scholars, poets, redemption

from thus spoke zarathustra by friedrich nietzsche, translated by r.j. hollingdale

"i love freedom and the air over fresh soil; i would sleep on ox-skins rather than on their dignities and respectabilities.
i am too hot and scorched by my own thought: it is often about to take my breath away.  then i have to get into the open air and away from all dusty rooms.
but they sit cool in the cool shade: they want to be mere spectators in everything and they take care not to sit where the sun burns upon the steps.
like those who stand in the street and stare at the people passing by, so they too wait and stare at thoughts that others have thought."
from -of scholars-

"but all poets believe this: that he who, lying in the grass or in lonely bowers, pricks up his ears, catches a little of the things that are between heaven and earth.
and if they experience tender emotions, the poets always think that nature herself is in love with them:
and that she creeps up to their ears, to speak secrets and amorous flattering words into them: of this they boast and pride themselves before all mortals!
alas, there are so many things between heaven and earth of which only the poets have let themselves dream!"
"thus the sea gave a stone to the hungry man.  and they themselves may well originate from the sea.
to be sure, one finds pearls in them: then they themselves are all the more like hard shell-fish.  and instead of the soul i often found in them salty slime.
they learned vanity, too, from the sea: is the sea not the peacock of peacocks?
it unfurls its tail even before the ugliest of buffaloes, it never wearies of its lace-fan of silver and satin.
the buffalo looks on insolently, his soul like the sand, yet more like the thicket, but most like the swamp.
what are beauty and sea and peacock-ornaments to him?  i speak this parable to the poets.
truly, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks and a sea of vanity!
the poet's spirit wants spectators, even if they are only buffaloes!
but i have grown weary of this spirit: and i see the day coming when it will grow weary of itself.
already i have seen the poets transformed; i have seen them direct their glance upon themselves.
i have seen penitents of the spirit appearing: they grew out of the poets."
from -of poets-

"and when my eye flees from the present to the past, it always discovers the same thing: fragments and limbs and dreadful chances - but no men!"
"to redeem the past and to transform every 'it was' into an 'i wanted it thus!' - that alone do i call redemption!
will - that is what the liberator and bringer of joy is called: thus i have taught you, my friends!  but now learn this as well: the will itself is still a prisoner.
willing liberates: but what is it that fastens in fetters even the liberator?
'it was': that is what the will's teeth gnashing and most lonely affliction is called.  powerless against that which has been done, the will is an angry spectator of all things past.
the will cannot will backwards; that it cannot break time and time's desire - that is the will's most lonely affliction."
"i led you away from these fable-songs when i taught you: 'the will is a creator.'
all 'it was' is a fragment, a riddle, a dreadful chance - until the creative will says to it: 'but i will it thus!'
until the creative will says to it: 'but i will it thus!  thus shall i will it!'
but has it ever spoken thus?  and when will this take place?  has the will yet been unharnessed from its own folly?
has the will become its own redeemer and bringer of joy?  has it unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing?
and who has taught it to be reconciled with time, and higher things than reconciliation?
the will that is the will to power must will something higher than any reconciliation - but how shall that happen?  who has taught it to will backwards, too?"
from -of redemption-

"it is the stillest words which bring the storm.  thoughts that come on doves' feet guide the world."
from -the stillest hour-