Chapter 36 the second poet

"Since I have known the body better"—says Zarathustra to one of his disciples—"spirit has become to me only spirit in a certain sphere; and all that remains unchanged—that is symbol." "I have heard you say this," said the disciple; "you added that time: 'But poets are too good at lying.' Why do you say that poets are too good at lying?" "Why?" said Zarathustra. "Are you asking why? I'm not someone who just asks why. Could it be that my experience is only yesterday?For a long time I have tested my arguments empirically. Must I be a memory bucket to keep my many reasons?

I have had difficulty keeping my opinion; many birds have spread their wings. However, sometimes I also have a stray bird in my coop.It is strange to me; it trembles when my hand catches it. What did Zarathustra say to you before?Are poets too good at lying? — But Zarathustra himself was a poet. Do you believe he is telling the truth about this?Why do you trust him? " The disciple replied: "I trust Zarathustra." But Zarathustra shook his head and smiled. "Faith doesn't sanctify me," he said, "especially for my faith." But suppose someone says quite honestly that poets are too good at lying: he is right. —We are too good at lying.

We know a lot, and we are poor learners: so we must lie. What poet has not forged his wine?Many poisons have been prepared in our cellars; many unspeakable things have been done there. Because we know so little, we really like idiots, especially young women with dementia! We long to know the stories the old women tell each other at night.We call this the eternal femininity in us. We seem to think that there is a secret avenue of knowledge, which is not passed by the least knowledgeable: so we trust the people and its "wisdom." But the poets all believe that whoever stretches out his ears on the grass, or on the slopes of the wilderness, can always learn something about the world.

If they get a little lingering affection, they believe that nature loves them too: And believe that nature sneaks into their ears, whispering secrets and love words: They are proud of it before others, and they are proud of it! Alas, there are many things in the world that only poets dream of! And above all heavenly things: for all gods are poets' fables and fabrications! Verily, we are always drawn to heights—that is, to the land of clouds: there we place our polychromatic balloons, and call them gods and supermen:— They are both light enough to sit on this kind of seat! —these gods and supermen.

Oh, how I am weary of everything that has no content and is pretended to be real! Oh, how I am weary of poets! When Zarathustra had finished speaking, his disciple was silent in resentment.Zarathustra spoke no more; he looked inward as if looking far away.Finally he sighed, and he took a breath. "I belong to the present and to the past," he said then; "but in me there is something of the to-morrow and the future. I am tired of the old and the new poets: I think they are all too shallow, seas without depth. They have not thought deeply; so their feelings have not reached the bottom.

A little lewdness, a little vexation: this is their best thought. I think the sound of their harps is only the breath and flight of ghosts; what have they known till now from the fervor of the sound! —— They are not clean enough for me: they muddle their water to make it seem deeper. They would like to be called reconcilers: but I think they are ambiguous, meddlesome, half-hearted and unclean! Alas, I am in their sea, casting my net, trying to catch a good fish; but I always drag out the head of an old god. So the sea gave a stone to the hungry man.They themselves seem to come from the sea.

Yes, there are pearls in there too: this makes them more like hard shellfish.In them the salty foam takes the place of the soul. From the sea they learned vanity: is not the sea the most vain of all peacocks? Even before the ugliest ox it spreads its screen; it never tires of unrolling its silver and silk lace fan. The ox looked on contemptuously, its soul was closer to the sand, closer to the jungle, and closest to the swamp. Beauty, the sea and the screen of the peacock, what is there to it!This is the parable I offer to poets. Verily, their spirit is the most vain of all peacocks and a sea of ​​vanities!

The spirit of a poet needs an audience, even if the audience is some cows! —— But I have loathed the spirit; and I see their time of self-loathing is at hand. I have seen poets change, poets turn their eyes to themselves. I have seen the confessor of the spirit appear: he is born of the poet. "— Thus spake Zarathustra.