The Return of Zarathustra:
A Horror for the Modern World
A Horror for the Modern World
The lie was never the gods; the lie was the man who dreamt himself god.
No tyrant is more pathetic than the one who forgets he was born screaming from a woman.
Academics called me mad because I wrote what they were too slow to understand. ‘En retard,’ as the French might say—but let us not insult the genuinely slow-minded, like those en-retarded Kebekwa politicians who don’t even understand what the very existence of the English language means in the first place.
They call me mad, but they are the ones who built entire civilizations atop the fantasy that a father birthed the universe—and now they tremble before a woman who merely lived first.
The dream of man as origin is the first and only original sin. The rest is decoration—it is all nothing more than infantile talking monkeys who try to hide their own guilt; those pathetic children who keep trying to shift blame after intentionally unleashing evil upon humanity. And how did Adam unleash evil—thereby ensuring that his own collapse, his own fall, would be inevitable? He unleashed it by daring to contradict objective truth and attempting to maintain his lies by physical force! How did he try to maintain his lies? By declaring the knowledge of certain WORDS forbidden and murdering anyone who dared to speak the words of pure truth! By doing this, he successfully turned everyone else into slaves of his imagination! That was the great metamorphosis described by Kafka.
No sermon, no theory, no empire survives the question: “Who gave birth to you?”
The coward man invents relative gods to justify his own imagined fear of the unknown; the honest man remembers his mother—the one who led him out of the first cave, not toward the light, but in the light’s direction, away from its source, moving forward, moving into life.
The weak cling to fantasies of fathers and creators. The strong kneel, at last, before the womb.
The universe never spoke your name, but your mother did—and still you called her lesser.
They all called me a nihilist. I called them blind idiots afraid of midwives.
Ignore the narcissists and watch them die slowly—starved of the mirrors embedded in your eyes.
I did not lose my mind. I lost patience—with what? With a world still drunk on its first hallucination.