No More Learning

Thou huntsman 'hind the cloud-banks!
Now lightning-struck by thee,
Thou mocking eye that me in darkness watcheth:
--Thus do I lie,
Bend myself, twist myself, convulsed
With all eternal torture,
And smitten
By thee, cruellest huntsman,
Thou unfamiliar--GOD. . .

Smite deeper!
Smite yet once more!
Pierce through and rend my heart!
What mean'th this torture
With dull, indented arrows?
Why look'st thou hither,
Of human pain not weary,
With mischief-loving, godly flash-glances?
Not murder wilt thou,
But torture, torture?
For why--ME torture,
Thou mischief-loving, unfamiliar God? --

Ha! Ha!
Thou stealest nigh
In midnight's gloomy hour? . . .
What wilt thou?
Speak!
Thou crowdst me, pressest--
Ha! now far too closely!
Thou hearst me breathing,
Thou o'erhearst my heart,
Thou ever jealous one!
--Of what, pray, ever jealous?
Off! Off!
For why the ladder?
Wouldst thou GET IN?
To heart in-clamber?
To mine own secretest
Conceptions in-clamber?
Shameless one! Thou unknown one! --Thief!
What seekst thou by thy stealing?
What seekst thou by thy hearkening?
What seekst thou by thy torturing?
Thou torturer!
Thou--hangman-God!
Or shall I, as the mastiffs do,
Roll me before thee?
And cringing, enraptured, frantical,
My tail friendly--waggle!

In vain!
Goad further!
Cruellest goader!
No dog--thy game just am I,
Cruellest huntsman!
Thy proudest of captives,
Thou robber 'hind the cloud-banks. . .
Speak finally!
Thou lightning-veiled one! Thou unknown one! Speak!
What wilt thou, highway-ambusher, from--ME?
What WILT thou, unfamiliar--God?
What?
Ransom-gold?
How much of ransom-gold?
Solicit much--that bid'th my pride!
And be concise--that bid'th mine other pride!

Ha! Ha!
ME--wantst thou? me?
--Entire? . . .

Ha! Ha!
And torturest me, fool that thou art,
Dead-torturest quite my pride?
Give LOVE to me--who warm'th me still?
Who lov'th me still? --
Give ardent fingers
Give heartening charcoal-warmers,
Give me, the lonesomest,
The ice (ah! seven-fold frozen ice
For very enemies,
For foes, doth make one thirst).
Give, yield to me,
Cruellest foe,
--THYSELF! --

Away!
There fled he surely,
My final, only comrade,
My greatest foe,
Mine unfamiliar--
My hangman-God! . . .

--Nay!
Come thou back!
WITH all of thy great tortures!
To me the last of lonesome ones,
Oh, come thou back!
All my hot tears in streamlets trickle
Their course to thee!
And all my final hearty fervour--
Up-glow'th to THEE!
Oh, come thou back,
Mine unfamiliar God! my PAIN!
My final bliss!

2.

--Here, however, Zarathustra could no longer restrain himself; he took
his staff and struck the wailer with all his might. "Stop this," cried
he to him with wrathful laughter, "stop this, thou stage-player! Thou
false coiner! Thou liar from the very heart! I know thee well!

I will soon make warm legs to thee, thou evil magician: I know well
how--to make it hot for such as thou! "

--"Leave off," said the old man, and sprang up from the ground, "strike
me no more, O Zarathustra! I did it only for amusement!

That kind of thing belongeth to mine art. Thee thyself, I wanted to put
to the proof when I gave this performance. And verily, thou hast well
detected me!

But thou thyself--hast given me no small proof of thyself: thou art
HARD, thou wise Zarathustra! Hard strikest thou with thy 'truths,' thy
cudgel forceth from me--THIS truth! "

--"Flatter not," answered Zarathustra, still excited and frowning,
"thou stage-player from the heart! Thou art false: why speakest thou--of
truth!

Thou peacock of peacocks, thou sea of vanity; WHAT didst thou represent
before me, thou evil magician; WHOM was I meant to believe in when thou
wailedst in such wise? "

"THE PENITENT IN SPIRIT," said the old man, "it was him--I represented;
thou thyself once devisedst this expression--

--The poet and magician who at last turneth his spirit against himself,
the transformed one who freezeth to death by his bad science and
conscience.

