‘And this itself is justice, the law of time—that he must devour his children’: thus did madness preach.

‘Morally are things ordered according to justice and penalty. Oh, where is there deliverance from the flux of things and from the “existence” of penalty?’ Thus did madness preach.

‘Can there be deliverance when there is eternal justice? Alas, unrollable is the stone “It was”; eternal must also be all penalties!’ Thus did madness preach.

‘No deed can be annihilated; how could it be undone by the penalty! This, this is what is eternal in the “existence” of penalty, that existence also must be eternally recurring deed and guilt!

Unless the Will should at last deliver itself, and Willing become non-Willing.’ But ye know, my brethren, this fabulous song of madness!

Away from those fabulous songs did I lead you when I taught you: ‘The Will is a creator.’

All ‘It was’ is a fragment, a riddle, a fearful chance—until the creating Will saith thereto: ‘But thus would I have it.’

Until the creating Will saith thereto: ‘But thus do I will it! Thus shall I will it!’

But did it ever speak thus? And when doth this take place? Hath the Will been unharnessed from its own folly?

Hath the Will become its own deliverer and joy-bringer? Hath it unlearned the spirit of revenge and all teeth-gnashing?

And who hath taught it reconciliation with time, and something higher than all reconciliation?

Something higher than all reconciliation must the Will will which is the Will to Power; but how doth that take place? Who hath taught it also to will backwards?

—But at this point in his discourse it chanced that Zarathustra suddenly paused, and looked like a person in the greatest alarm. With terror in his eyes did he gaze on his disciples; his glances pierced as with arrows their thoughts and arrear-thoughts. But after a brief space he again laughed, and said soothedly:

It is difficult to live amongst men, because silence is so difficult—especially for a babbler.

Thus spake Zarathustra. The hunchback, however, had listened to the conversation and had covered his face during the time; but when he heard Zarathustra laugh, he looked up with curiosity, and said slowly:

But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto us than unto his disciples?

Zarathustra answered: What is there to be wondered at! With hunchbacks one may well speak in a hunchbacked way!

Very good, said the hunchback, and with pupils one may well tell tales out of school.

But why doth Zarathustra speak otherwise unto his pupils—than unto himself?