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diff --git a/37841-0.txt b/37841-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b68f85b --- /dev/null +++ b/37841-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13258 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Human, All-Too-Human, Part II by Friedrich +Nietzsche + + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no +restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under +the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or +online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license + + + +Title: Human, All-Too-Human, Part II + +Author: Friedrich Nietzsche + +Release Date: October 24, 2011 [Ebook #37841] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF‐8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN, PART II*** + + + + + + Friedrich Nietzsche + + Human + + All-Too-Human + + A Book For Free Spirits + + Part II + + Translated By + + Paul V. Cohn, B.A. + + New York + + The MacMillan Company + + 1913 + + + + + +CONTENTS + + +Translator’s Introduction. +Preface. +Part I. Miscellaneous Maxims And Opinions. +Part II. The Wanderer And His Shadow. +Footnotes + + + + + + +TRANSLATOR’S INTRODUCTION. + + +The publication of _Human, all-too-Human_ extends over the period +1878-1880. Of the two divisions which constitute the Second Part, +“Miscellaneous Maxims and Opinions” appeared in 1879, and “The Wanderer +and his Shadow” in 1880, Nietzsche being then in his thirty-sixth year. +The Preface was added in 1886. The whole book forms Nietzsche’s first +lengthy contribution to literature. His previous works comprise only the +philological treatises, _The Birth of Tragedy_, and the essays on Strauss, +Schopenhauer, and Wagner in _Thoughts out of Season_. + +With the volumes of _Human, all-too-Human_ Nietzsche appears for the first +time in his true colours as philosopher. His purely scholarly +publications, his essays in literary and musical criticism—especially the +essay on Richard Wagner at Bayreuth—had, of course, foreshadowed his work +as a thinker. + +These efforts, however, had been mere fragments, from which hardly any one +could observe that a new philosophical star had arisen on the horizon. But +by 1878 the period of transition had definitely set in. Outwardly, the new +departure is marked by Nietzsche’s resignation in that year of his +professorship at Bâle—a resignation due partly to ill-health, and partly +to his conviction that his was a voice that should speak not merely to +students of philology, but to all mankind. + +Nietzsche himself characterises _Human, all-too-Human_ as “the monument of +a crisis.” He might as fitly have called it the first-fruits of a new +harvest. Now, for the first time, he practises the form which he was to +make so peculiarly his own. We are told—and we may well believe—that the +book came as a surprise even to his most intimate friends. Wagner had +already seen how matters stood at the publication of the first part, and +the gulf between the two probably widened on the appearance of the Second +Part. + +Several aphorisms are here, varying in length as in subject, and ranging +over the whole human province—the emotions and aspirations, the religions +and cultures and philosophies, the arts and literatures and politics of +mankind. Equally varied is the range of style, the incisive epigram and +the passage of pure poetry jostling each other on the same page. In this +curious power of alternating between cynicism and lyricism, Nietzsche +appears as the prose counterpart of Heine. + +One or two of the aphorisms are of peculiar interest to English readers. +The essay (as it may almost be called) on Sterne (p. 60, No. 113) does +ample justice, if not more than justice, to that wayward genius. The +allusion to Milton (p. 77, No. 150) will come as somewhat of a shock to +English readers, especially to those who hold that in Milton Art triumphed +over Puritanism. It should be remembered, however, that Nietzsche’s view +coincides with Goethe’s. The dictum that Shakespeare’s gold is to be +valued for its quantity rather than its quality (p. 81, No. 162) also +betrays a certain exclusiveness—a legacy from that eighteenth-century +France which appealed so strongly to Nietzsche on its intellectual side. +To Nietzsche, as to Voltaire, Shakespeare is after all “the great +barbarian.” + +The title of the book may be explained from a phrase in _Thus Spake +Zarathustra_: “Verily, even the greatest I found—all-too-human.” The +keynote of these volumes is indeed disillusion and destruction. Nor is +this to be wondered at, for all men must sweep away the rubbish before +they can build. Hence we find here little of the constructive philosophy +of Nietzsche—so far as he had a constructive philosophy. The Superman +appears but faintly, the doctrine of Eternal Recurrence not at all. For +this very reason, _Human, all-too-Human_ is perhaps the best +starting-point for the study of Nietzsche. The difficulties in style and +thought of the later work—difficulties that at times become well-nigh +insuperable in _Thus Spake Zarathustra_—are here practically absent. The +book may, in fact, almost be described as “popular,” bearing the same +relation to Nietzsche’s later productions as Wagner’s _Tannhäuser_ and +_Lohengrin_ bear to the _Ring_. + +The translator’s thanks are due to Mr. Thomas Common for his careful +revision of the manuscript and many valuable suggestions. + +P. V. C. + + + + + +PREFACE. + + + + +1. + + +One should only speak where one cannot remain silent, and only speak of +what one has _conquered_—the rest is all chatter, “literature,” bad +breeding. My writings speak only of my conquests, “I” am in them, with all +that is hostile to me, _ego ipsissimus_, or, if a more haughty expression +be permitted, _ego ipsissimum_. It may be guessed that I have many below +me.... But first I always needed time, convalescence, distance, +separation, before I felt the stirrings of a desire to flay, despoil, lay +bare, “represent” (or whatever one likes to call it) for the additional +knowledge of the world, something that I had lived through and outlived, +something done or suffered. Hence all my writings,—with one exception, +important, it is true,—must be _ante-dated_—they always tell of a +“behind-me.” Some even, like the first three _Thoughts out of Season_, +must be thrown back before the period of creation and experience of a +previously published book (_The Birth of Tragedy_ in the case cited, as +any one with subtle powers of observation and comparison could not fail to +perceive). That wrathful outburst against the Germanism, smugness, and +raggedness of speech of old David Strauss, the contents of the first +_Thought out of Season_, gave a vent to feelings that had inspired me long +before, as a student, in the midst of German culture and cultured +Philistinism (I claim the paternity of the now much used and misused +phrase “cultured Philistinism”). What I said against the “historical +disease” I said as one who had slowly and laboriously recovered from that +disease, and who was not at all disposed to renounce “history” in the +future because he had suffered from her in the past. When in the third +_Thought out of Season_ I gave expression to my reverence for my first and +only teacher, the _great_ Arthur Schopenhauer—I should now give it a far +more personal and emphatic voice—I was for my part already in the throes +of moral scepticism and dissolution, that is, as much concerned with the +criticism as with the study of all pessimism down to the present day. I +already did not believe in “a blessed thing,” as the people say, not even +in Schopenhauer. It was at this very period that an unpublished essay of +mine, “On Truth and Falsehood in an Extra-Moral Sense,” came into being. +Even my ceremonial oration in honour of Richard Wagner, on the occasion of +his triumphal celebration at Bayreuth in 1876—Bayreuth signifies the +greatest triumph that an artist has ever won—a work that bears the +strongest stamp of “individuality,” was in the background an act of homage +and gratitude to a bit of the past in me, to the fairest but most perilous +calm of my sea-voyage ... and as a matter of fact a severance and a +farewell. (Was Richard Wagner mistaken on this point? I do not think so. +So long as we still love, we do not paint such pictures, we do not yet +“examine,” we do not place ourselves so far away as is essential for one +who “examines.” “Examining needs at least a secret antagonism, that of an +opposite point of view,” it is said on page 46 of the above-named work +itself, with an insidious, melancholy application that was perhaps +understood by few.) The composure that gave me the _power_ to speak after +many intervening years of solitude and abstinence, first came with the +book, _Human, All-too Human_, to which this second preface and apologia(1) +is dedicated. As a book for “free spirits” it shows some trace of that +almost cheerful and inquisitive coldness of the psychologist, who has +_behind_ him many painful things that he keeps _under_ him, and moreover +establishes them for himself and fixes them firmly as with a needle-point. +Is it to be wondered at that at such sharp, ticklish work blood flows now +and again, that indeed the psychologist has blood on his fingers and not +_only_ on his fingers? + + + + +2. + + +The _Miscellaneous Maxims and Opinions_ were in the first place, like _The +Wanderer and His Shadow_, published separately as continuations and +appendices to the above-mentioned human, all-too human _Book for Free +Spirits_: and at the same time, as a continuation and confirmation of an +intellectual cure, consisting in a course of anti-romantic self-treatment, +such as my instinct, which had always remained healthy, had itself +discovered and prescribed against a temporary attack of the most dangerous +form of romantics. After a convalescence of six years