And just acknowledge it: it was long, O Zarathustra, before thou
discoveredst my trick and lie! Thou BELIEVEDST in my distress when thou
heldest my head with both thy hands,--

--I heard thee lament 'we have loved him too little, loved him too
little! ' Because I so far deceived thee, my wickedness rejoiced in me. "

"Thou mayest have deceived subtler ones than I," said Zarathustra
sternly. "I am not on my guard against deceivers; I HAVE TO BE without
precaution: so willeth my lot.

Thou, however,--MUST deceive: so far do I know thee! Thou must ever be
equivocal, trivocal, quadrivocal, and quinquivocal! Even what thou hast
now confessed, is not nearly true enough nor false enough for me!

Thou bad false coiner, how couldst thou do otherwise! Thy very malady
wouldst thou whitewash if thou showed thyself naked to thy physician.

Thus didst thou whitewash thy lie before me when thou saidst: 'I did
so ONLY for amusement! ' There was also SERIOUSNESS therein, thou ART
something of a penitent-in-spirit!

I divine thee well: thou hast become the enchanter of all the world; but
for thyself thou hast no lie or artifice left,--thou art disenchanted to
thyself!

Thou hast reaped disgust as thy one truth. No word in thee is any longer
genuine, but thy mouth is so: that is to say, the disgust that cleaveth
unto thy mouth. "--

--"Who art thou at all! " cried here the old magician with defiant voice,
"who dareth to speak thus unto ME, the greatest man now living? "--and a
green flash shot from his eye at Zarathustra. But immediately after he
changed, and said sadly:

"O Zarathustra, I am weary of it, I am disgusted with mine arts, I am
not GREAT, why do I dissemble! But thou knowest it well--I sought for
greatness!

A great man I wanted to appear, and persuaded many; but the lie hath
been beyond my power. On it do I collapse.

O Zarathustra, everything is a lie in me; but that I collapse--this my
collapsing is GENUINE! "--

"It honoureth thee," said Zarathustra gloomily, looking down with
sidelong glance, "it honoureth thee that thou soughtest for greatness,
but it betrayeth thee also. Thou art not great.

Thou bad old magician, THAT is the best and the honestest thing I honour
in thee, that thou hast become weary of thyself, and hast expressed it:
'I am not great. '

THEREIN do I honour thee as a penitent-in-spirit, and although only for
the twinkling of an eye, in that one moment wast thou--genuine.

But tell me, what seekest thou here in MY forests and rocks? And if thou
hast put thyself in MY way, what proof of me wouldst thou have? --

--Wherein didst thou put ME to the test? "

Thus spake Zarathustra, and his eyes sparkled. But the old magician kept
silence for a while; then said he: "Did I put thee to the test? I--seek
only.

O Zarathustra, I seek a genuine one, a right one, a simple one, an
unequivocal one, a man of perfect honesty, a vessel of wisdom, a saint
of knowledge, a great man!

Knowest thou it not, O Zarathustra? I SEEK ZARATHUSTRA. "

--And here there arose a long silence between them: Zarathustra,
however, became profoundly absorbed in thought, so that he shut his
eyes. But afterwards coming back to the situation, he grasped the hand
of the magician, and said, full of politeness and policy:

"Well! Up thither leadeth the way, there is the cave of Zarathustra. In
it mayest thou seek him whom thou wouldst fain find.

And ask counsel of mine animals, mine eagle and my serpent: they shall
help thee to seek. My cave however is large.

I myself, to be sure--I have as yet seen no great man. That which is
great, the acutest eye is at present insensible to it. It is the kingdom
of the populace.

Many a one have I found who stretched and inflated himself, and the
people cried: 'Behold; a great man! ' But what good do all bellows do!
The wind cometh out at last.

At last bursteth the frog which hath inflated itself too long: then
cometh out the wind. To prick a swollen one in the belly, I call good
pastime. Hear that, ye boys!

Our to-day is of the populace: who still KNOWETH what is great and what
is small! Who could there seek successfully for greatness! A fool only:
it succeedeth with fools.

Thou seekest for great men, thou strange fool? Who TAUGHT that to thee?
Is to-day the time for it? Oh, thou bad seeker, why dost thou--tempt
me? "--

Thus spake Zarathustra, comforted in his heart, and went laughing on his
way.




LXVI. OUT OF SERVICE.

Not long, however, after Zarathustra had freed himself from the
magician, he again saw a person sitting beside the path which he
followed, namely a tall, black man, with a haggard, pale countenance:
THIS MAN grieved him exceedingly. "Alas," said he to his heart, "there
sitteth disguised affliction; methinketh he is of the type of the
priests: what do THEY want in my domain?

