This essay was originally written while I was studying philosophy and gender studies at UVU. I love the work of people like Nietzsche, Beauvoir, Camus, and Sartre — folks who dabble in both philosophic writing and artistic/narrative-based writing. Literature and art can be fantastic vessles for feeling and meaning, and I think it’s underutilized while making rigorous arguements. There is need for both thesis-driven and narrative-driven works in the world and it’s fun to watch people play in-between those spaces. As a student I was often frustrated that the papers we were asked to write were only one form. As a rebellion to the academic system, and also an effort to come closer to my own aesthetic style, I greatly enjoyed pushing against this boundary whenever I could.

This particular essay below is a response to Friedrich Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, a narrative-driven work of philosophy. In this work of philosophical fiction, the narrative flows through different aspects of Nietzsche’s philosophy. It’s written in short, aphoristic sections. They read like poem, parables, and short stories. In a genre that is usually very explicit and specific, Nietzsche brings in illustrative, ambiguous phasing instead. It’s beautiful, plus I’ve always held the opinion that poetry feels more true than prose. I tried to meet his response in kind with my own abstract, poetic voice. As beautiful as Nietzsche’s writing is, there are clear moments of sexism that I found frustrating while reading his book. That frustration, and how it undermines Nietzsche’s larger points, was the main inspiration for my response essay.

This paper was written for a 19th Century European Philosophy class in 2018 and I presented it at the 2019 UVU Undergraduate Philosophy Conference; while presenting the paper, I was able to defend my stance for using a poetic narrative to further an argument. An essay by Hélène Cixous, a French feminist author, “The Laugh of the Medusa” argues for a different kind of writing, écriture féminine or women’s writing. She argues that discourse has long been taken over by what she calls “self-congradgulatory phallocentrism.” Men, as a group, have proclaimed their thoughts rational and all others irrational, confining meaning to black and white without any regard to another experience. Because of this Women ought to write. She exclaims,

“And why don't you write? Write! Writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it. I know why you haven't written. (And why I didn't write before the age of twenty-seven.) Because writing is at once too high, too great for you, it's reserved for the great-that is, for "great men"; and it's "silly." Besides, you've written a little, but in secret. And it wasn't good, because it was in secret, and because you punished yourself for writing, because you didn't go all the way. … Write, let no one hold you back, let nothing stop you: not man; not the imbecilic capitalist machinery, in which publishing houses are the crafty, obsequious relayers of imperatives handed down by an economy that works against us and off our backs; and not yourself.”

Women, and honestly all those who find themselves outside of canon, should write because you exist. Your experience deserves to be shared just as much as anyone else’s becuase you are valid in your experience as you are. This call to action has been so inspiring to me ever since I read it. I share the essay now to further this same thesis.

I share this feminist (because how could it not be) response to Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra. I hope you enjoy it!

And Ran Sang

— 1 —

I went down to meet Zarathustra and to hear him speak. I’ve heard tell of him before. I went to the stone in a cave where he has meditated, but there was no one there. I sat, defeated and weary. I’m not sure why I came. The people in the market square only laugh at the mention of his name. I wandered out of the cave and looked up at the sun.

I felt his words meander through the air. I began to see patterns and waves within them. They circled around me, fracturing and recombining. Letters splintered to create shapes and characters. I stood in awe, watching the world be created, destroyed, and reformed in front of me.

Then, the words gained energy and exigency. The circling became a tightening. Faster the word-winds went until I was lifted off the ground. The tempestuous winds blocked me from everything. The mountain and the cave were lost. I could no longer see the sun. I could not see the shapes and colors. I couldn’t see anything.

I dared not move. What if there is a cliff? What if there is a monster? Without sight, I was unsure which path to follow — or if a path existed.

Fear entered my heart.

But when the door was open, the rest of Zarathustra’s words came in as well. They made their home in my heart and started a fire there. The warmth from the flames calmed me. The wind was no longer blowing. The urgency was now in me. Fear was still there as well. Now I could feel the words as they became more comfortable. Fear was small in comparison.

And so I opened my eyes.

— 2 —

Darkness was there, singing.

“Why do you slink

so shyly

through the twilight?

And what are you hiding?1

Why do you think

of wryly

leaving just when

you have got what you want?

You find a chink

in highly

adorned kings and

I heard you shout “Decay!”2

Circles assume beginnings and ends,

though they must leave to come back,3

they never do become squares.”

Darkness was an amorphous spirit made from the anger of past women. Her black hair flowed past her waist and was lost in the blurred edges of her figure.

“The tune is pretty,” I said. “But what does it mean? How do I answer questions that come from silly songs? I need to find Zarathustra, to hear him speak. I think I can learn something from him. Can you help me?”

Darkness shook her head in resignation. Then she began to grow. With each word from her scowl, she grew a little and her voice was eerily calm.