I may well be +permitted to collect these same writings and publish them as a second +volume of _Human, All-too Human_. Perhaps, if surveyed together, they will +more clearly and effectively teach their lesson—a lesson of health that +may be recommended as a _disciplina voluntatis_ to the more intellectual +natures of the rising generation. Here speaks a pessimist who has often +leaped out of his skin but has always returned into it, thus, a pessimist +with goodwill towards pessimism—at all events a romanticist no longer. And +has not a pessimist, who possesses this serpentine knack of changing his +skin, the right to read a lecture to our pessimists of to-day, who are one +and all still in the toils of romanticism? Or at least to show them how it +is—done? + + + + +3. + + +It was then, in fact, high time to bid farewell, and I soon received +proof. Richard Wagner, who seemed all-conquering, but was in reality only +a decayed and despairing romantic, suddenly collapsed, helpless and +broken, before the Christian Cross.... Was there not a single German with +eyes in his head and sympathy in his heart for this appalling spectacle? +Was I the only one whom he caused—suffering? In any case, the unexpected +event illumined for me in one lightning flash the place that I had +abandoned, and also the horror that is felt by every one who is +unconscious of a great danger until he has passed through it. As I went +forward alone, I shuddered, and not long afterwards I was ill, or rather +more than ill—weary: weary from my ceaseless disappointment about all that +remained to make us modern men enthusiastic, at the thought of the power, +work, hope, youth, love, flung to all the winds: weary from disgust at the +effeminacy and undisciplined rhapsody of this romanticism, at the whole +tissue of idealistic lies and softening of conscience, which here again +had won the day over one of the bravest of men: last, and not least, weary +from the bitterness of an inexorable suspicion—that after this +disappointment I was doomed to mistrust more thoroughly, to despise more +thoroughly, to be alone more thoroughly than ever before. My task—whither +had it flown? Did it not look now as if my task were retreating from me +and as if I should for a long future period have no more right to it? What +was I to do to endure this most terrible privation?—I began by entirely +forbidding myself all romantic music, that ambiguous, pompous, stifling +art, which robs the mind of its sternness and its joyousness and provides +a fertile soil for every kind of vague yearning and spongy sensuality. +“Cave musicam” is even to-day my advice to all who are enough of men to +cling to purity in matters of the intellect. Such music enervates, +softens, feminises, its “eternal feminine” draws us—_down_!(2) My first +suspicion, my most immediate precaution, was directed against romantic +music. If I hoped for anything at all from music, it was in the +expectation of the coming of a musician bold, subtle, malignant, southern, +healthy enough to take an immortal revenge upon that other music. + + + + +4. + + +Lonely now and miserably self-distrustful, I took sides, not without +resentment, _against_ myself and _for_ everything that hurt me and was +hard to me. Thus I once more found the way to that courageous pessimism +that is the antithesis of all romantic fraud, and, as it seems to me +to-day, the way to “myself,” to my task. That hidden masterful Something, +for which we long have no name until at last it shows itself as our +task—that tyrant in us exacts a terrible price for every attempt that we +make to escape him or give him the slip, for every premature act of +self-constraint, for every reconciliation with those to whom we do not +belong, for every activity, however reputable, which turns us aside from +our main purpose, yes, even for every virtue that would fain protect us +from the cruelty of our most individual responsibility. “Disease” is +always the answer when we wish to have doubts of our rights to our own +task, when we begin to make it easier for ourselves in any way. How +strange and how terrible! It is our very alleviations for which we have to +make the severest atonement! And if we want to return to health, we have +no choice left—we must load ourselves _more heavily_ than we were ever +laden before. + + + + +5. + + +It was then that I learnt the hermitical habit of speech acquired only by +the most silent and suffering. I spoke without witnesses, or rather +indifferent to the presence of witnesses, so as not to suffer from +silence, I spoke of various things that did not concern me in a style that +gave the impression that they did. Then, too, I learnt the art of showing +myself cheerful, objective, inquisitive in the presence of all that is +healthy and evil—is this, in an invalid, as it seems to me, his “good +taste”? Nevertheless, a more subtle eye and sympathy will not miss what +perhaps gives a charm to these writings—the fact that here speaks one who +has suffered and abstained in such a way as if he had never suffered or +abstained. Here equipoise, composure, even gratitude towards life _shall_ +be maintained, here rules a stern, proud, ever vigilant, ever susceptible +will, which has undertaken the task of defending life against pain and +snapping off all conclusions that are wont to grow like poisonous fungi +from pain, disappointment, satiety, isolation and other morasses. Perhaps +this gives our pessimists a hint to self-examination? For it was then that +I hit upon the aphorism, “a sufferer has as yet no right to pessimism,” +and that I engaged in a tedious, patient campaign against the unscientific +first principles of all romantic pessimism, which seeks to magnify and +interpret individual, personal experiences into “general judgments,” +universal condemnations—it was then, in short, that I sighted a new world. +Optimism for the sake of restitution, in order at some time to have the +right to become a pessimist—do you understand that? Just as a physician +transfers his patient to totally strange surroundings, in order to +displace him from his entire “past,” his troubles, friends, letters, +duties, stupid mistakes and painful memories, and teaches him to stretch +out hands and senses towards new nourishment, a new sun, a new future: so +I, as physician and invalid in one, forced myself into an utterly +different and untried zone of the soul, and particularly into an absorbing +journey to a strange land, a strange atmosphere, into a curiosity for all +that was strange. A long process of roaming, seeking, changing followed, a +distaste for fixity of any kind—a dislike for clumsy affirmation and +negation: and at the same time a dietary and discipline which aimed at +making it as easy as possible for the soul to fly high, and above all +constantly to fly away. In fact a minimum of life, an unfettering from all +coarser forms of sensuality, an independence in the midst of all marks of +outward disfavour, together with the pride in being able to live in the +midst of all this disfavour: a little cynicism perhaps, a little of the +“tub of Diogenes,” a good deal of whimsical happiness, whimsical gaiety, +much calm, light, subtle folly, hidden enthusiasm—all this produced in the +end a great spiritual strengthening, a growing joy and exuberance of +health. Life itself rewards us for our tenacious will to life, for such a +long war as I waged against the pessimistic weariness of life, even for +every observant glance of our gratitude, glances that do not miss the +smallest, most delicate, most fugitive gifts.... In the end we receive +Life’s great gifts, perhaps the greatest it can bestow—we regain _our_ +task. + + + + +6. + + +Should my experience—the history of an illness and a convalescence, for it +resulted in a convalescence—be only my personal experience? and merely +just my “Human, All-too-human”? To-day I would fain believe the reverse, +for I am becoming more and more confident that my books of travel were not +penned for my sole benefit, as appeared for a time to be the case. May I, +after six years of growing assurance, send them once more on a journey for +an experiment?—May I commend them particularly to the ears and hearts of +those who are afflicted with some sort of a “past,” and have enough +intellect left to suffer even intellectually from their past? But above +all would I commend them to you whose burden is heaviest, you choice +spirits, most encompassed with perils, most intellectual, most courageous, +who must be the _conscience_ of the modern soul and as such be versed in +its _science_:(3) in whom is concentrated all of disease, poison or danger +that can exist to-day: whose lot decrees that you must be more sick than +any individual because you are not “mere individuals”: whose consolation +it is to know and, ah! to walk the path to a new health, a health of +to-morrow and the day after: you men of destiny, triumphant, conquerors of +time, the healthiest and the strongest, you _good Europeans_! + + + + +7. + + +To express finally in a single formula my opposition to the romantic +pessimism of the abstinent, the unfortunate, the conquered: there is a +will to the tragic and to pessimism, which is a sign as much of the +severity as of the strength of the intellect (taste, emotion, conscience). +With this will in our hearts we do not fear, but we investigate ourselves +the terrible and the problematical elements characteristic of all +existence. Behind such a will stand courage and pride and the desire for a +really great enemy. That was _my_ pessimistic outlook from the first—a new +outlook, methinks, an outlook that even at this day is new and strange? To +this moment I hold to it firmly and (if it will be believed) not only +_for_ myself but occasionally _against_ myself.... You would prefer to +have that proved first? Well, what else does all this long preface—prove? + +SILS-MARIA, UPPER ENGADINE, +_September, 1886_. + + + + + +PART I. MISCELLANEOUS MAXIMS AND OPINIONS. + + + + +1. + + +TO THE DISILLUSIONED IN PHILOSOPHY.