What! Hardly have I escaped from that magician, and must another
necromancer again run across my path,--

--Some sorcerer with laying-on-of-hands, some sombre wonder-worker by
the grace of God, some anointed world-maligner, whom, may the devil
take!

But the devil is never at the place which would be his right place: he
always cometh too late, that cursed dwarf and club-foot! "--

Thus cursed Zarathustra impatiently in his heart, and considered how
with averted look he might slip past the black man. But behold, it came
about otherwise. For at the same moment had the sitting one already
perceived him; and not unlike one whom an unexpected happiness
overtaketh, he sprang to his feet, and went straight towards
Zarathustra.

"Whoever thou art, thou traveller," said he, "help a strayed one, a
seeker, an old man, who may here easily come to grief!

The world here is strange to me, and remote; wild beasts also did I hear
howling; and he who could have given me protection--he is himself no
more.

I was seeking the pious man, a saint and an anchorite, who, alone in his
forest, had not yet heard of what all the world knoweth at present. "

"WHAT doth all the world know at present? " asked Zarathustra. "Perhaps
that the old God no longer liveth, in whom all the world once believed? "

"Thou sayest it," answered the old man sorrowfully. "And I served that
old God until his last hour.

Now, however, am I out of service, without master, and yet not free;
likewise am I no longer merry even for an hour, except it be in
recollections.

Therefore did I ascend into these mountains, that I might finally have
a festival for myself once more, as becometh an old pope and
church-father: for know it, that I am the last pope! --a festival of
pious recollections and divine services.

Now, however, is he himself dead, the most pious of men, the saint in
the forest, who praised his God constantly with singing and mumbling.

He himself found I no longer when I found his cot--but two wolves found
I therein, which howled on account of his death,--for all animals loved
him. Then did I haste away.

Had I thus come in vain into these forests and mountains? Then did my
heart determine that I should seek another, the most pious of all
those who believe not in God--, my heart determined that I should seek
Zarathustra! "

Thus spake the hoary man, and gazed with keen eyes at him who stood
before him. Zarathustra however seized the hand of the old pope and
regarded it a long while with admiration.

"Lo! thou venerable one," said he then, "what a fine and long hand! That
is the hand of one who hath ever dispensed blessings. Now, however, doth
it hold fast him whom thou seekest, me, Zarathustra.

It is I, the ungodly Zarathustra, who saith: 'Who is ungodlier than I,
that I may enjoy his teaching? '"--

Thus spake Zarathustra, and penetrated with his glances the thoughts and
arrear-thoughts of the old pope. At last the latter began:

"He who most loved and possessed him hath now also lost him most--:

--Lo, I myself am surely the most godless of us at present? But who
could rejoice at that!
"--

--"Thou servedst him to the last? " asked Zarathustra thoughtfully, after
a deep silence, "thou knowest HOW he died? Is it true what they say,
that sympathy choked him;

--That he saw how MAN hung on the cross, and could not endure it;--that
his love to man became his hell, and at last his death? "--

The old pope however did not answer, but looked aside timidly, with a
painful and gloomy expression.

"Let him go," said Zarathustra, after prolonged meditation, still
looking the old man straight in the eye.

"Let him go, he is gone. And though it honoureth thee that thou speakest
only in praise of this dead one, yet thou knowest as well as I WHO he
was, and that he went curious ways. "

"To speak before three eyes," said the old pope cheerfully (he was blind
of one eye), "in divine matters I am more enlightened than Zarathustra
himself--and may well be so.

My love served him long years, my will followed all his will. A good
servant, however, knoweth everything, and many a thing even which a
master hideth from himself.

He was a hidden God, full of secrecy. Verily, he did not come by his
son otherwise than by secret ways. At the door of his faith standeth
adultery.

Whoever extolleth him as a God of love, doth not think highly enough of
love itself. Did not that God want also to be judge? But the loving one
loveth irrespective of reward and requital.

When he was young, that God out of the Orient, then was he harsh and
revengeful, and built himself a hell for the delight of his favourites.

At last, however, he became old and soft and mellow and pitiful,
more like a grandfather than a father, but most like a tottering old
grandmother.

