SECOND PART.
24. XXIV. IN THE HAPPY ISLES. (continued)
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 standeth
reel. What? Time would be gone, and all the perishable would be but a
lie?
To think this is giddiness and vertigo to human limbs, and even vomiting to
the stomach: verily, the reeling sickness do I call it, to conjecture such
a thing.
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 cometh
to me as mine emancipator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will and emancipation--
so teacheth you Zarathustra.
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