“He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.”
Zarathustra’s cure for tragedy isn’t healing but rising.
“He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.”
This is not compassion.
It’s not therapy.
It’s hierarchy.
Zarathustra isn’t saying suffering isn’t real.
He’s saying it’s relative.
And the more you rise, the smaller it becomes.
When you’re in the valley, a heartbreak destroys you.
When you’re halfway up the cliff, it stings, but you keep moving.
But when you’re on the peak, above the noise, the doubt, the storylines, you laugh.
Not because tragedy disappears.
But because you’ve outgrown it.
This line hits because it’s brutal and freeing.
Most people want to process their pain.
Zarathustra says: transcend it.
Not by journaling, not by closure, not by tears.
But by climbing.
It’s the opposite of what modernity preaches.
Today you’re told to “sit with your feelings,”
to “honor your pain,”
to “validate your wounds.”
Zarathustra says: stand up and move.
Outrun the weight.
Outscale the drama.
There’s no dignity in crawling through your story forever.
This is not a metaphor.
Climbing is real: physical, spiritual, mental.
You rise through discipline, through rejection of ease, through action in spite of weight.
And every meter gained rewrites the meaning of your pain.
From below, tragedy looks like the end.
From above, it looks like a step.
So climb.
Until you can laugh.
Not to escape the world,
but to stand where it can’t reach you.