There did he sit shrivelled in his chimney-corner, fretting on account
of his weak legs, world-weary, will-weary, and one day he suffocated of
his all-too-great pity. "--

"Thou old pope," said here Zarathustra interposing, "hast thou seen THAT
with thine eyes? It could well have happened in that way: in that way,
AND also otherwise. When Gods die they always die many kinds of death.

Well! At all events, one way or other--he is gone! He was counter to the
taste of mine ears and eyes; worse than that I should not like to say
against him.

I love everything that looketh bright and speaketh honestly. But
he--thou knowest it, forsooth, thou old priest, there was something of
thy type in him, the priest-type--he was equivocal.

He was also indistinct. How he raged at us, this wrath-snorter, because
we understood him badly! But why did he not speak more clearly?

And if the fault lay in our ears, why did he give us ears that heard him
badly? If there was dirt in our ears, well! who put it in them?

Too much miscarried with him, this potter who had not learned
thoroughly! That he took revenge on his pots and creations, however,
because they turned out badly--that was a sin against GOOD TASTE.

There is also good taste in piety: THIS at last said: 'Away with SUCH
a God! Better to have no God, better to set up destiny on one's own
account, better to be a fool, better to be God oneself! '"

--"What do I hear! " said then the old pope, with intent ears; "O
Zarathustra, thou art more pious than thou believest, with such an
unbelief! Some God in thee hath converted thee to thine ungodliness.

Is it not thy piety itself which no longer letteth thee believe in a
God? And thine over-great honesty will yet lead thee even beyond good
and evil!

Behold, what hath been reserved for thee? Thou hast eyes and hands and
mouth, which have been predestined for blessing from eternity. One doth
not bless with the hand alone.

Nigh unto thee, though thou professest to be the ungodliest one, I feel
a hale and holy odour of long benedictions: I feel glad and grieved
thereby.

Let me be thy guest, O Zarathustra, for a single night! Nowhere on earth
shall I now feel better than with thee! "--

"Amen! So shall it be! " said Zarathustra, with great astonishment; "up
thither leadeth the way, there lieth the cave of Zarathustra.

Gladly, forsooth, would I conduct thee thither myself, thou venerable
one; for I love all pious men. But now a cry of distress calleth me
hastily away from thee.

In my domain shall no one come to grief; my cave is a good haven. And
best of all would I like to put every sorrowful one again on firm land
and firm legs.

Who, however, could take THY melancholy off thy shoulders? For that I am
too weak. Long, verily, should we have to wait until some one re-awoke
thy God for thee.

For that old God liveth no more: he is indeed dead. "--

Thus spake Zarathustra.




LXVII. THE UGLIEST MAN.

--And again did Zarathustra's feet run through mountains and forests,
and his eyes sought and sought, but nowhere was he to be seen whom they
wanted to see--the sorely distressed sufferer and crier. On the whole
way, however, he rejoiced in his heart and was full of gratitude. "What
good things," said he, "hath this day given me, as amends for its bad
beginning! What strange interlocutors have I found!

At their words will I now chew a long while as at good corn; small
shall my teeth grind and crush them, until they flow like milk into my
soul! "--

When, however, the path again curved round a rock, all at once the
landscape changed, and Zarathustra entered into a realm of death. Here
bristled aloft black and red cliffs, without any grass, tree, or bird's
voice. For it was a valley which all animals avoided, even the beasts of
prey, except that a species of ugly, thick, green serpent came here to
die when they became old. Therefore the shepherds called this valley:
"Serpent-death. "

Zarathustra, however, became absorbed in dark recollections, for it
seemed to him as if he had once before stood in this valley. And much
heaviness settled on his mind, so that he walked slowly and always more
slowly, and at last stood still. Then, however, when he opened his eyes,
he saw something sitting by the wayside shaped like a man, and hardly
like a man, something nondescript. And all at once there came over
Zarathustra a great shame, because he had gazed on such a thing.
Blushing up to the very roots of his white hair, he turned aside his
glance, and raised his foot that he might leave this ill-starred place.
Then, however, became the dead wilderness vocal: for from the ground a
noise welled up, gurgling and rattling, as water gurgleth and rattleth
at night through stopped-up water-pipes; and at last it turned into
human voice and human speech:--it sounded thus:

"Zarathustra! Zarathustra! Read my riddle! Say, say! WHAT IS THE REVENGE
ON THE WITNESS?

I entice thee back; here is smooth ice! See to it, see to it, that thy
pride doth not here break its legs!

