O solitude! Solitude, my home! I have lived too long wildly in wild strange lands to come home to you without tears!…
We do not question one another, we do not complain to one another, we go openly together through open doors….
Here, the words… Of all existence spring open to me: all existence here wants to become words, all becoming here wants to learn speech from me.
Down there, however – all speech is in vain! There, the best wisdom is to forget and pass by: I have learned that – now!…
Everything among them speaks, no one knows any longer how to understand….
Everything among them speaks, everything is betrayed. And what was once called a secret and a secrecy of profound souls, today belongs to the street-trumpeters and other butterflies….
My greatest danger always lay in indulgence and sufferance; and all humankind wants to be indulged and suffered.
With truths held back…That is how I used to live among men….
Pity teaches him to lie who lives among the good. Pity makes the air stifling for all free souls. For the stupidity of the good is unfathomable.
To conceal myself and my riches – that did I learn down there: for I found everybody still poor in spirit….
That I saw and scented in everybody what was sufficient spirit for him and what was too much spirit for him!…
With happy nostrils I breathe again mountain-freedom! At last my nose is delivered from the odor of all humankind!…
…Thus spake Zarathustra.
Every man is in search of a home, because as he is, he is only a refugee: not at ease with himself or with the world around him, not relaxed the way one should be in his own home. Perhaps religion can be defined as the search for the home.
The psychologists have a certain insight into the phenomenon. The moment a child is born…he has lived for nine months in absolute comfort, in absolute security and safety, utterly relaxed. The mother’s womb was his first experience of life – no responsibility, no worry, no struggle, no suffering. He was in his element – utterly satisfied, contented. But that contentment, that satisfaction, that home, is lost when he is born.
Suddenly he finds himself in a strange world, with people he is not familiar with, with things which are absolutely new. He has to learn life from ABC, from scratch. Now he is no longer protected, safe, and secure.
Psychologists say the experience of nine months in the mother’s womb is the basic cause for a tremendous desire in man to find again the same home – the same old days of peace and silence, of no worry, no struggle, no “other”…of being oneself alone and enough unto oneself. There seems to be some truth in it.
Zarathustra is saying:
O solitude! Solitude, my home! I have lived too long wildly in wild strange lands to come home to you without tears!
Those who have again arrived to the same state of silence, peace and tranquillity as a child in the mother’s womb – in other words, the people for whom the whole existence has become a womb, a mother – all these people have found it to be as if they have come back home: a vaster home, with more freedom, with immense space, with great beauty, with intense ecstasy.
The old home was just a faraway echo of the real home. The real home is to find one’s solitude, to find one’s aloneness, to find oneself.
We are wandering always outside, going somewhere. And every going is going away from yourself. You may be going in search of a home, but in fact you are going away from home – your home is within you. And that home can be found only when you stop searching, when you stop wandering, when you are no longer interested in the distant but utterly relaxed in your very source of being.
The home is to be found within you. And solitude is an essential, a basic necessity. To be with yourself – that’s what is the meaning of solitude. We know how to be with others; we know how to be in a crowd, but we have forgotten the language of being with oneself.