The Flame is not so bright to itself as to those on whom it shines, so too the wise man

Excerpt from Part 2 Thus Spoke Zarathustra

 By Friedrich Nietzsche

 This is the second excerpt from Thus Spoke Zarathustra mentioned in the post headed “Sex and the Philosopher who Specialised in Feeling Wretched

The Night-Song

 ‘TIS night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.

‘Tis night: only now do all songs of the loving ones awake. And my soul also is the song of a loving one.

Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me; it wants to find expression. A craving for love is within me, which speaks itself the language of love.

Light am I: ah, that I were night! But it is my lonesomeness to be begirt*[1] with light!

Ah, that I were dark and nightly! How would I suck at the breasts of light!

And I would bless you, ye twinkling stars and glow-worms above!- and would rejoice in the gifts of your light.

But I live in my own light, I drink back into myself the flames that break forth from me.

I know not the happiness of the receiver; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than receiving.

It is my poverty that my hand never rests from giving; it is mine envy that I see expectant eyes and the brightened nights of desire.

Oh, the misery of all givers! Oh, the eclipse of my sun! Oh, the craving for desire! Oh, the violent hunger in satiety!

They take from me: but do I yet touch their soul? There is a gap between giving and receiving; and the smallest gap hath finally to be bridged over.

A hunger arises out of my beauty: I should like to rob those to whom I illumine; I should like to rob those to whom I give – thus do I hunger for wickedness.

Withdrawing my hand when another hand already reaches out to it; hesitating like the waterfall, which hesitates even in its plunge – thus do I hunger for wickedness!

Such vengeance does my abundance think of; such spite wells out of my lonesomeness.

My joy in giving died in giving; my virtue grew weary of itself through its abundance!

He who is ever giving is in danger of losing his shame; the hand and heart of him who distributes grow callous through sheer distributing.

My eye no longer overflows with the shame of suppliants[2]; my hand has become too hard for the trembling of hands that have been filled.

Where have the tears of my eye and the bloom of my heart gone? Oh, the lonesomeness of all givers! Oh, the silence of all shining ones[3]!

Many suns circle in empty space: to all that is dark they speak with their light – but to me they are silent.

Oh, this is the hostility of light to the shining one: unpitying it pursues its course.

Unfair to the shining one in its innermost heart, cold towards suns – thus travels every sun.

Like a storm do the suns pursue their courses: that is their travelling. Their inexorable[4] will do they follow: that is their coldness.

Oh, it is only you, obscure, dark ones, who extract warmth from the light-givers! Oh, only you drink milk and comfort from the udders of light!

Ah, there is ice around me; my hand burns with the iciness! Ah, there is thirst in me, which yearns after your thirst!

‘Tis night: alas, that I have to be light! And thirst for the things of night! And lonesomeness!

‘Tis night: now my longing breaks from me as a fountain,- I long for speech. ‘Tis night: now do all gushing fountains speak louder. And my soul also is a gushing fountain.

‘Tis night: only now do all songs of lovers awaken. And my soul too is the song of a lover.

Thus sang Zarathustra.


[1] begirt: Surrounded, to surround as with a band

[2] suppliants: Asking humbly and earnestly

[3] shining ones: light givers

[4] inexorable: grim determination

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