Aprenda com quem sabe: www.gabrielpol...
Me siga no Insta: / gabrielpolyglot
TEXTO:
On the Tree on the Mountain
Zarathustra’s eyes had discerned that a young man avoided him. As he walked one evening alone through the mountains surrounding the town, which is called The Motley Cow, behold, there while walking he found this young man leaning against a tree, gazing wearily into the valley. Zarathustra grasped the tree at which the young man sat, and spoke thus:
“If I wanted to shake this tree here with my hands, I would not be able to.
But the wind that we do not see torments and bends it wherever it wants. We are bent and tormented worst by invisible hands.”
Then the young man stood up, perplexed, and said: “I hear Zarathustra and I was just thinking about him.” Zarathustra responded:
“Why are you startled by this? - But it is with human beings as it is with this tree.
The more they aspire to the heights and the light, the more strongly their roots strive earthward, downward, into darkness, depths - into evil.”
“Yes, into evil!” cried the young man. “How is it possible that you discovered my soul?”
Zarathustra smiled and said: “Some souls will never be discovered, unless they are first invented.”
“Yes, into evil!” cried the young man again.
“You speak the truth, Zarathustra. I no longer trust myself since aspiring to the heights, and no one trusts me anymore - how did this happen?
I’m changing too fast. My today contradicts my yesterday. I often skip steps when I climb - no step forgives me that.
If I am at the top then I always find myself alone. No one speaks with me, the frost of loneliness makes me shiver. What do I want in the heights?
How ashamed I am of my climbing and stumbling! How I mock my violent panting! How I hate the flying one! How weary I am in the heights!”
Here the young man fell silent. And Zarathustra regarded the tree at which they stood and spoke thus:
“This tree stands here lonely on the mountain; it grew high beyond humans and animals.
And if it wanted to speak, it would have no one who understood it: so high it grew.
Now it waits and waits - but for what does it wait? It lives too near the clouds’ above: it waits for the first lightning bolt?”
When Zarathustra had said this the young man cried out, gesturing agitatedly: “Yes, Zarathustra, you speak the truth. I longed for my destruction when I aspired to the heights, and you are the lightning for which I waited! Look, what am I anymore, now that you have appeared among us! It is my envy of you that has destroyed me!” - Thus spoke the young man and he wept bitterly. But Zarathustra put his arm around him and led him away.
And after they had walked together for a while Zarathustra started speaking thus:
“It tears my heart apart. Better than your words can say, your eyes tell me all your danger.
You are still not free, you seek freedom. Your seeking made you sleep-deprived and over-awake.
You aspire to the free heights, your soul thirsts for the stars. But your wicked instincts also thirst for freedom.
Your wild dogs want to get free; they bark with joy in their cellar when your spirit contrives to liberate all prisons.
To me you are still a prisoner who plots his freedom. Alas, the soul of such prisoners grows clever, but also deceptive and rotten.
The one who is free of spirit must still purify himself. Much prison and mold is left in him: his eyes must still become pure.
Yes, I know your danger. But by my love and hope I beseech you: do not throw away your love and hope!
You still feel noble, and the others who grudge you and give you the evil eye, they still feel your nobility too. Know that a noble person stands in everyone’s way.
A noble person also stands in the way of the good: and even when they call him a good man, they do so in order to get rid of him.
The noble person wants to create new things and a new virtue. The good person wants old things, and for old things to be preserved.
But it is not the danger of the noble one that he will become a good person, but a churl, a mocker, an annihilator.
Oh, I knew noble people who lost their highest hope. And then they slandered all high hopes.
Then they lived churlishly in brief pleasures, scarcely casting their goals beyond the day.
‘Spirit is lust too’ - so they spoke. Then the wings of their spirit broke, and now it crawls around and soils what it gnaws.
Once they thought of becoming heroes: now they are libertines. To them the hero is grief and ghastliness.
But by my love and hope I beseech you: do not throw away the hero in your soul! Hold holy your highest hope!” -
Thus spoke Zarathustra.
20 окт 2024
