XXIV. IN THE HAPPY ISLES
by Friedrich Nietzsche
The figs fall from the trees, they are good and sweet; and in falling the
red skins of them break. A north wind am I to ripe figs.
Thus, like figs, do these doctrines fall for you, my friends: imbibe now
their juice and their sweet substance! It is autumn all around, and clear
sky, and afternoon.
Lo, what fullness is around us! And out of the midst of superabundance,
is delightful to look out upon distant seas.
Once did people say God, when they looked out upon distant seas; now,
however, have I taught you to say, Superman.
God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach
your creating will.
Could ye CREATE a God?--Then, I pray you, be silent about all Gods!
could well create the Superman.
Not perhaps ye yourselves, my brethren! But into fathers and forefathers
of the Superman could ye transform yourselves: and let that be your best
God is a conjecture: but I should like your conjecturing restricted to the
Could ye CONCEIVE a God?--But let this mean Will to Truth unto
everything be transformed into the humanly conceivable, the humanly
visible, the humanly sensible! Your own discernment shall ye follow out to
And what ye have called the world shall but be created by you: your
reason, your likeness, your will, your love, shall it itself become! And
verily, for your bliss, ye discerning ones!
And how would ye endure life without that hope, ye discerning ones?
Neither in the inconceivable could ye have been born, nor in the
But that I may reveal my heart entirely unto you, my friends: IF there
were gods, how could I endure it to be no God! THEREFORE there are no
Yea, I have drawn the conclusion; now, however, doth it draw me.--
God is a conjecture: but who could drink all the bitterness of this
conjecture without dying? Shall his faith be taken from the creating one,
and from the eagle his flights into eagle-heights?
God is a thought--it maketh all the straight crooked, and all that
reel. What? Time would be gone, and all the perishable would be but a
To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human limbs, and even
the stomach: verily, the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such
Evil do I call it and misanthropic: all that teaching about the one, and
the plenum, and the unmoved, and the sufficient, and the imperishable!
All the imperishable--that's but a simile, and the poets lie too much.--
But of time and of becoming shall the best similes speak: a praise shall
they be, and a justification of all perishableness!
Creating--that is the great salvation from suffering, and life's
alleviation. But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed,
and much transformation.
Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! Thus are
ye advocates and justifiers of all perishableness.
For the creator himself to be the new-born child, he must also be willing
to be the child-bearer, and endure the pangs of the child-bearer.
Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way, and through a hundred
cradles and birth-throes. Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-
breaking last hours.
But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or, to tell you it more
candidly: just such a fate--willeth my Will.
All FEELING suffereth in me, and is in prison: but my WILLING ever
to me as mine emancipator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will and
so teacheth you Zarathustra.
No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no longer creating! Ah,
that great debility may ever be far from me!
And also in discerning do I feel only my will's procreating and evolving
delight; and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is
will to procreation in it.
Away from God and Gods did this will allure me; what would there be to
create if there were--Gods!
But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent creative will; thus
impelleth it the hammer to the stone.
Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image for me, the image of
visions! Ah, that it should slumber in the hardest, ugliest stone!
Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison. From the stone
fragments: what's that to me?
I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me--the stillest and lightest
of all things once came unto me!
The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. Ah, my
what account now are--the Gods to me!--
Thus spake Zarathustra.
the first thought of Zarathustra