“Man is the sun. He lights and blinds. This is especially true with Zarathustra. As he left his cave he was as bright as the sun coming out from behind the mountain.4 He asks for woman to find the child in man.5 And how can woman be expected to co-operate unless she knows why she ought to be virtuous?”6

Darkness, floating a ways off the ground, had edges that became transparent and then disappeared the further they were from her. She was stirring, just as a shallow pool. A bit cloudy and murky, but all surface.7 Even though she was consistently moving she had a great stillness about her.

“To him, the metamorphosis is hidden,” Darkness continued. “The results are what matters to them. Men get to go to war, but women produce the warriors.8 He claims women are less childlike than men — but do we not create?

“They want us to remain immured in their families groping in the dark.9 They ask us for the truth and reason with whips10 and claws. From their infancy, women should either be shut up like eastern princes, or educated in such a manner as to be able to think and act for themselves.11 He asks and denies, asks and denies — blaming and whipping all the while.”

Here, Darkness had become so large that her figure was all to see. I felt her all above and around me. Closer and closer she came. Because of her transparency, I was not suffocating but rather being enveloped. She moved closer still until we were in my head.

And a light came on to reveal a stage.

— 3 —

A steady stream of sand escaped down onto the stage. It poured until the entirety stage became a desert.

Across the desert, a lonely Camel trudged through the deep sand. Weighed down.12 Each step was a task unto itself as it became a new question she could not answer.

Hurt your pride or put yourself down?

Be or not?

To climb the mountain to become the temptress?

To seek understanding from deaf ears?

Feed Truth and leave the soul to hunger?

The Camel struggled to keep moving under all of the pressure. She stumbled and fell.

And sat.

And waited.

And sat.

And waited

Defeated, she stopped waiting. She stopped wishing. She stopped wanting.

The domineering question left to be repeated over and again to the Camel: should I desert my cause though victory is near?13 She instead focused on the sand.

The Camel felt the warmth in the sand and that this would be a good place to resign.

A roar in the distance called to the Camel. She lifted her head to see a large shadow falling over her.

Then the Dragon came and took the load off her back.

Blackout.

— 4 —

A steady spotlight illuminates a grassy expanse where a Dragon and a Lion are playing. The now unencumbered Camel is free to run, to exist, to become. Her ferocity of spirit allowed her to let go of her need for sacrality — the need to find answers. Her new energy and loss of burden morphed her into a Lion.

She has loved dancing with the Dragon called ‘Thou Shalt’. Its shiny scales gave the Lion a new goal, a new thing to reach for.14 The Dragon could always show her the way. Without the burdens and without the questions, the Lion’s voice was diminished. She merely had to listen. For quite a while, the Lion didn’t even notice she wasn’t participating in the decisions; they were just happening one after the other.

Once it loved this ‘Thou Shalt’ as its holiest thing: now it has to find illusion and caprice even in the holiest, that it may steal freedom from its love.15

The Lion knew what she had to do. She had to show the Dragon that she can make these decisions for herself. She started to say “no” to the Dragon.

When met with the Lion’s will, the Dragon reminded her of its great kindness. Though the Lion truly loved the Dragon, she knew she must destroy it. As the Camel, she made it through the desert. Now she must make it through this too.

She strode toward the Dragon and said, “I Will and I am.”

The ‘Thou Shalt’ stumbled and gradually fell to the ground. The rumble thundered and echoed for several minutes.

When the sounds stopped, the Lion laid down and wept. When she looked up, she saw that the scales of the Dragon were separating from it. The scales burst into flames and their ashes fell all around the Lion.

A voice said to the Lion’s heart, “You must be read to burn yourself in your own flame: how could you become new, if you had first not become ashes?”16

The Lion closed her eyes, let out a soft roar, and let the falling ash turn to billowing smoke. The smoke increased and wrapped around the Lion.

And when it dissipated, nothing was left on the stage but ash.

— 5 —

And from the ash grew a child.

The screams of Dragon and Lion echoed through the ash as it lightly swirled across the stage.

The Child lifted a single finger and

“Shhhh”

and with that all the ash remaining flew straight off the stage, leaving it in silence.

Now alone on an empty, quiet stage, she drew a large circle on the floor and sat cross-legged next to it. She looked at me quizzically and beckoned me near.

How do I reach her? I asked my heart. How do I reach a theater set in my own mind?

Time passed and the Child stayed still, head tilted to the side. Wondering and waiting. I started to get anxious that she would leave. I felt a sense of responsibility toward this Child — she did appear on the stage in my mind.

And while wondering why I couldn’t see it all along, Darkness’s song started to make more and more sense. I’ve been searching, have I also been resisting? Has my refusal to let go of my mission for Zarathustra actually stopped me from learning from him?

O my soul, I have given you everything and even the last thing I had to give, and my hands have stayed empty through you: — that I bade you sing, behold, that was the last thing I had to give!17

The music had yet to come and I still could not make it to the stage. I started to cry. I saw the tears, now oversized, fall upon the stage and the Child. She still did not move, but the tears start to puddle within her circle. These tears pooled enough that they made a small pond. I watched as the Child placed her feet in the pool, staring down at her reflection.

