XIX. THE BITE OF THE ADDER.

Many die too late, and some die too early. Yet strange soundeth the precept: “Die at the right time!” When he had taken his arm from his face he looked at the serpent; and then did it recognise the eyes of Zarathustra, wriggled awkwardly, and tried to get away. “Not at all,” said Zarathustra, “as yet hast thou not received my thanks! Thou hast awakened me in time; my journey is yet long.” “Thy journey is short,” said the adder sadly; “my poison is fatal.” Zarathustra smiled. “When did ever a dragon die of a serpent’s poison?”—said he. “But take thy poison back! Thou art not rich enough to present it to me.” Then fell the adder again on his neck, and licked his wound.

Die at the right time: so teacheth Zarathustra.

To be sure, he who never liveth at the right time, how could he ever die at the right time?

But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even the hollowest nut wanteth to be cracked. But prove that he hath done something good to you.

Every one regardeth dying as a great matter: but as yet death is not a festival. Not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals. Rather curse a little also!

The consummating death I show unto you, which becometh a stimulus and promise to the living. Hideous to behold is he on whom injustice presseth alone.

His death, dieth the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping and promising ones. Shared injustice is half justice. And he who can bear it, shall take the injustice upon himself!

Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no festival at which such a dying one doth not consecrate the oaths of the living! And if the punishment be not also a right and an honour to the transgressor, I do not like your punishing.

Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is to die in battle, and sacrifice a great soul. Only, one must be rich enough to do so.

But to the fighter equally hateful as to the victor, is your grinning death which stealeth nigh like a thief,—and yet cometh as master.

My death, praise I unto you, the voluntary death, which cometh unto me because I want it.

And when shall I want it?—He that hath a goal and an heir, wanteth death at the right time for the goal and the heir.

And out of reverence for the goal and the heir, he will hang up no more withered wreaths in the sanctuary of life.

Verily, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever backward. To him who seeketh to be just from the heart, even the lie becometh philanthropy.

Many a one, also, waxeth too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless mouth hath no longer the right to every truth. How can I give every one his own! Let this be enough for me: I give unto every one mine own.

And whoever wanteth to have fame, must take leave of honour betimes, and practise the difficult art of—going at the right time. How could an anchorite forget! How could he requite!

One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tasteth best: that is known by those who want to be long loved. Easy is it to throw in a stone: if it should sink to the bottom, however, tell me, who will bring it out again?

Sour apples are there, no doubt, whose lot is to wait until the last day of autumn: and at the same time they become ripe, yellow, and shrivelled.

Thus spake Zarathustra.