zarathustra.