Thus Spoke Soroaster

A Liberaryan Rewrite.

(I keep reading the news of George Soros’ regular lectures. The moral superiority of the advocates of open society was eerily reminiscent of something. I took Friedrich Nietzsche's work Thus Spoke Zarathustra off the shelf and behold: I only had to exchange a few words here and there, and I have their message. It's not that funny. The last time Nietzsche was misinterpreted resulted in a Nazi empire, with gas chambers and World War II. As I overlook the aggressive roar, the indisputability of the Liberal Aryans, I have no reason to assume that they are any better.)

Lo, I teach the superman, surpassing the biologically determined human! The biologically determined human is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass biologically determined human?

All progressive beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than surpass woman and man?

What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall woman and man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame.

Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within you is still worm. Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of the apes.

Lo, I teach you the Superman!

The superman is the meaning of the open society. Let your will say: The superman SHALL BE the meaning of the open society!

I conjure you, my brethren, REMAIN TRUE TO THE open society, and believe not those who speak unto you of the traditional familymodel! Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not.

Once did people say God, when they looked out upon distant seas; now, however, have I taught you to say, Superman.

"Ye higher men,"—so blinketh the populace—"there are no higher men, we are all equal; man is man, before God—we are all equal!"

Before God!—Now, however, this God hath died. Before the populace, however, we will not be equal.

God is a conjecture: but I do not wish your conjecturing to reach beyond your creating will. Could ye create a God?—Then, I pray you, be silent about all gods! But ye could well create the Superman.

Before God!—Now however this God hath died! Ye higher men, this God was your greatest danger.

Only since he lay in the grave have ye again arisen. Now only cometh the Great Union now only doth the higher man become—master!

Have ye understood this word, O my brethren? Ye are frightened: do your hearts turn giddy? Doth the abyss here yawn for you? Doth the hell-hound here yelp at you?

Well! Take heart! ye higher men! Now only travaileth the mountain of the human future. God hath died: now do we desire—the Superman to live.

Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and therewith also those blasphemers. To sin against the open society is now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate the nation more than the rights of the superhuman.

When Soroaster had spoken these words, he again looked at the people, and was silent. “There they stand,” said he to his heart; “there they laugh: they understand me not; I am not the mouth for these ears. Must one first batter their ears, that they may learn to hear with their eyes?

What have I financed the independent-objective press for? What do I maintain a herd of politicians for? 

They have something whereof they are proud. What do they call it, that which maketh them proud? Patriotism, they call it; it distinguisheth them from the goatherds.

These masters of today—surpass them, O my brethren—these petty people: they are the Superman's greatest danger!

Surpass, ye higher men, the petty virtues, the petty policy, the sand-grain considerateness, the ant-hill trumpery, the pitiable comfortableness, the "happiness of the nation”!

There, where the nation ceaseth—there only commenceth the man who is not superfluous: there commenceth the song of the necessary ones, the single and irreplaceable melody.

There, where the nation ceaseth—pray look thither, my brethren! Do ye not see it, the rainbow and the bridges of the Superman?—

Thus spake Soroaster.

The author is a writer, Director General of the Petőfi Literary Museum, ministerial commissioner responsible for the integrated development of the Hungarian book and literary collections