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I, Ubermensh

Yes it is me all right. Now dont scratch your head thinking where you heard that name. You must

know me by another name which I dont like. A big moustached German fellow predicted me but I

dont recall his name. I had read his book, obviously I wouldnt give it great attention, and I can recall

him if I try hard, but I wouldnt. You should know that that is inappropriate for me to do; you should

know if you are wise that no one deserves my effort. Assuming that a man who holds my book has to

be a wise man I wouldnt need to press that point further. And as you hold my book, you must have

the manners, too, to remove your shoes as you read me. I think you have done it now. Good.

Now dont imagine that I am a huge bodied monster or a big headed intellectual or a magician of

some sort. Im as normal as all those worthless people, indifferent in their ignorance, strolling the

street outside this window of mine. I am writing with a pen, and Ive to take long intervals between

sentences to think. Look, Im humbleenough to say that I have to think, Im not a superman! Ach! I

hate that word, its misleading. Its too magical. That German used the best word, and Ill keep it.

Thats my token to that mans wisdom, thats how I give him alms. What? You didnt like that? You

want Nietzsche to be respected? Ach! I recalled the name, I recalled the name! How dreadful! Now I

wont scratch it, no I am a man of truth, I am not afraid of it. Anyway, I have no reason to explain to

you why I will or wont scratch out the things I write. And your wisdom will make you take that in the

right sense. Would it not?

Do you have a pencil in your hand? Are you not underlining the words I write, so as to memorise

them and keep them in your blood? I have a sensation that you are not (dont be childish to ask me

how). I see that I am not being taken seriously; nobody understood that I have come. That I, the

most important event in all of history, have after all taken flesh and blood. It is surprising that you

are not banging your head on the wall, rubbing your face on the ground and madly revelling,

intoxicated in your joy, ready to, without reason lay down your life, on hearing the news of my

arrival. If only the German had been alive! Hed have brought me to your notice, hed have revelled

and worshipped me. If he can worship worms like that Goethe and that horse riding Napoleon,

imagine what he would have done if I stood before him. You found that rude too? Then my fellow,

you dont realise what has just happened, you dont realise how infinitely lucky you are that I have

condescended to speak to your unworthiness. Youll shut the book now being offended but if you

dont and go on reading, then you are a warrior indeed. The German isnt any worthier than you, but

was a visionary, he knew me. He knew me then, an infinitesimal part of me.

But as I walk on the street along with other men, a thing I mustnt do, no one seems to be surprised.

I look them in their eyes, to find nothing more than just human curiosity on seeing me walking with

head held high. They look at me for a second and immediately look away, in childish ignorance.

Sheep! And I laugh, I laugh all night. Not a mocking laughter but a lordly golden laughter that that

German rightly predicted. Every night I laugh like that, I laugh till six in the morning, I dance too as I

laugh. The cold of the night brightens my cheer, my joy. I dont pity them for not recognising me.

Pity! Ha ha, why should I? Pity and sympathy are businesses of those that die on crosses! And then in

their womanish magnanimity they forgive their violators. Why? Because of their drowning in pity.

The German has talked enough about Him and its enough already. The subject has become old and

stale.

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