—If you hitherto believed in the +highest value of life and now find yourselves disillusioned, must you +immediately get rid of life at the lowest possible price? + + + + +2. + + +OVERNICE.—One can even become overnice as regards the clearness of +concepts. How disgusted one is then at having truck with the half-clear, +the hazy, the aspiring, the doubting! How ridiculous and yet not +mirth-provoking is their eternal fluttering and straining without ever +being able to fly or to grasp! + + + + +3. + + +THE WOOERS OF REALITY.—He who realises at last how long and how thoroughly +he has been befooled, embraces out of spite even the ugliest reality. So +that in the long run of the world’s history the best men have always been +wooers of reality, for the best have always been longest and most +thoroughly deceived. + + + + +4. + + +ADVANCE OF FREETHINKING.—The difference between past and present +freethinking cannot better be characterised than by that aphorism for the +recognition and expression of which all the fearlessness of the eighteenth +century was needed, and which even then, if measured by our modern view, +sinks into an unconscious naïveté. I mean Voltaire’s aphorism, +“croyez-moi, mon ami, l’erreur aussi a son mérite.” + + + + +5. + + +A HEREDITARY SIN OF PHILOSOPHERS.—Philosophers have at all times +appropriated and _corrupted_ the maxims of censors of men (moralists), by +taking them over without qualification and trying to prove as necessary +what the moralists only meant as a rough indication or as a truth suited +to their fellow-countrymen or fellow-townsmen for a single decade. +Moreover, the philosophers thought that they were thereby raising +themselves above the moralists! Thus it will be found that the celebrated +teachings of Schopenhauer as to the supremacy of the will over the +intellect, of the immutability of character, the negativity of +pleasure—all errors, in the sense in which he understands them—rest upon +principles of popular wisdom enunciated by the moralists. Take the very +word “will,” which Schopenhauer twisted so as to become a common +denotation of several human conditions and with which he filled a gap in +the language (to his own great advantage, in so far as he was a moralist, +for he became free to speak of the will as Pascal had spoken of it). In +the hands of its creator, Schopenhauer’s “will,” through the philosophic +craze for generalisation, already turned out to be a bane to knowledge. +For this will was made into a poetic metaphor, when it was held that all +things in nature possess will. Finally, that it might be applied to all +kinds of disordered mysticism, the word was misused by a fraudulent +convention. So now all our fashionable philosophers repeat it and seem to +be perfectly certain that all things have a will and are in fact One Will. +According to the description generally given of this All-One-Will, this is +much as if one should positively try to have the stupid Devil for one’s +God. + + + + +6. + + +AGAINST VISIONARIES.—The visionary denies the truth to himself, the liar +only to others. + + + + +7. + + +ENMITY TO LIGHT.—If we make it clear to any one that, strictly, he can +never speak of truth, but only of probability and of its degrees, we +generally discover, from the undisguised joy of our pupil, how greatly men +prefer the uncertainty of their intellectual horizon, and how in their +heart of hearts they hate truth because of its definiteness.—Is this due +to a secret fear felt by all that the light of truth may at some time be +turned too brightly upon themselves? To their wish to be of some +consequence, and accordingly their concealment from the world of what they +are? Or is it to be traced to their horror of the all-too brilliant light, +to which their crepuscular, easily dazzled, bat-like souls are not +accustomed, so that hate it they must? + + + + +8. + + +CHRISTIAN SCEPTICISM.—Pilate, with his question, “What is Truth?” is now +gleefully brought on the scene as an advocate of Christ, in order to cast +suspicion on all that is known or knowable as being mere appearance, and +to erect the Cross on the appalling background of the Impossibility of +Knowledge. + + + + +9. + + +“NATURAL LAW,” A PHRASE OF SUPERSTITION.—When you talk so delightedly of +Nature acting according to law, you must either assume that all things in +Nature follow their law from a voluntary obedience imposed by +themselves—in which case you admire the morality of Nature: or you are +enchanted with the idea of a creative mechanician, who has made a most +cunning watch with human beings as accessory ornaments.—Necessity, through +the expression, “conformity to law,” then becomes more human and a coign +of refuge in the last instance for mythological reveries. + + + + +10. + + +FALLEN FORFEIT TO HISTORY.—All misty philosophers and obscurers of the +world, in other words all metaphysicians of coarse or refined texture are +seized with eyeache, earache, and toothache when they begin to suspect +that there is truth in the saying: “All philosophy has from now fallen +forfeit to history.” In view of their aches and pains we may pardon them +for throwing stones and filth at him who talks like this, but this +teaching may itself thereby become dirty and disreputable for a time and +lose in effect. + + + + +11. + + +THE PESSIMIST OF THE INTELLECT.—He whose intellect is really free will +think freely about the intellect itself, and will not shut his eyes to +certain terrible aspects of its source and tendency. For this reason +others will perhaps designate him the bitterest opponent of free thought +and give him that dreadful, abusive name of “pessimist of the intellect”: +accustomed as they are to typify a man not by his strong point, his +pre-eminent virtue, but by the quality that is most foreign to his nature. + + + + +12. + + +THE METAPHYSICIANS’ KNAPSACK.—To all who talk so boastfully of the +scientific basis of their metaphysics it is best to make no reply. It is +enough to tug at the bundle that they rather shyly keep hidden behind +their backs. If one succeeds in lifting it, the results of that +“scientific basis” come to light, to their great confusion: a dear little +“God,” a genteel immortality, perhaps a little spiritualism, and in any +case a complicated mass of poor-sinners’-misery and pharisee-arrogance. + + + + +13. + + +OCCASIONAL HARMFULNESS OF KNOWLEDGE.—The utility involved in the unchecked +investigation of knowledge is so constantly proved in a hundred different +ways that one must remember to include in the bargain the subtler and +rarer damage which individuals must suffer on that account. The chemist +cannot avoid occasionally being poisoned or burnt at his experiments. What +applies to the chemist, is true of the whole of our culture. This, it may +be added, clearly shows that knowledge should provide itself with healing +balsam against burns and should always have antidotes ready against +poisons. + + + + +14. + + +THE CRAVING OF THE PHILISTINE.—The Philistine thinks that his most urgent +need is a purple patch or turban of metaphysics, nor will he let it slip. +Yet he would look less ridiculous without this adornment. + + + + +15. + + +ENTHUSIASTS.—With all that enthusiasts say in favour of their gospel or +their master they are defending themselves, however much they comport +themselves as the judges and not the accused: because they are +involuntarily reminded almost at every moment that they are exceptions and +have to assert their legitimacy. + + + + +16. + + +THE GOOD SEDUCES TO LIFE.—All good things, even all good books that are +written against life, are strong means of attraction to life. + + + + +17. + + +THE HAPPINESS OF THE HISTORIAN.—“When we hear the hair-splitting +metaphysicians and prophets of the after-world speak, we others feel +indeed that we are the ‘poor in spirit,’ but that ours is the heavenly +kingdom of change, with spring and autumn, summer and winter, and theirs +the after-world, with its grey, everlasting frosts and shadows.” Thus +soliloquised a man as he walked in the morning sunshine, a man who in his +pursuit of history has constantly changed not only his mind but his heart. +In contrast to the metaphysicians, he is happy to harbour in himself not +an “immortal soul” but many _mortal_ souls. + + + + +18. + + +THREE VARIETIES OF THINKERS.—There are streaming, flowing, trickling +mineral springs, and three corresponding varieties of thinkers. The layman +values them by the volume of the water, the expert by the contents of the +water—in other words, by the elements in them that are not water. + + + + +19. + + +THE PICTURE OF LIFE.—The task of painting the picture of life, often as it +has been attempted by poets and philosophers, is nevertheless irrational. +Even in the hands of the greatest artist-thinkers, pictures and miniatures +of one life only—their own—have come into being, and indeed no other +result is possible. While in the process of developing, a thing that +develops, cannot mirror itself as fixed and permanent, as a _definite +object_. + + + + +20. + + +TRUTH WILL HAVE NO GODS BEFORE IT.—The belief in truth begins with the +doubt of all truths in which one has previously believed. + + + + +21. + + +WHERE SILENCE IS REQUIRED.—If we speak of freethinking as of a highly +dangerous journey over glaciers and frozen seas, we find that those who do +not care to travel on this track are offended, as if they had been +reproached with cowardice and weak knees. The difficult, which we find to +be beyond our powers, must not even be mentioned in our presence. + + + + +22. + + +_Historia in Nuce._—The most serious parody I ever heard was this: “In the +beginning was the nonsense, and the nonsense was with God, and the +nonsense was God.”(4) + + + + +23. + + +INCURABLE.