In this chapter, Zarathustra delivers a monologue reflecting on the ‘spirit of heaviness’, which symbolizes the forces that weigh down the human spirit and hinder self-overcoming.

He begins by describing various aspects of himself through vivid metaphors. He likens his mouth to that of the common people—too coarse and hearty for the delicate “silk rabbits” and alien to the “ink-fish” and “feather-foxes” (metaphors for scholars and writers). His hand is called a “fool’s hand”, causing mischief by decorating tables and walls with foolish ornamentation. His foot is compared to a horse’s hoof, allowing him to trot and gallop over obstacles with devilish delight.

He continues by comparing his stomach to that of an eagle, favoring lamb’s meat. He notes that his nature is nourished by simple, innocent things, making him ready and impatient to fly away—traits he associates with birds. Zarathustra emphasizes his enmity toward the ‘spirit of heaviness’, declaring himself its mortal enemy.

Contemplating this enmity, he muses about singing a song about it, even if he must sing alone in an empty house. He contrasts himself with other singers who require full houses to awaken their voices and hearts, indicating his independence from external validation.

In the second part, Zarathustra asserts that those who wish to become light and bird-like must learn to love themselves. He distinguishes this self-love from the love of the sick and the addicted, whose self-love is tainted and odorous. He advocates for a wholesome and healthy self-love that enables one to endure oneself without restlessly wandering. He criticizes “love of one’s neighbor” as a wandering he labels hypocritical, particularly when professed by those burdensome to society.

He reflects on the difficulty of learning to love oneself, describing it as the finest, most cunning, ultimate, and patient of arts. He notes that one’s own treasures are often well-hidden and that self-discovery is hindered by societal burdens imposed from childhood, such as the ingrained concepts of “good” and “evil”. These burdens make life heavier, aligning with the ‘spirit of heaviness’.

Zarathustra observes that people carry too much of what is foreign on their shoulders, comparing such individuals to camels that kneel to be loaded. Even one’s inner self can be burdensome, likened to an oyster—nauseating, slippery, and difficult to grasp—requiring a noble shell and ornamentation to be palatable. He laments that hidden goodness and strength often go unrecognized due to unassuming exteriors, and that the finest delicacies find no tasters.

He comments on the challenge of self-discovery, noting that the spirit often lies about the soul under the influence of the ‘spirit of heaviness’. He honors those who have found themselves and declared their own “good” and “evil”, silencing the conformist voices that prescribe universal morals. Zarathustra expresses distaste for those who indiscriminately accept everything as good and label the world as the best, referring to them as the “all-sufficient ones” with unrefined taste.

Zarathustra values discerning and resistant individuals who have learned to say “I”, “yes”, and “no”. He criticizes those who consume everything without discrimination, equating such behavior to that of swine. He disdains those who always say “Yea” like the donkey, and those who metaphorically whitewash their exteriors, revealing a lack of depth. He takes issue with those infatuated with mummies and ghosts, enemies of flesh and blood, as they go against his appreciation for life and vitality.

He declares his preference for living among thieves and perjurers over residing where there is widespread contempt and insincerity. The most loathsome individuals to him are flatterers and parasites—those who wish not to love but to live off love. He also criticizes those who must become either vicious animals or vicious tamers of animals, expressing unwillingness to associate with such people.

Zarathustra admits that he, too, learned the art of waiting but only in waiting for himself. He emphasizes that he learned to stand, walk, run, climb, and dance before aspiring to fly, asserting that one cannot simply fly without mastering these fundamental steps. He recounts climbing to windows with rope ladders and ascending high masts with nimble legs, finding joy in lofty perspectives, akin to small flames flickering atop high masts—small lights offering great comfort to lost sailors.

He reveals that he arrived at his truth through various paths, not ascending by a single ladder to the heights where his gaze extends into the distance. He seldom asked for directions, preferring to explore and test paths himself. He notes that his journey was one of experimentation and questioning, and he learned to respond to such inquiries.

Finally, Zarathustra asserts that his path is uniquely his own. When others ask for “the way”, he replies that the way does not exist.