Thou thinkest thyself wise, thou proud Zarathustra! Read then the
riddle, thou hard nut-cracker,--the riddle that I am! Say then: who am
_I_! "

--When however Zarathustra had heard these words,--what think ye then
took place in his soul? PITY OVERCAME HIM; and he sank down all at
once, like an oak that hath long withstood many tree-fellers,--heavily,
suddenly, to the terror even of those who meant to fell it. But
immediately he got up again from the ground, and his countenance became
stern.

"I know thee well," said he, with a brazen voice, "THOU ART THE MURDERER
OF GOD! Let me go.

Thou couldst not ENDURE him who beheld THEE,--who ever beheld thee
through and through, thou ugliest man. Thou tookest revenge on this
witness! "

Thus spake Zarathustra and was about to go; but the nondescript grasped
at a corner of his garment and began anew to gurgle and seek for words.
"Stay," said he at last--

--"Stay! Do not pass by! I have divined what axe it was that struck thee
to the ground: hail to thee, O Zarathustra, that thou art again upon thy
feet!

Thou hast divined, I know it well, how the man feeleth who killed
him,--the murderer of God. Stay! Sit down here beside me; it is not to
no purpose.

To whom would I go but unto thee? Stay, sit down! Do not however look at
me! Honour thus--mine ugliness!

They persecute me: now art THOU my last refuge. NOT with their hatred,
NOT with their bailiffs;--Oh, such persecution would I mock at, and be
proud and cheerful!

Hath not all success hitherto been with the well-persecuted ones? And
he who persecuteth well learneth readily to be OBSEQUENT--when once he
is--put behind! But it is their PITY--

--Their pity is it from which I flee away and flee to thee. O
Zarathustra, protect me, thou, my last refuge, thou sole one who
divinedst me:

--Thou hast divined how the man feeleth who killed HIM. Stay! And if
thou wilt go, thou impatient one, go not the way that I came. THAT way
is bad.

Art thou angry with me because I have already racked language too long?
Because I have already counselled thee? But know that it is I, the
ugliest man,

--Who have also the largest, heaviest feet. Where _I_ have gone, the way
is bad. I tread all paths to death and destruction.

But that thou passedst me by in silence, that thou blushedst--I saw it
well: thereby did I know thee as Zarathustra.

Every one else would have thrown to me his alms, his pity, in look and
speech. But for that--I am not beggar enough: that didst thou divine.

For that I am too RICH, rich in what is great, frightful, ugliest, most
unutterable! Thy shame, O Zarathustra, HONOURED me!

With difficulty did I get out of the crowd of the pitiful,--that I might
find the only one who at present teacheth that 'pity is obtrusive'--
thyself, O Zarathustra!

--Whether it be the pity of a God, or whether it be human pity, it is
offensive to modesty. And unwillingness to help may be nobler than the
virtue that rusheth to do so.

THAT however--namely, pity--is called virtue itself at present by
all petty people:--they have no reverence for great misfortune, great
ugliness, great failure.

Beyond all these do I look, as a dog looketh over the backs of thronging
flocks of sheep. They are petty, good-wooled, good-willed, grey people.

As the heron looketh contemptuously at shallow pools, with backward-bent
head, so do I look at the throng of grey little waves and wills and
souls.

Too long have we acknowledged them to be right, those petty people: SO
we have at last given them power as well;--and now do they teach that
'good is only what petty people call good. '

And 'truth' is at present what the preacher spake who himself sprang
from them, that singular saint and advocate of the petty people, who
testified of himself: 'I--am the truth. '

That immodest one hath long made the petty people greatly puffed up,--he
who taught no small error when he taught: 'I--am the truth. '

Hath an immodest one ever been answered more courteously? --Thou,
however, O Zarathustra, passedst him by, and saidst: 'Nay! Nay! Three
times Nay! '

Thou warnedst against his error; thou warnedst--the first to do
so--against pity:--not every one, not none, but thyself and thy type.

Thou art ashamed of the shame of the great sufferer; and verily when
thou sayest: 'From pity there cometh a heavy cloud; take heed, ye men! '

--When thou teachest: 'All creators are hard, all great love is beyond
their pity:' O Zarathustra, how well versed dost thou seem to me in
weather-signs!