—The idealist is incorrigible: if he be thrown out of his +Heaven, he makes himself a suitable ideal out of Hell. Disillusion him, +and lo! he will embrace disillusionment with no less ardour than he +recently embraced hope. In so far as his impulse belongs to the great +incurable impulses of human nature, he can bring about tragic destinies +and later become a subject for tragedy himself, for such tragedies as deal +with the incurable, implacable, inevitable in the lot and character of +man. + + + + +24. + + +APPLAUSE ITSELF AS THE CONTINUATION OF THE PLAY.—Sparkling eyes and an +amiable smile are the tributes of applause paid to all the great comedy of +world and existence—but this applause is a comedy within a comedy, meant +to tempt the other spectators to a _plaudite amici_. + + + + +25. + + +COURAGE FOR TEDIUM.—He who has not the courage to allow himself and his +work to be considered tedious, is certainly no intellect of the first +rank, whether in the arts or in the sciences.—A scoffer, who happened for +once in a way to be a thinker, might add, with a glance at the world and +at history: “God did not possess this courage, for he wanted to make and +he made all things so interesting.” + + + + +26. + + +FROM THE MOST INTIMATE EXPERIENCE OF THE THINKER.—Nothing is harder for a +man than to conceive of an object impersonally, I mean to see in it an +object and not a person. One may even ask whether it is possible for him +to dispense for a single moment with the machinery of his instinct to +create and construct a personality. After all, he associates with his +thoughts, however abstract they may be, as with individuals, against whom +he must fight or to whom he must attach himself, whom he must protect, +support and nourish. Let us watch or listen to ourselves at the moment +when we hear or discover a new idea. Perhaps it displeases us because it +is so defiant and so autocratic, and we unconsciously ask ourselves +whether we cannot place a contradiction of it by its side as an enemy, or +fasten on to it a “perhaps” or a “sometimes”: the mere little word +“probably” gives us a feeling of satisfaction, for it shatters the +oppressive tyranny of the unconditional. If, on the other hand, the new +idea enters in gentle shape, sweetly patient and humble, and falling at +once into the arms of contradiction, we put our autocracy to the test in +another way. Can we not come to the aid of this weak creature, stroke it +and feed it, give it strength and fulness, and truth and even +unconditionality? Is it possible for us to show ourselves parental or +chivalrous or compassionate towards our idea?—Then again, we see here a +judgment and there a judgment, sundered from each other, never looking at +or making any movement towards each other. So we are tickled by the +thought, whether it be not here feasible to make a match, to draw a +_conclusion_, with the anticipation that if a consequence follows this +conclusion it is not only the two judgments united in wedlock but the +matchmakers that will gain honour. If, however, we cannot acquire a hold +upon that thought either on the path of defiance and ill-will or on that +of good-will (if we hold it to be true)—then we submit to it and do homage +to it as a leader and a prince, give it a chair of honour, and speak not +of it without a flourish of trumpets: for we are bright in its brightness. +Woe to him who tries to dim this brightness! Perhaps we ourselves one day +grow suspicious of our idea. Then we, the indefatigable “king-makers” of +the history of the intellect, cast it down from its throne and immediately +exalt its adversary. Surely if this be considered and thought out a little +further, no one will speak of an “absolute impulse to knowledge”! + +Why, then, does man prefer the true to the untrue, in this secret combat +with thought-personalities, in this generally clandestine match-making of +thoughts, constitution-founding of thoughts, child-rearing of thoughts, +nursing and almsgiving of thoughts? For the same reason that he practises +honesty in intercourse with real persons: _now_ from habit, heredity, and +training, _originally_ because the true, like the fair and the just, is +more expedient and more reputable than the untrue. For in the realm of +thought it is difficult to assume a power and glory that are built on +error or on falsehood. The feeling that such an edifice might at some time +collapse is humiliating to the self-esteem of the architect—he is ashamed +of the fragility of the material, and, as he considers himself more +important than the rest of the world, he would fain construct nothing that +is less durable than the rest of the world. In his longing for truth he +embraces the belief in a personal immortality, the most arrogant and +defiant idea that exists, closely allied as it is to the underlying +thought, _pereat mundus, dum ego salvus sim!_ His work has become his +“ego,” he transforms himself into the Imperishable with its universal +challenge. It is his immeasurable pride that will only employ the best and +hardest stones for the work—truths, or what he holds for such. Arrogance +has always been justly called the “vice of the sage”; yet without this +vice, fruitful in impulses, Truth and her status on earth would be in a +parlous plight. In our propensity to fear our thoughts, concepts and +words, and yet to honour ourselves in them, unconsciously to ascribe to +them the power of rewarding, despising, praising, and blaming us, and so +to associate with them as with free intellectual personalities, as with +independent powers, as with our equals—herein lie the roots of the +remarkable phenomenon which I have called “intellectual conscience.” Thus +something of the highest moral species has bloomed from a black root. + + + + +27. + + +THE OBSCURANTISTS.—The essential feature of the black art of obscurantism +is not its intention of clouding the brain, but its attempt to darken the +picture of the world and cloud our idea of existence. It often employs the +method of thwarting all illumination of the intellect, but at times it +uses the very opposite means, seeking by the highest refinement of the +intellect to induce a satiety of the intellect’s fruits. Hair-splitting +metaphysicians, who pave the way for scepticism and by their excessive +acumen provoke a distrust of acumen, are excellent instruments of the more +subtle form of obscurantism.—Is it possible that even Kant may be applied +to this purpose? Did he even _intend_ something of the sort, for a time at +least, to judge from his own notorious exposition: “to clear the way for +belief by setting limitations to knowledge”?—Certainly he did not succeed, +nor did his followers, on the wolf and fox tracks of this highly refined +and dangerous form of obscurantism—the most dangerous of all, for the +black art here appears in the garb of light. + + + + +28. + + +BY WHAT KIND OF PHILOSOPHY ART IS CORRUPTED.—When the mists of a +metaphysical-mystical philosophy succeed in making all æsthetic phenomena +_opaque_, it follows that these phenomena cannot be comparatively valued, +inasmuch as each becomes individually inexplicable. But when once they +cannot be compared for the sake of valuation, there arises an entire +absence-of-criticism, a blind indulgence. From this source springs a +continual diminution of the enjoyment of art (which is only distinguished +from the crude satisfaction of a need by the highest refinement of taste +and appreciation). The more taste diminishes, the more does the desire for +art change and revert to a vulgar hunger, which the artist henceforth +seeks to appease by ever coarser fare. + + + + +29. + + +ON GETHSEMANE.—The most painful thing a thinker can say to artists is: +“Could ye not _watch_ with me one hour?” + + + + +30. + + +AT THE LOOM.—There are many (artists and women, for instance) who work +against the few that take a pleasure in untying the knot of things and +unravelling their woof. The former always want to weave the woof together +again and entangle it and so turn the conceived into the unconceived and +if possible inconceivable. Whatever the result may be, the woof and knot +always look rather untidy, because too many hands are working and tugging +at them. + + + + +31. + + +IN THE DESERT OF SCIENCE.—As the man of science proceeds on his modest and +toilsome wanderings, which must often enough be journeys in the desert, he +is confronted with those brilliant mirages known as “philosophic systems.” +With magic powers of deception they show him that the solution of all +riddles and the most refreshing draught of true water of life are close at +hand. His weary heart rejoices, and he well-nigh touches with his lips the +goal of all scientific endurance and hardship, so that almost +unconsciously he presses forward. Other natures stand still, as if +spellbound by the beautiful illusion: the desert swallows them up, they +become lost to science. Other natures, again, that have often experienced +these subjective consolations, become very disheartened and curse the +salty taste which these mirages leave behind in the mouth and from which +springs a raging thirst—without one’s having come one step nearer to any +sort of a spring. + + + + +32. + + +THE SO-CALLED “REAL REALITY.”