There is not a single passage in this revelation of truth which had already been anticipated and divined by even the greatest among men. Before Zarathustra there was no wisdom, no psychology, no art of speech: in his book the most familiar and most everyday things speak of things as yet unheard. The sentence quivers with passion. Eloquence has become music.
Lightning bolts are hurled towards futures of which no one has ever dreamed before. See how Zarathustra goes down from the mountain and speaks the kindest words to every one! See with what delicate fingers he touches even his adversaries the priests and how he suffers from themselves with them! The halcyon brightness, the light feet, the presence of wickedness and exuberance throughout and all that is the essence of the type Zarathustra was never dreamt of before as a prerequisite of greatness. In precisely this space and in this accessibility to opposites Zarathustra feels himself the highest species of all living things: and when you hear his definition of this highest you will realize that his equal will not be found.
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Another consideration leads to this same conclusion. The psychological problem presented by the type of Zarathustra is how he, who in an unprecedented manner says no and acts no in regard to all that which has been affirmed hitherto, how he can remain nevertheless an affirming spirit? How can he who bears the heaviest destiny on his shoulders and whose very life task is a destiny yet be the lightest and the most transcending of spirits—for Zarathustra is a dancer? But this once more is precisely the idea of Dionysus.
Harari: On Homo Deus, immortality, Dataism and health, the 'infinite market'
What language will such a spirit speak when he speaks unto his soul? The language of the dithyramb. I am the inventor of the dithyramb. Listen to the manner in which Zarathustra speaks to his soul Before Sunrise. Before my time such emerald joys and divine tenderness had found no tongue. Even the profoundest melancholy of such a Dionysus takes shape as a dithyramb.
It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul too is a gushing spring.
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It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too is the song of a lover. Something unquenched and unquenchable is within me that would raise its voice. A craving for love is within me which itself speaks the language of love. Light I am: I would that I were night!
This is my loneliness, that I am girded around with light. Alas, why am I not dark and hidden like the night! How joyfully would I then suck at the breasts of light! And even you would I bless, you twinkling little stars and glow worms on high! And be blessed in the gifts of your light. But I live in my own light, I drink my own flames ever back into myself. I know not the happiness of the hand stretched out to grasp; and often have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than taking.
I am forlorn that my hand may never rest from giving: I am destined to be envious of the expectant eyes that I see and nights made bright with longing. Oh, the wretchedness of all those that give! Oh, the eclipse of my sun! The craving for desire! That burning hunger of satiety! They take what I give them; but do I touch their soul? A gulf stands between giving and taking; and even the smallest gulf must be bridged at last. A hunger is born out of my beauty: I wish that I might rob them of the gifts I have given:—thus do I thirst for wickedness. To withdraw my hand when their hand is already waiting, hesitating like the waterfall that hesitates even in its fall:—thus do I thirst for wickedness.
My fullness longs for such vengeance: my loneliness gives birth to such spite. My joy in giving died with the deed. By its very fulfilment did my virtue grow weary of itself. He who gives always runs the risk that he will lose all shame; he who is always giving grows callous in hand and heart. My eyes no longer melt into tears at the shame of suppliants; my hand has become too hard to feel the quivering of heavy laden hands. To where have you fled the tears of my eyes and the blossom of my heart?
Oh, the solitude of all those who give! Oh the silence of all that give out light! There are many suns that circle in the barrenness of space; they have discourse with the darkness—to me alone are they silent. Alas, this is the hatred of light for that which gives light: pitiless it goes its way.
Unjust in its very heart to all that shines; coldness toward suns—thus does every sun go its way. Like a storm do the suns fly upon their course: for such is their way. They follow their own unbending will: that is their coldness. Alas, it is you alone, you creatures of gloom, you spirits of the night that take your warmth from that which shines. You alone take your milk and comfort from the breast of light. Alas, about me there is ice, its coldness burns my hands!
Homo Deus by Yuval Noah Harari
Alas, there is within me a yearning to have your thirst! It is night: I am sad that I must be light! And thirst after darkness! And for solitude! It is night: now does my longing burst forth like a spring—I long to speak. It is night: now do all gushing springs try their voices.
Such things have never before been written, never before been felt and never suffered: only a God, only Dionysus suffers in this way.
Homo Moralis | Tikkun
Who knows except me who Ariadne is! To all such riddles no one has ever found an answer; I doubt even whether anyone even saw a riddle here. On one occasion Zarathustra clearly sets out his life-task—and it is also mine. Let no one misunderstand its meaning. It is an affirmation to the point of justifying, to the point of redeeming even the entire past.
follow url I walk among men as among fragments of the future: of that future which I foresee. And all my creativeness and labour is but this, that I may be able to compose all these fragments and riddles and sorry accidents into one piece. And how could I bear to be a man if man were not also a poet, a riddle reader and a redeemer of chance!
No longer to will, no longer to evaluate, no longer to create! Oh, that this great weariness may never be mine! Away from God and gods did this will lure me: what would there be to create if gods existed? But again to man am I driven by my burning creative will; thus it drives the hammer to the stone. Ah, you men within the stone, there sleeps an image for me, the image of all my dreams!
That it should have to sleep in the hardest and ugliest stone! Now rages my hammer fiercely against its prison.
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From the stone the fragments fly: and what is that to me? I will complete it: for a shadow came to me—the most silent and lightest thing on earth came unto me! The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow. My brethren! What are the gods to me now? Let me call attention to one last point. The overall average for Wikipedia is in the low hundreds. Is when death happens, w00t!!!!
Happiness is a prolonged or lasting [[emotion]]al or affective state that feels good or pleasing. Overlapping states or experiences associated with happiness include wellbeing, joy, [[sexual pleasure]], delight, health, safety and [[love]], while contrasting ones include [[suffering]], [[sadness]], [[grief]], and [[pain]]. Happiness or glad is an [[emotion]]al or affective state that is characterized by feelings of enjoyment and satisfaction. As a st. What makes me happy? Happiness doesnot grow on trees, Instead it grows on meatbnalls and aspercreame.
This ref ll! Again, this ideological back-and-forth happens on top of tremendous amounts of vandalism. Western society takes its concept of happiness, at least in part, from the Greek concept of [[Eudaimonia]], which was introduced by [[Aristotle]], treating the pursuit of Eudaimonia, as a single dominant aim. Happy, means gay,,.
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