BACKWORLDSMEN.

Once on a time, Zarathustra also cast his fancy beyond man, like allrnbackworldsmen. The work of a suffering and tortured God, did the worldrnthen seem to me.rnrnThe dream—and diction—of a God, did the world then seem to me;rncoloured vapours before the eyes of a divinely dissatisfied one.rnrnGood and evil, and joy and woe, and I and thou—coloured vapours didrnthey seem to me before creative eyes. The creator wished to look awayrnfrom himself,—thereupon he created the world.rnrnIntoxicating joy is it for the sufferer to look away from his sufferingrnand forget himself. Intoxicating joy and self-forgetting, did the worldrnonce seem to me.rnrnThis world, the eternally imperfect, an eternal contradiction’s imagernand imperfect image—an intoxicating joy to its imperfect creator:—thusrndid the world once seem to me.rnrnThus, once on a time, did I also cast my fancy beyond man, like allrnbackworldsmen. Beyond man, forsooth?rnrnAh, ye brethren, that God whom I created was human work and humanrnmadness, like all the Gods!rnrnA man was he, and only a poor fragment of a man and ego. Out of mine ownrnashes and glow it came unto me, that phantom. And verily, it came notrnunto me from the beyond!rnrnWhat happened, my brethren? I surpassed myself, the suffering one; Irncarried mine own ashes to the mountain; a brighter flame I contrived forrnmyself. And lo! Thereupon the phantom WITHDREW from me!rnrnTo me the convalescent would it now be suffering and torment to believernin such phantoms: suffering would it now be to me, and humiliation. Thusrnspeak I to backworldsmen.rnrnSuffering was it, and impotence—that created all backworlds; andrnthe short madness of happiness, which only the greatest suffererrnexperienceth.rnrnWeariness, which seeketh to get to the ultimate with one leap, withrna death-leap; a poor ignorant weariness, unwilling even to will anyrnlonger: that created all Gods and backworlds.rnrnBelieve me, my brethren! It was the body which despaired of the body—itrngroped with the fingers of the infatuated spirit at the ultimate walls.rnrnBelieve me, my brethren! It was the body which despaired of thernearth—it heard the bowels of existence speaking unto it.rnrnAnd then it sought to get through the ultimate walls with its head—andrnnot with its head only—into “the other world.”rnrnBut that “other world” is well concealed from man, that dehumanised,rninhuman world, which is a celestial naught; and the bowels of existencerndo not speak unto man, except as man.rnrnVerily, it is difficult to prove all being, and hard to make it speak.rnTell me, ye brethren, is not the strangest of all things best proved?rnrnYea, this ego, with its contradiction and perplexity, speaketh mostrnuprightly of its being—this creating, willing, evaluing ego, which isrnthe measure and value of things.rnrnAnd this most upright existence, the ego—it speaketh of the body, andrnstill implieth the body, even when it museth and raveth and flutterethrnwith broken wings.rnrnAlways more uprightly learneth it to speak, the ego; and the more itrnlearneth, the more doth it find titles and honours for the body and thernearth.rnrnA new pride taught me mine ego, and that teach I unto men: no longerrnto thrust one’s head into the sand of celestial things, but to carry itrnfreely, a terrestrial head, which giveth meaning to the earth!rnrnA new will teach I unto men: to choose that path which man hath followedrnblindly, and to approve of it—and no longer to slink aside from it,rnlike the sick and perishing!rnrnThe sick and perishing—it was they who despised the body and the earth,rnand invented the heavenly world, and the redeeming blood-drops; but evenrnthose sweet and sad poisons they borrowed from the body and the earth!rnrnFrom their misery they sought escape, and the stars were too remote forrnthem. Then they sighed: “O that there were heavenly paths by which tornsteal into another existence and into happiness!” Then they contrivedrnfor themselves their by-paths and bloody draughts!rnrnBeyond the sphere of their body and this earth they now fanciedrnthemselves transported, these ungrateful ones. But to what did they owernthe convulsion and rapture of their transport? To their body and thisrnearth.rnrnGentle is Zarathustra to the sickly. Verily, he is not indignantrnat their modes of consolation and ingratitude. May they becomernconvalescents and overcomers, and create higher bodies for themselves!rnrnNeither is Zarathustra indignant at a convalescent who looketh tenderlyrnon his delusions, and at midnight stealeth round the grave of his God;rnbut sickness and a sick frame remain even in his tears.rnrnMany sickly ones have there always been among those who muse, andrnlanguish for God; violently they hate the discerning ones, and thernlatest of virtues, which is uprightness.rnrnBackward they always gaze toward dark ages: then, indeed, were delusionrnand faith something different. Raving of the reason was likeness to God,rnand doubt was sin.rnrnToo well do I know those godlike ones: they insist on being believed in,rnand that doubt is sin. Too well, also, do I know what they themselvesrnmost believe in.rnrnVerily, not in backworlds and redeeming blood-drops: but in the bodyrndo they also believe most; and their own body is for them thernthing-in-itself.rnrnBut it is a sickly thing to them, and gladly would they get out of theirrnskin. Therefore hearken they to the preachers of death, and themselvesrnpreach backworlds.rnrnHearken rather, my brethren, to the voice of the healthy body; it is arnmore upright and pure voice.rnrnMore uprightly and purely speaketh the healthy body, perfect andrnsquare-built; and it speaketh of the meaning of the earth.—rnrnThus spake Zarathustra.