—When the poet depicts the various +callings—such as those of the warrior, the silk-weaver, the sailor—he +feigns to know all these things thoroughly, to be an expert. Even in the +exposition of human actions and destinies he behaves as if he had been +present at the spinning of the whole web of existence. In so far he is an +impostor. He practises his frauds on pure ignoramuses, and that is why he +succeeds. They praise him for his deep, genuine knowledge, and lead him +finally into the delusion that he really knows as much as the individual +experts and creators, yes, even as the great world-spinners themselves. In +the end, the impostor becomes honest, and actually believes in his own +sincerity. Emotional people say to his very face that he has the “higher” +truth and sincerity—for they are weary of reality for the time being, and +accept the poetic dream as a pleasant relaxation and a night’s rest for +head and heart. The visions of the dream now appear to them of more value, +because, as has been said, they find them more beneficial, and mankind has +always held that what is apparently of more value is more true, more real. +All that is generally called reality, the poets, conscious of this power, +proceed with intention to disparage and to distort into the uncertain, the +illusory, the spurious, the impure, the sinful, sorrowful, and deceitful. +They make use of all doubts about the limits of knowledge, of all +sceptical excesses, in order to spread over everything the rumpled veil of +uncertainty. For they desire that when this darkening process is complete +their wizardry and soul-magic may be accepted without hesitation as the +path to “true truth” and “real reality.” + + + + +33. + + +THE WISH TO BE JUST AND THE WISH TO BE A JUDGE.—Schopenhauer, whose +profound understanding of what is human and all-too-human and original +sense for facts was not a little impaired by the bright leopard-skin of +his metaphysic (the skin must first be pulled off him if one wants to find +the real moralist genius beneath)—Schopenhauer makes this admirable +distinction, wherein he comes far nearer the mark than he would himself +dare to admit: “Insight into the stern necessity of human actions is the +boundary line that divides philosophic from other brains.” He worked +against that wonderful insight of which he was sometimes capable by the +prejudice that he had in common with the moral man (not the moralist), a +prejudice that he expresses quite guilelessly and devoutly as follows: +“The ultimate and true explanation of the inner being of the entirety of +things must of necessity be closely connected with that about the ethical +significance of human actions.” This connection is not “necessary” at all: +such a connection must rather be rejected by that principle of the stern +necessity of human actions, that is, the unconditioned non-freedom and +non-responsibility of the will. Philosophic brains will accordingly be +distinguished from others by their disbelief in the metaphysical +significance of morality. This must create between the two kinds of brain +a gulf of a depth and unbridgeableness of which the much-deplored gulf +between “cultured” and “uncultured” scarcely gives a conception. It is +true that many back doors, which the “philosophic brains,” like +Schopenhauer’s own, have left for themselves, must be recognised as +useless. None leads into the open, into the fresh air of the free will, +but every door through which people had slipped hitherto showed behind it +once more the gleaming brass wall of fate. For we are in a prison, and can +only dream of freedom, not make ourselves free. That the recognition of +this fact cannot be resisted much longer is shown by the despairing and +incredible postures and grimaces of those who still press against it and +continue their wrestling-bout with it. Their attitude at present is +something like this: “So no one is responsible for his actions? And all is +full of guilt and the consciousness of guilt? But some one _must_ be the +sinner. If it is no longer possible or permissible to accuse and sentence +the individual, the one poor wave in the inevitable rough-and-tumble of +the waves of development—well, then, let this stormy sea, this development +itself, be the sinner. Here is free will: this totality can be accused and +sentenced, can atone and expiate. _So let God be the sinner and man his +redeemer._ Let the world’s history be guilt, expiation, and self-murder. +Let the evil-doer be his own judge, the judge his own hangman.” This +Christianity strained to its limits—for what else is it?—is the last +thrust in the fencing-match between the teaching of unconditioned morality +and the teaching of unconditioned non-freedom. It would be quite horrible +if it were anything more than a logical pose, a hideous grimace of the +underlying thought, perhaps the death-convulsion of the heart that seeks a +remedy in its despair, the heart to which delirium whispers: “Behold, thou +art the lamb which taketh away the sin of God.” This error lies not only +in the feeling, “I am responsible,” but just as much in the contradiction, +“I am not responsible, but some one must be.” That is simply not true. +Hence the philosopher must say, like Christ, “Judge not,” and the final +distinction between the philosophic brains and the others would be that +the former wish to be just and the latter wish to be judges. + + + + +34. + + +_Sacrifice._—You hold that sacrifice is the hallmark of moral action?—Just +consider whether in every action that is done with deliberation, in the +best as in the worst, there be not a sacrifice. + + + + +35. + + +AGAINST THE “TRIERS OF THE REINS” OF MORALITY.—One must know the best and +the worst that a man is capable of in theory and in practice before one +can judge how strong his moral nature is and can be. But this is an +experiment that one can never carry out. + + + + +36. + + +SERPENT’S TOOTH.—Whether we have a serpent’s tooth or not we cannot know +before some one has set his heel upon our necks. A wife or a mother could +say: until some one has put his heel upon the neck of our darling, our +child.—Our character is determined more by the absence of certain +experiences than by the experiences we have undergone. + + + + +37. + + +DECEPTION IN LOVE.—We forget and purposely banish from our minds a good +deal of our past. In other words, we wish our picture, that beams at us +from the past, to belie us, to flatter our vanity—we are constantly +engaged in this self-deception. And you who talk and boast so much of +“self-oblivion in love,” of the “absorption of the ego in the other +person”—you hold that this is something different? So you break the +mirror, throw yourselves into another personality that you admire, and +enjoy the new portrait of your ego, though calling it by the other +person’s name—and this whole proceeding is not to be thought +self-deception, self-seeking, you marvellous beings?—It seems to me that +those who hide something of themselves from themselves, or hide their +whole selves from themselves, are alike committing a theft from the +treasury of knowledge. It is clear, then, against what transgression the +maxim “Know thyself” is a warning. + + + + +38. + + +TO THE DENIER OF HIS VANITY.—He who denies his own vanity usually +possesses it in so brutal a form that he instinctively shuts his eyes to +avoid the necessity of despising himself. + + + + +39. + + +WHY THE STUPID SO OFTEN BECOME MALIGNANT.—To those arguments of our +adversary against which our head feels too weak our heart replies by +throwing suspicion on the motives of his arguments. + + + + +40. + + +THE ART OF MORAL EXCEPTIONS.—An art that points out and glorifies the +exceptional cases of morality—where the good becomes bad and the unjust +just—should rarely be given a hearing: just as now and again we buy +something from gipsies, with the fear that they are diverting to their own +pockets much more than their mere profit from the purchase. + + + + +41. + + +ENJOYMENT AND NON-ENJOYMENT OF POISONS.—The only decisive argument that +has always deterred men from drinking a poison is not that it is deadly, +but that it has an unpleasant taste. + + + + +42. + + +THE WORLD WITHOUT CONSCIOUSNESS OF SIN.—If men only committed such deeds +as do not give rise to a bad conscience, the human world would still look +bad and rascally enough, but not so sickly and pitiable as at +present.—Enough wicked men without conscience have existed at all times, +and many good honest folk lack the feeling of pleasure in a good +conscience. + + + + +43. + + +THE CONSCIENTIOUS.—It is more convenient to follow one’s conscience than +one’s intelligence, for at every failure conscience finds an excuse and an +encouragement in itself. That is why there are so many conscientious and +so few intelligent people. + + + + +44. + + +OPPOSITE MEANS OF AVOIDING BITTERNESS.—One temperament finds it useful to +be able to give vent to its disgust in words, being made sweeter by +speech. Another reaches its full bitterness only by speaking out: it is +more advisable for it to have to gulp down something—the restraint that +men of this stamp place upon themselves in the presence of enemies and +superiors improves their character and prevents it from becoming too acrid +and sour. + + + + +45. + + +NOT TO BE TOO DEJECTED.—To get bed-sores is unpleasant, but no proof +against the merits of the cure that prescribes that you should take to +your bed. Men who have long lived outside themselves, and have at last +devoted themselves to the inward philosophic life, know that one can also +get sores of character and intellect. This, again, is on the whole no +argument against the chosen way of life, but necessitates a few small +exceptions and apparent relapses. + + + + +46. + + +THE HUMAN “THING IN ITSELF.”—The most vulnerable and yet most +unconquerable of things is human vanity: nay, through being wounded its +strength increases and can grow to giant proportions. + + + + +47. + + +THE FARCE OF MANY INDUSTRIOUS PERSONS.—By an excess of effort they win +leisure for themselves, and then they can do nothing with it but count the +hours until the tale is ended. + + + + +48. + + +THE POSSESSION OF JOY ABOUNDING.—He that has joy abounding must be a good +man, but perhaps he is not the cleverest of men, although he has reached +the very goal towards which the cleverest man is striving with all his +cleverness. + + + + +49. + + +IN THE MIRROR OF NATURE.