Die at the right time: so teaches Zarathustra.
To be sure, he who never lives at the right time, how could he ever die at the right time?
Would that he might never be born! - Thus do I advise the superfluous ones.
But even the superfluous ones make much ado about their death, and even the hollowest nut wants to be cracked.
Every one regards dying as a great matter: but as yet death is not a festival. Not yet have people learned to inaugurate the finest festivals.
The consummating death I show to you, which becomes a stimulus and promise to the living.
His death, dies the consummating one triumphantly, surrounded by hoping and promising ones.
Thus should one learn to die; and there should be no festival at which such a dying one does not consecrate the oaths of the living!
Thus to die is best; the next best, however, is to die in battle, and sacrifice a great soul.
But to the fighter equally hateful as to the victor, is your grinning death which steals nigh like a thief, - and yet comes as master.
My death, praise I to you, the voluntary death, which comes to me because I want it.
And when shall I want it? - He that has a goal and an heir, wants 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.
Truly, not the rope-makers will I resemble: they lengthen out their cord, and thereby go ever backward.
Many a one, also, waxes too old for his truths and triumphs; a toothless mouth has no longer the right to every truth.
And whoever wants to have fame, must take leave of honor betimes, and practice the difficult art of - going at the right time.
One must discontinue being feasted upon when one tastes best: that is known by those who want to be long loved.
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.
In some ages the heart first, and in others the spirit. And some are hoary in youth, but the late young keep long young.
To many men life is a failure; a poison-worm gnaws at their heart.
Then let them see to it that their dying is all the more a success.
Many never become sweet; they rot even in the summer. It is cowardice that holds them fast to their branches.
Far too many live, and far too long hang they on their branches. Would that a storm came and shook all this rottenness and worm-eatenness from the tree!
Would that there came preachers of speedy death! Those would be the appropriate storms and agitators of the trees of life! But I hear only slow death preached, and patience with all that is "earthly."
Ah! you preach patience with what is earthly? This earthly is it that has too much patience with you, you blasphemers!
But in man there is more of the child than in the youth, and less of melancholy: better understands he about life and death.
Free for death, and free in death; a holy Naysayer, when there is no longer time for Yes: thus understands he about death and life.
That your dying may not be a reproach to man and the earth, my friends: that do I solicit from the honey of your soul.
In your dying shall your spirit and your virtue still shine like an evening after-glow around the earth: otherwise your dying has been unsatisfactory.
Thus will I die myself, that you friends may love the earth more for my sake; and earth will I again become, to have rest in her that bore me.
Truly, a goal had Zarathustra; he threw his ball. Now be you friends the heirs of my goal; to you throw I the golden ball.
Best of all, do I see you, my friends, throw the golden ball! And so tarry I still a little while on the earth - pardon me for it!
Thus spoke Zarathustra.