PREFACE
This book belongs to the most rare of men. Perhaps not one of them
is yet alive. It is possible that they may be among those who understand
my “Zarathustra”: how could I confound myself with those
who are now sprouting ears?—First the day after tomorrow must come for
me. Some men are born posthumously.
The conditions under which any one understands me, and necessarily
understands me—I know them only too well. Even to endure my
seriousness, my passion, he must carry intellectual integrity to the verge
of hardness. He must be accustomed to living on mountain tops—and to
looking upon the wretched gabble of politics and nationalism as beneath
him. He must have become indifferent; he must never ask of the truth
whether it brings profit to him or a fatality to him... He must have an
inclination, born of strength, for questions that no one has the courage
for; the courage for the forbidden; predestination for the
labyrinth. The experience of seven solitudes. New ears for new music. New
eyes for what is most distant. A new conscience for truths that have
hitherto remained unheard. And the will to economize in the grand
manner—to hold together his strength, his enthusiasm...Reverence for
self; love of self; absolute freedom of self.....
Very well, then! of that sort only are my readers, my true readers,
my readers foreordained: of what account are the rest?—The rest
are merely humanity.—One must make one's self superior to humanity, in
power, in loftiness of soul,—in contempt.