Thou thyself, however,--warn thyself also against THY pity! For many are
on their way to thee, many suffering, doubting, despairing, drowning,
freezing ones--

I warn thee also against myself. Thou hast read my best, my worst
riddle, myself, and what I have done. I know the axe that felleth thee.

But he--HAD TO die: he looked with eyes which beheld EVERYTHING,--he
beheld men's depths and dregs, all his hidden ignominy and ugliness.

His pity knew no modesty: he crept into my dirtiest corners. This most
prying, over-intrusive, over-pitiful one had to die.

He ever beheld ME: on such a witness I would have revenge--or not live
myself.

The God who beheld everything, AND ALSO MAN: that God had to die! Man
cannot ENDURE it that such a witness should live. "

Thus spake the ugliest man. Zarathustra however got up, and prepared to
go on: for he felt frozen to the very bowels.

"Thou nondescript," said he, "thou warnedst me against thy path. As
thanks for it I praise mine to thee. Behold, up thither is the cave of
Zarathustra.

My cave is large and deep and hath many corners; there findeth he
that is most hidden his hiding-place. And close beside it, there are
a hundred lurking-places and by-places for creeping, fluttering, and
hopping creatures.

Thou outcast, who hast cast thyself out, thou wilt not live amongst men
and men's pity? Well then, do like me! Thus wilt thou learn also from
me; only the doer learneth.

And talk first and foremost to mine animals! The proudest animal and the
wisest animal--they might well be the right counsellors for us both! "--

Thus spake Zarathustra and went his way, more thoughtfully and slowly
even than before: for he asked himself many things, and hardly knew what
to answer.

"How poor indeed is man," thought he in his heart, "how ugly, how
wheezy, how full of hidden shame!

They tell me that man loveth himself. Ah, how great must that self-love
be! How much contempt is opposed to it!

Even this man hath loved himself, as he hath despised himself,--a great
lover methinketh he is, and a great despiser.

No one have I yet found who more thoroughly despised himself: even THAT
is elevation. Alas, was THIS perhaps the higher man whose cry I heard?

I love the great despisers. Man is something that hath to be
surpassed. "--




LXVIII. THE VOLUNTARY BEGGAR.

When Zarathustra had left the ugliest man, he was chilled and felt
lonesome: for much coldness and lonesomeness came over his spirit, so
that even his limbs became colder thereby. When, however, he wandered
on and on, uphill and down, at times past green meadows, though also
sometimes over wild stony couches where formerly perhaps an impatient
brook had made its bed, then he turned all at once warmer and heartier
again.

"What hath happened unto me? " he asked himself, "something warm and
living quickeneth me; it must be in the neighbourhood.

Already am I less alone; unconscious companions and brethren rove around
me; their warm breath toucheth my soul. "

When, however, he spied about and sought for the comforters of his
lonesomeness, behold, there were kine there standing together on an
eminence, whose proximity and smell had warmed his heart. The kine,
however, seemed to listen eagerly to a speaker, and took no heed of him
who approached. When, however, Zarathustra was quite nigh unto them,
then did he hear plainly that a human voice spake in the midst of the
kine, and apparently all of them had turned their heads towards the
speaker.

Then ran Zarathustra up speedily and drove the animals aside; for he
feared that some one had here met with harm, which the pity of the
kine would hardly be able to relieve. But in this he was deceived; for
behold, there sat a man on the ground who seemed to be persuading
the animals to have no fear of him, a peaceable man and
Preacher-on-the-Mount, out of whose eyes kindness itself preached. "What
dost thou seek here? " called out Zarathustra in astonishment.

"What do I here seek? " answered he: "the same that thou seekest, thou
mischief-maker; that is to say, happiness upon earth.

To that end, however, I would fain learn of these kine. For I tell thee
that I have already talked half a morning unto them, and just now were
they about to give me their answer. Why dost thou disturb them?

Except we be converted and become as kine, we shall in no wise enter
into the kingdom of heaven. For we ought to learn from them one thing:
ruminating.

And verily, although a man should gain the whole world, and yet not
learn one thing, ruminating, what would it profit him! He would not be
rid of his affliction,

--His great affliction: that, however, is at present called DISGUST. Who
hath not at present his heart, his mouth and his eyes full of disgust?
Thou also! Thou also! But behold these kine! "--

Thus spake the Preacher-on-the-Mount, and turned then his own look
towards Zarathustra--for hitherto it had rested lovingly on the kine--:
then, however, he put on a different expression. "Who is this with whom
I talk?