—Is not a man fairly well described, when we are +told that he likes to walk between tall fields of golden corn: that he +prefers the forest and flower colours of sere and chilly autumn to all +others, because they point to something more beautiful than Nature has +ever attained: that he feels as much at home under big broad-leaved walnut +trees as among his nearest kinsfolk: that in the mountains his greatest +joy is to come across those tiny distant lakes from which the very eyes of +solitude seem to peer at him: that he loves that grey calm of the misty +twilight that steals along the windows on autumn and early winter evenings +and shuts out all soulless sounds as with velvet curtains: that in unhewn +stones he recognises the last remaining traces of the primeval age, eager +for speech, and honours them from childhood upwards: that, lastly, the sea +with its shifting serpent skin and wild-beast beauty is, and remains to +him, unfamiliar?—Yes, something of the man is described herewith, but the +mirror of Nature does not say that the same man, with (and not even “in +spite of”) all his idyllic sensibilities, might be disagreeable, stingy, +and conceited. Horace, who was a good judge of such matters, in his famous +_beatus ille qui procul negotiis_ puts the tenderest feeling for country +life into the mouth of a Roman money-lender. + + + + +50. + + +POWER WITHOUT VICTORY.—The strongest cognition (that of the complete +non-freedom of the human will) is yet the poorest in results, for it has +always had the mightiest of opponents—human vanity. + + + + +51. + + +PLEASURE AND ERROR.—A beneficial influence on friends is exerted by one +man unconsciously, through his nature; by another consciously, through +isolated actions. Although the former nature is held to be the higher, the +latter alone is allied to good conscience and pleasure—the pleasure in +justification by good works, which rests upon a belief in the volitional +character of our good and evil doing—that is to say, upon a mistake. + + + + +52. + + +THE FOLLY OF COMMITTING INJUSTICE.—The injustice we have inflicted +ourselves is far harder to bear than the injustice inflicted upon us by +others (not always from moral grounds, be it observed). After all, the +doer is always the sufferer—that is, if he be capable of feeling the sting +of conscience or of perceiving that by his action he has armed society +against himself and cut himself off. For this reason we should beware +still more of doing than of suffering injustice, for the sake of our own +inward happiness—so as not to lose our feeling of well-being—quite apart +from any consideration of the precepts of religion and morality. For in +suffering injustice we have the consolation of a good conscience, of hope +and of revenge, together with the sympathy and applause of the just, nay +of the whole of society, which is afraid of the evil-doer. Not a few are +skilled in the impure self-deception that enables them to transform every +injustice of their own into an injustice inflicted upon them from without, +and to reserve for their own acts the exceptional right to the plea of +self-defence. Their object, of course, is to make their own burden +lighter. + + + + +53. + + +ENVY WITH OR WITHOUT A MOUTHPIECE.—Ordinary envy is wont to cackle when +the envied hen has laid an egg, thereby relieving itself and becoming +milder. But there is a yet deeper envy that in such a case becomes dead +silent, desiring that every mouth should be sealed and always more and +more angry because this desire is not gratified. Silent envy grows in +silence. + + + + +54. + + +ANGER AS A SPY.—Anger exhausts the soul and brings its very dregs to +light. Hence, if we know no other means of gaining certainty, we must +understand how to arouse anger in our dependents and adversaries, in order +to learn what is really done and thought to our detriment. + + + + +55. + + +DEFENCE MORALLY MORE DIFFICULT THAN ATTACK.—The true heroic deed and +masterpiece of the good man does not lie in attacking opinions and +continuing to love their propounders, but in the far harder task of +defending his own position without causing or intending to cause bitter +heartburns to his opponent. The sword of attack is honest and broad, the +sword of defence usually runs out to a needle point. + + + + +56. + + +HONEST TOWARDS HONESTY.—One who is openly honest towards himself ends by +being rather conceited about this honesty. He knows only too well why he +is honest—for the same reason that another man prefers outward show and +hypocrisy. + + + + +57. + + +COALS OF FIRE.—The heaping of coals of fire on another’s head is generally +misunderstood and falls flat, because the other knows himself to be just +as much in the right, and on his side too has thought of collecting coals. + + + + +58. + + +DANGEROUS BOOKS.—A man says: “Judging from my own case, I find that this +book is harmful.” Let him but wait, and perhaps one day he will confess +that the book did him a great service by thrusting forward and bringing to +light the hidden disease of his soul.—Altered opinions alter not at all +(or very little) the character of a man: but they illuminate individual +facets of his personality, which hitherto, in another constellation of +opinions, had remained dark and unrecognisable. + + + + +59. + + +SIMULATED PITY.—We simulate pity when we wish to show ourselves superior +to the feeling of animosity, but generally in vain. This point is not +noticed without a considerable enhancement of that feeling of animosity. + + + + +60. + + +OPEN CONTRADICTION OFTEN CONCILIATORY.—At the moment when a man openly +makes known his difference of opinion from a well-known party leader, the +whole world thinks that he must be angry with the latter. Sometimes, +however, he is just on the point of ceasing to be angry with him. He +ventures to put himself on the same plane as his opponent, and is free +from the tortures of suppressed envy. + + + + +61. + + +SEEING OUR LIGHT SHINING.—In the darkest hour of depression, sickness, and +guilt, we are still glad to see others taking a light from us and making +use of us as of the disk of the moon. By this roundabout route we derive +some light from our own illuminating faculty. + + + + +62. + + +FELLOWSHIP IN JOY.(5)—The snake that stings us means to hurt us and +rejoices in so doing: the lowest animal can picture to itself the _pain_ +of others. But to picture to oneself the _joy_ of others and to rejoice +thereat is the highest privilege of the highest animals, and again, +amongst them, is the property only of the most select +specimens—accordingly a rare “human thing.” Hence there have been +philosophers who denied fellowship in joy. + + + + +63. + + +_Supplementary Pregnancy._—Those who have arrived at works and deeds are +in an obscure way, they know not how, all the more pregnant with them, as +if to prove supplementarily that these are their children and not those of +chance. + + + + +64. + + +HARD-HEARTED FROM VANITY.—Just as justice is so often a cloak for +weakness, so men who are fairly intelligent, but weak, sometimes attempt +dissimulation from ambitious motives and purposely show themselves unjust +and hard, in order to leave behind them the impression of strength. + + + + +65. + + +HUMILIATION.—If in a large sack of profit we find a single grain of +humiliation we still make a wry face even at our good luck. + + + + +66. + + +EXTREME HEROSTRATISM.(6)—There might be Herostratuses who set fire to +their own temple, in which their images are honoured. + + + + +67. + + +A WORLD OF DIMINUTIVES.—The fact that all that is weak and in need of help +appeals to the heart induces in us the habit of designating by diminutive +and softening terms all that appeals to our hearts—and accordingly +_making_ such things weak and clinging to our imaginations. + + + + +68. + + +THE BAD CHARACTERISTIC OF SYMPATHY.—Sympathy has a peculiar impudence for +its companion. For, wishing to help at all costs, sympathy is in no +perplexity either as to the means of assistance or as to the nature and +cause of the disease, and goes on courageously administering all its quack +medicines to restore the health and reputation of the patient. + + + + +69. + + +IMPORTUNACY.—There is even an importunacy in relation to works, and the +act of associating oneself from early youth on an intimate footing with +the illustrious works of all times evinces an entire absence of +shame.—Others are only importunate from ignorance, not knowing with whom +they have to do—for instance classical scholars young and old in relation +to the works of the Greeks. + + + + +70. + + +THE WILL IS ASHAMED OF THE INTELLECT.—In all coolness we make reasonable +plans against our passions. But we make the most serious mistake in this +connection in being often ashamed, when the design has to be carried out, +of the coolness and calculation with which we conceived it. So we do just +the unreasonable thing, from that sort of defiant magnanimity that every +passion involves. + + + + +71. + + +WHY THE SCEPTICS OFFEND MORALITY.—He who takes his morality solemnly and +seriously is enraged against the sceptics in the domain of morals. For +where he lavishes all his force, he wishes others to marvel but not to +investigate and doubt. Then there are natures whose last shred of morality +is just the belief in morals. They behave in the same way towards +sceptics, if possible still more passionately. + + + + +72. + + +SHYNESS.—All moralists are shy, because they know they are confounded with +spies and traitors, so soon as their penchant is noticed. Besides, they +are generally conscious of being impotent in action, for in the midst of +work the motives of their activity almost withdraw their attention from +the work. + + + + +73. + + +A DANGER TO UNIVERSAL MORALITY.—People who are at the same time noble and +honest come to deify every devilry that brings out their honesty, and to +suspend for a time the balance of their moral judgment. + + + + +74. + + +THE SADDEST ERROR.