I felt nearer to her

than I had before. I finally found myself on the stage walking toward the Child

and a voice came from without saying, “Stop! Stop, you actor! You fabricator! You liar from the heart! I know you well!”18

— 6 —

I turned to look to Darkness, and she was no longer around.

The voice continued: “A clever woman is a dangerous thing. You embody the bitch of Sensuality.19 You lure people into your web. You trick people, with your rash attitude, into thinking you are honest. You are cold, callous, and you conspire with the Truth — Making us believe it exists.

“And if you experience tender emotions, you believe nature herself to be in love with you. You stir your own waters just so you seem deep. Because you crave spectators, even if they are merely buffaloes,20 you create spectacles.”

“Stay pretty and sit next to the water instead. Without dancing, you ought to tie yourself up in a bow and stay a secret.21 Being brazenly bold is not for you. Sit yourself down and enjoy life as an after-dinner drink.”

I realized this was the voice I had been searching for. This is Zarathustra’s words echoing through my thoughts, though I’d never heard him.

“Women are tyrants who think they are slaves.22 They pretend to be hurt by injustices when they are held on pedestals. You have been held above so long that you would break here. Educating the captors would only make things worse for all.”

I held my head between my hands. Hoping beyond hope that his words would stop calling out at me. Then, I remembered part of the song Darkness sang: “You find a chink in highly adorned kings and I heard you shout ‘Decay!’”

I started shaking and fell to my knees. I felt the stage crumbling.

I looked down and saw that I still had the door to my heart.

I closed my eyes.

Took a deep breath.

And opened the door.

— 7 —

The Child came and tapped me on the shoulder. As I turned the reflecting pool was beside me. The Child must have been the one truly responsible for me. The world around the stage was still dark, but it was no longer breaking down.

My heart felt empty. Zarathustra’s words and the fear were no longer leading me along my journey. It was now my world to take control of. My reality to construct.

The Child grabbed my hand and led me to step in the pool. As I looked inside, I saw all I could be. The Child is the true creator, she showed me how she crafted her world before showing me mine.

My entelechy23 played like a film across her pool. I saw the warriors I would create. I saw worlds I would travel to and some I would create. I saw tears and yelling and dancing and singing.

My future and potential selves ran across the water juxtaposed with pictures of butterflies, fractals, and math equations. I saw times when I was alone. Times I was surrounded by people. Times where I forgot what I learned and times where I progressed.

We watched for what felt like hours. The outcome changed every time.

As the Child and I sat with our feet in the pool, watching my world go by, I felt the mountainside knocking at the door in my heart. The world I left was still there. It would not wait for me.

The vibrancy of the stage began to wane. The world began to be hazy. It felt as though I was waking up from a dream. Rather than the crumbling of the world, this felt like a returning.

The Child pulled at my sleeve. I looked down to her and she told me it was time to go.

— 8 —

When I awoke, I was back on the mountainside.

Bits of ash on me the only remnants of my journey.

With no Camels, Dragons, Lions, or Children with me on the mountain. I have to find a way to remember my entelechy — to pursue it constantly.

It’s clear that Darkness gave me the answer once more: Dancing and singing must be the best way to create in this mountainous world.

What I must remember is to sing — who to sing to? What to sing about?

That I bade you sing, now say, say: Which of us now — owes thanks? But better still: sing for me, sing, O my soul! And let me pay thanks!24

And where do I pay my thanks to my soul? Until I learn answers to my questions I will simply affirm:

My name is Ran, named

for the Goddess of the sea.

I do what I can.

My name is Ran; as

a daughter of Darkness I

try to do what I can.

And though, my world is

mine alone and I control

the things as I can.

Freedom is the thing

I chase consistently, I

run toward it still.

Endnotes

1. Nietzsche, Friedrich. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Translated by RJ Hollingdale, (p. 91)

2. Nietzsche (p. 259-260)

3. All Circles, Me Without You

4. Nietzsche (p. 336)

5. Nietzsche (p. 92)

6. Wollstonecraft, Mary. A Vindication for the Rights of Woman. (p. 2)

7. Nietzsche (p. 92)

8. Nietzsche (p. 91)

9. Wollstonecraft (p. 3)

10. Nietzsche (p. 93)

11. Wollstonecraft (p. 46)

12. Nietzsche (p. 54)

13. Nietzsche (p. 54)

14. Nietzsche (p. 55)

15. Nietzsche (p. 55)

16. Nietzsche (p. 90)

17. Nietzsche (p. 240)

18. Nietzsche (p. 268)

19. Nietzsche (p. 81)

20. Nietzsche (p. 150-151)

21. Nietzsche (p. 315)

22. Nietzsche (p. 83)

23. Idea from Aristotle, De Anima

24. Nietzsche (p. 240)