Joy

The holy man is never rejoiced: he is joy itself. – Meister Eckhart.

Woe to me! Whither hath time gone? Have I not sunk into deep wells? The

world sleepeth--

Ah! Ah! The dog howleth, the moon shineth. Rather will I die, rather

will I die, than say unto you what my midnight-heart now thinketh.

Already have I died. It is all over. Spider, why spinnest thou around me?

Wilt thou have blood? Ah! Ah! The dew falleth, the hour cometh--

--The hour in which I frost and freeze, which asketh and asketh and asketh:

"Who hath sufficient courage for it?

--Who is to be master of the world? Who is going to say: THUS shall ye

flow, ye great and small streams!"

--The hour approacheth: O man, thou higher man, take heed! this talk is

for fine ears, for thine ears--WHAT SAITH DEEP MIDNIGHT'S VOICE INDEED?

It carrieth me away, my soul danceth. Day's-work! Day's-work! Who is to

be master of the world?

The moon is cool, the wind is still. Ah! Ah! Have ye already flown high

enough? Ye have danced: a leg, nevertheless, is not a wing.

Ye good dancers, now is all delight over: wine hath become lees, every cup

hath become brittle, the sepulchres mutter.

Ye have not flown high enough: now do the sepulchres mutter: "Free the

dead! Why is it so long a night? Doth not the moon make us drunken?"

Ye higher men, free the sepulchres, awaken the corpses! Ah, why doth the

worm still burrow? There approacheth, there approacheth, the hour,--

--There boometh the clock-bell, there thrilleth still the heart, there

burroweth still the wood-worm, the heart-worm. Ah! Ah! THE WORLD IS

DEEP!

Sweet lyre! Sweet lyre! I love thy tone, thy drunken, ranunculine tone!--

how long, how far hath come unto me thy tone, from the distance, from the

ponds of love!

Thou old clock-bell, thou sweet lyre! Every pain hath torn thy heart,

father’s-pain, fathers'-pain, forefathers'-pain; thy speech hath become ripe,--

--Ripe like the golden autumn and the afternoon, like mine anchorite heart

--now sayest thou: The world itself hath become ripe, the grape turneth

brown,

--Now doth it wish to die, to die of happiness. Ye higher men, do ye not

feel it? There welleth up mysteriously an odour,

--A perfume and odour of eternity, a rosy-blessed, brown, gold-wine-odour

of old happiness,

--Of drunken midnight-death happiness, which singeth: the world is deep,

AND DEEPER THAN THE DAY COULD READ!

Leave me alone! Leave me alone! I am too pure for thee. Touch me not!

Hath not my world just now become perfect?

My skin is too pure for thy hands. Leave me alone, thou dull, doltish,

stupid day! Is not the midnight brighter?

The purest are to be masters of the world, the least known, the strongest,

the midnight-souls, who are brighter and deeper than any day.

O day, thou gropest for me? Thou feelest for my happiness? For thee am I

rich, lonesome, a treasure-pit, a gold chamber?

O world, thou wantest ME? Am I worldly for thee? Am I spiritual for thee?

Am I divine for thee? But day and world, ye are too coarse,--

--Have cleverer hands, grasp after deeper happiness, after deeper

unhappiness, grasp after some God; grasp not after me:

--Mine unhappiness, my happiness is deep, thou strange day, but yet am I no

God, no God's-hell: DEEP IS ITS WOE.

God's woe is deeper, thou strange world! Grasp at God's woe, not at me!

What am I! A drunken sweet lyre,--

--A midnight-lyre, a bell-frog, which no one understandeth, but which MUST speak before deaf ones, ye higher men! For ye do not understand me!

Gone! Gone! O youth! O noontide! O afternoon! Now have come evening

and night and midnight,--the dog howleth, the wind:

--Is the wind not a dog? It whineth, it barketh, it howleth. Ah! Ah! how

she sigheth! how she laugheth, how she wheezeth and panteth, the midnight!

How she just now speaketh soberly, this drunken poetess! hath she perhaps

overdrunk her drunkenness? hath she become overawake? doth she ruminate?

--Her woe doth she ruminate over, in a dream, the old, deep midnight--and

still more her joy. For joy, although woe be deep, JOY IS DEEPER STILL

THAN GRIEF CAN BE.

Thou grape-vine! Why dost thou praise me? Have I not cut thee! I am

cruel, thou bleedest--: what meaneth thy praise of my drunken cruelty?

"Whatever hath become perfect, everything mature--wanteth to die!" so

sayest thou. Blessed, blessed be the vintner's knife! But everything

immature wanteth to live: alas!

Woe saith: "Hence! Go! Away, thou woe!" But everything that suffereth

wanteth to live, that it may become mature and lively and longing,

--Longing for the further, the higher, the brighter. "I want heirs," so

saith everything that suffereth, "I want children, I do not want MYSELF,"--

Joy, however, doth not want heirs, it doth not want children,--joy wanteth

itself, it wanteth eternity, it wanteth recurrence, it wanteth everything

eternally-like-itself.

Woe saith: "Break, bleed, thou heart! Wander, thou leg! Thou wing, fly!

Onward! upward! thou pain!" Well! Cheer up! O mine heart: WOE

SAITH: "HENCE! GO!"

Ye higher men, what think ye? Am I a soothsayer? Or a dreamer? Or a

drunkard? Or a dream-reader? Or a midnight-bell?

Or a drop of dew? Or a fume and fragrance of eternity? Hear ye it not?

Smell ye it not? Just now hath my world become perfect, midnight is also

mid-day,--

Pain is also a joy, curse is also a blessing, night is also a sun,--go

away! or ye will learn that a sage is also a fool.

Said ye ever Yea to one joy? O my friends, then said ye Yea also unto ALL

woe. All things are enlinked, enlaced and enamoured,--

--Wanted ye ever once to come twice; said ye ever: "Thou pleasest me,

happiness! Instant! Moment!" then wanted ye ALL to come back again!

--All anew, all eternal, all enlinked, enlaced and enamoured, Oh, then did

ye LOVE the world,--

--Ye eternal ones, ye love it eternally and for all time: and also unto

woe do ye say: Hence! Go! but come back! FOR JOYS ALL WANT--ETERNITY!

All joy wanteth the eternity of all things, it wanteth honey, it wanteth

lees, it wanteth drunken midnight, it wanteth graves, it wanteth grave-

tears' consolation, it wanteth gilded evening-red--

--WHAT doth not joy want! it is thirstier, heartier, hungrier, more

frightful, more mysterious, than all woe: it wanteth ITSELF, it biteth

into ITSELF, the ring's will writheth in it,--

--It wanteth love, it wanteth hate, it is over-rich, it bestoweth, it

throweth away, it beggeth for some one to take from it, it thanketh the

taker, it would fain be hated,--

--So rich is joy that it thirsteth for woe, for hell, for hate, for shame,

for the lame, for the WORLD,--for this world, Oh, ye know it indeed!

Ye higher men, for you doth it long, this joy, this irrepressible, blessed

joy--for your woe, ye failures! For failures, longeth all eternal joy.

For joys all want themselves, therefore do they also want grief! O

happiness, O pain! Oh break, thou heart! Ye higher men, do learn it, that

joys want eternity.

--Joys want the eternity of ALL things, they WANT DEEP, PROFOUND ETERNITY!

(Sent in by Rudraksh)