—It is an unpardonable offence when one discovers that +where one was convinced of being loved, one is only regarded as a +household utensil and decoration, whereby the master of the house can find +an outlet for his vanity before his guests. + + + + +75. + + +LOVE AND DUALITY.—What else is love but understanding and rejoicing that +another lives, works, and feels in a different and opposite way to +ourselves? That love may be able to bridge over the contrasts by joys, we +must not remove or deny those contrasts. Even self-love presupposes an +irreconcileable duality (or plurality) in one person. + + + + +76. + + +SIGNS FROM DREAMS.—What one sometimes does not know and feel accurately in +waking hours—whether one has a good or a bad conscience as regards some +person—is revealed completely and unambiguously by dreams. + + + + +77. + + +DEBAUCHERY.—Not joy but joylessness is the mother of debauchery. + + + + +78. + + +REWARD AND PUNISHMENT.—No one accuses without an underlying notion of +punishment and revenge, even when he accuses his fate or himself. All +complaint is accusation, all self-congratulation is praise. Whether we do +one or the other, we always make some one responsible. + + + + +79. + + +DOUBLY UNJUST.—We sometimes advance truth by a twofold injustice: when we +see and represent consecutively the two sides of a case which we are not +in a position to see together, but in such a way that every time we +mistake or deny the other side, fancying that what we see is the whole +truth. + + + + +80. + + +MISTRUST.—Self-mistrust does not always proceed uncertainly and shyly, but +sometimes in a furious rage, having worked itself into a frenzy in order +not to tremble. + + + + +81. + + +PHILOSOPHY OF PARVENUS.—If you want to be a personality you must even hold +your shadow in honour. + + + + +82. + + +KNOWING HOW TO WASH ONESELF CLEAN.—We must know how to emerge cleaner from +unclean conditions, and, if necessary, how to wash ourselves even with +dirty water. + + + + +83. + + +LETTING YOURSELF GO.—The more you let yourself go, the less others let you +go. + + + + +84. + + +THE INNOCENT ROGUE.—There is a slow, gradual path to vice and rascality of +every description. In the end, the traveller is quite abandoned by the +insect-swarms of a bad conscience, and although a thorough scoundrel he +walks in innocence. + + + + +85. + + +MAKING PLANS.—Making plans and conceiving projects involves many agreeable +sentiments. He that had the strength to be nothing but a contriver of +plans all his life would be a happy man. But one must occasionally have a +rest from this activity by carrying a plan into execution, and then comes +anger and sobriety. + + + + +86. + + +WHEREWITH WE SEE THE IDEAL.—Every efficient man is blocked by his +efficiency and cannot look out freely from its prison. Had he not also a +goodly share of imperfection, he could, by reason of his virtue, never +arrive at an intellectual or moral freedom. Our shortcomings are the eyes +with which we see the ideal. + + + + +87. + + +DISHONEST PRAISE.—Dishonest praise causes many more twinges of conscience +than dishonest blame, probably only because we have exposed our capacity +for judgment far more completely through excessive praise than through +excessive and unjust blame. + + + + +88. + + +HOW ONE DIES IS INDIFFERENT.—The whole way in which a man thinks of death +during the prime of his life and strength is very expressive and +significant for what we call his character. But the hour of death itself, +his behaviour on the death-bed, is almost indifferent. The exhaustion of +waning life, especially when old people die, the irregular or insufficient +nourishment of the brain during this last period, the occasionally violent +pain, the novel and untried nature of the whole position, and only too +often the ebb and flow of superstitious impressions and fears, as if dying +were of much consequence and meant the crossing of bridges of the most +terrible kind—all this forbids our using death as a testimony concerning +the living. Nor is it true that the dying man is generally more honest +than the living. On the contrary, through the solemn attitude of the +bystanders, the repressed or flowing streams of tears and emotions, every +one is inveigled into a comedy of vanity, now conscious, now unconscious. +The serious way in which every dying man is treated must have been to many +a poor despised devil the highest joy of his whole life and a sort of +compensation and repayment for many privations. + + + + +89. + + +MORALITY AND ITS SACRIFICE.—The origin of morality may be traced to two +ideas: “The community is of more value than the individual,” and “The +permanent interest is to be preferred to the temporary.” The conclusion +drawn is that the permanent interest of the community is unconditionally +to be set above the temporary interest of the individual, especially his +momentary well-being, but also his permanent interest and even the +prolongation of his existence. Even if the individual suffers by an +arrangement that suits the mass, even if he is depressed and ruined by it, +morality must be maintained and the victim brought to the sacrifice. Such +a trend of thought arises, however, only in those who are _not_ the +victims—for in the victim’s case it enforces the claim that the individual +might be worth more than the many, and that the present enjoyment, the +“moment in paradise,”(7) should perhaps be rated higher than a tame +succession of untroubled or comfortable circumstances. But the philosophy +of the sacrificial victim always finds voice too late, and so victory +remains with morals and morality: which are really nothing more than the +sentiment for the whole concept of morals under which one lives and has +been reared—and reared not as an individual but as a member of the whole, +as a cipher in a majority. Hence it constantly happens that the individual +makes himself into a majority by means of his morality. + + + + +90. + + +THE GOOD AND THE GOOD CONSCIENCE.—You hold that all good things have at +all times had a good conscience? Science, which is certainly a very good +thing, has come into the world without such a conscience and quite free +from all pathos, rather clandestinely, by roundabout ways, walking with +shrouded or masked face like a sinner, and always with the feeling at +least of being a smuggler. Good conscience has bad conscience for its +stepping-stone, not for its opposite. For all that is good has at one time +been new and consequently strange, against morals, immoral, and has gnawed +like a worm at the heart of the fortunate discoverer. + + + + +91. + + +SUCCESS SANCTIFIES THE INTENTIONS.—We should not shrink from treading the +road to a virtue, even when we see clearly that nothing but egotism, and +accordingly utility, personal comfort, fear, considerations of health, +reputation, or glory, are the impelling motives. These motives are styled +ignoble and selfish. Very well, but if they stimulate us to some +virtue—for example, self-denial, dutifulness, order, thrift, measure, and +moderation—let us listen to them, whatever their epithets may be! For if +we reach the goal to which they summon us, then the virtue we have +attained, by means of the pure air it makes us breathe and the spiritual +well-being it communicates, ennobles the remoter impulses of our action, +and afterwards we no longer perform those actions from the same coarse +motives that inspired us before.—Education should therefore force the +virtues on the pupil, as far as possible, according to his disposition. +Then virtue, the sunshine and summer atmosphere of the soul, can +contribute her own share of work and add mellowness and sweetness. + + + + +92. + + +DABBLERS IN CHRISTIANITY, NOT CHRISTIANS.—So that is your Christianity!—To +annoy humanity you praise “God and His Saints,” and again when you want to +praise humanity you go so far that God and His Saints must be annoyed.—I +wish you would at least learn Christian manners, as you are so deficient +in the civility of the Christian heart. + + + + +93. + + +THE RELIGIOUS AND IRRELIGIOUS IMPRESSION OF NATURE.—A true believer must +be to us an object of veneration, but the same holds good of a true, +sincere, convinced unbeliever. With men of the latter stamp we are near to +the high mountains where mighty rivers have their source, and with +believers we are under vigorous, shady, restful trees. + + + + +94. + + +JUDICIAL MURDER.—The two greatest judicial murders(8) in the world’s +history are, to speak without exaggeration, concealed and well-concealed +suicide. In both cases a man _willed_ to die, and in both cases he let his +breast be pierced by the sword in the hand of human injustice. + + + + +95. + + +“LOVE.”—The finest artistic conception wherein Christianity had the +advantage over other religious systems lay in one word—Love. Hence it +became the _lyric_ religion (whereas in its two other creations Semitism +bestowed heroico-epical religions upon the world). In the word “love” +there is so much meaning, so much that stimulates and appeals to memory +and hope, that even the meanest intelligence and the coldest heart feel +some glimmering of its sense. The cleverest woman and the lowest man think +of the comparatively unselfish moments of their whole life, even if with +them Eros never soared high: and the vast number of beings who _miss_ love +from their parents or children or sweethearts, especially those whose +sexual instincts have been refined away, have found their heart’s desire +in Christianity. + + + + +96. + + +THE FULFILMENT OF CHRISTIANITY.—In Christianity there is also an Epicurean +trend of thought, starting from the idea that God can only demand of man, +his creation and his image, what it is possible for man to fulfil, and +accordingly that Christian virtue and perfection are attainable and often +attained. Now, for instance, the belief in loving one’s enemies—even if it +is only a belief or fancy, and by no means a psychological reality (a real +love)—gives unalloyed happiness, so long as it is genuinely believed. (As +to the reason of this, psychologist and Christian might well differ.) +Hence earthly life, through the belief, I mean the fancy, that it +satisfies not only the injunction to love our enemies, but all the other +injunctions of Christianity, and that it has really assimilated and +embodied in itself the Divine perfection according to the command, “Be +perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect,” might actually become a holy +life. Thus error can make Christ’s promise come true. + + + + +97. + + +OF THE FUTURE OF CHRISTIANITY.—We may be allowed to form a conjecture as +to the disappearance of Christianity and as to the places where it will be +the slowest to retreat, if we consider where and for what reasons +Protestantism spread with such startling rapidity. As is well known, +Protestantism promised to do far more cheaply all that the old Church did, +without costly masses, pilgrimages, and priestly pomp and circumstance. It +spread particularly among the Northern nations, which were not so deeply +rooted as those of the South in the old Church’s symbolism and love of +ritual. In the South the more powerful pagan religion survived in +Christianity, whereas in the North Christianity meant an opposition to and +a break with the old-time creed, and hence was from the first more +thoughtful and less sensual, but for that very reason, in times of peril, +more fanatical and more obstinate. If from the standpoint of _thought_ we +succeed in uprooting Christianity, we can at once know the point where it +will begin to disappear—the very point at which it will be most stubborn +in defence. In other places it will bend but not break, lose its leaves +but burst into leaf afresh, because the senses, and not thought, have gone +over to its side. But it is the senses that maintain the belief that with +all its expensive outlay the Church is more cheaply and conveniently +managed than under the stern conditions of work and wages. Yet what does +one hold leisure (or semi-idleness) to be worth, when once one has become +accustomed to it? The senses plead against a dechristianised world, saying +that there would be too much work to do in it and an insufficient supply +of leisure. They take the part of magic—that is, they let God work himself +(_oremus nos, Deus laboret_). + + + + +98. + + +THEATRICALITY AND HONESTY OF UNBELIEVERS.—There is no book that contains +in such abundance or expresses so faithfully all that man occasionally +finds salutary—ecstatic inward happiness, ready for sacrifice or death in +the belief in and contemplation of _his_ truth—as the book that tells of +Christ. From that book a clever man may learn all the means whereby a book +can be made into a world-book, a vade-mecum for all, and especially that +master-means of representing everything as discovered, nothing as future +and uncertain. All influential books try to leave the same impression, as +if the widest intellectual horizon were circumscribed here and as if about +the sun that shines here every constellation visible at present or in the +future must revolve.—Must not then all purely scientific books be poor in +influence on the same grounds as such books are rich in influence? Is not +the book fated to live humble and among humble folk, in order to be +crucified in the end and never resurrected? In relation to what the +religious inform us of their “knowledge” and their “holy spirit,” are not +all upright men of science “poor in spirit”? Can any religion demand more +self-denial and draw the selfish out of themselves more inexorably than +science?—This and similar things we may say, in any case with a certain +theatricality, when we have to defend ourselves against believers, for it +is impossible to conduct a defence without a certain amount of +theatricality. But between ourselves our language must be more honest, and +we employ a freedom that those believers are not even allowed, in their +own interests, to understand. Away, then, with the monastic cowl of +self-denial, with the appearance of humility! Much more and much better—so +rings our truth! If science were not linked with the pleasure of +knowledge, the utility of the thing known, what should we care for +science? If a little faith, love, and hope did not lead our souls to +knowledge, what would attract us to science? And if in science the ego +means nothing, still the inventive, happy ego, every upright and +industrious ego, means a great deal in the republic of the men of science. +The homage of those who pay homage, the joy of those whom we wish well or +honour, in some cases glory and a fair share of immortality, is the +personal reward for every suppression of personality: to say nothing here +of meaner views and rewards, although it is just on this account that the +majority have sworn and always continue to swear fidelity to the laws of +the republic and of science. If we had not remained in some degree +unscientific, what would science matter to us? Taking everything together +and speaking in plain language: “To a purely knowing being knowledge would +be indifferent.”—Not the quality but the quantity of faith and devoutness +distinguishes us from the pious, the believers. We are content with less. +But should one of them cry out to us: “Be content and show yourselves +contented!” we could easily answer: “As a matter of fact, we do not belong +to the most discontented class. But you, if your faith makes you happy, +show yourselves to be happy. Your faces have always done more harm to your +faith than our reasons! If that glad message of your Bible were written in +your faces, you would not need to demand belief in the authority of that +book in such stiff-necked fashion. Your words, your actions should +continually make the Bible superfluous—in fact, through you a new Bible +should continually come into being. As it is, your apologia for +Christianity is rooted in your unchristianity, and with your defence you +write your own condemnation. If you, however, should wish to emerge from +your dissatisfaction with Christianity, you should ponder over the +experience of two thousand years, which, clothed in the modest form of a +question, may be voiced as follows: ‘If Christ really intended to redeem +the world, may he not be said to have failed?’ ” + + + + +99. + + +THE POET AS GUIDE TO THE FUTURE.—All the surplus poetical force that still +exists in modern humanity, but is not used under our conditions of life, +should (without any deduction) be devoted to a definite goal—not to +depicting the present nor to reviving and summarising the past, but to +pointing the way to the future. Nor should this be so done as if the poet, +like an imaginative political economist, had to anticipate a more +favourable national and social state of things and picture their +realisation. Rather will he, just as the earlier poets portrayed the +images of the Gods, portray the fair images of men. He will divine those +cases where, in the midst of our modern world and reality (which will not +be shirked or repudiated in the usual poetic fashion), a great, noble soul +is still possible, where it may be embodied in harmonious, equable +conditions, where it may become permanent, visible, and representative of +a type, and so, by the stimulus to imitation and envy, help to create the +future. The poems of such a poet would be distinguished by appearing +secluded and protected from the heated atmosphere of the passions. The +irremediable failure, the shattering of all the strings of the human +instrument, the scornful laughter and gnashing of teeth, and all tragedy +and comedy in the usual old sense, would appear by the side of this new +art as mere archaic lumber, a blurring of the outlines of the +world-picture. Strength, kindness, gentleness, purity, and an unsought, +innate moderation in the personalities and their action: a levelled soil, +giving rest and pleasure to the foot: a shining heaven mirrored in faces +and events: science and art welded into a new unity: the mind living +together with her sister, the soul, without arrogance or jealousy, and +enticing from contrasts the grace of seriousness, not the impatience of +discord—all this would be the general environment, the background on which +the delicate differences of the embodied ideals would make the real +picture, that of ever-growing human majesty. Many roads to this poetry of +the future start from Goethe, but the quest needs good pathfinders and +above all a far greater strength than is possessed by modern poets, who +unscrupulously represent the half-animal and the immaturity and +intemperance that are mistaken by them for power and naturalness. + + + + +100. + + +THE MUSE AS PENTHESILEA.(9)—“Better to rot than to be a woman without +charm.” When once the Muse thinks thus, the end of her art is again at +hand. But it can be a tragic and also a comic finale. + + + + +101. + + +THE CIRCUITOUS PATH TO THE BEAUTIFUL.—If the beautiful is to be identified +with that which gives pleasure—and thus sang the Muses once—the useful is +often the necessary circuitous path to the beautiful, and has a perfect +right to spurn the short-sighted censure of men who live for the moment, +who will not wait, and who think that they can reach all good things +without ever taking a circuitous path. + + + + +102. + + +AN EXCUSE FOR MANY A TRANSGRESSION.—The ceaseless desire to create, the +eternal looking outward of the artist, hinders him from becoming better +and more beautiful as a personality: unless his craving for glory be great +enough to compel him to exhibit in his relations with other men a growth +corresponding to the growing beauty and greatness of his works. In any +case he has but a limited measure of strength, and how could the +proportion of strength that he spends on himself be of any benefit to his +work—or _vice versa_? + + + + +103. + + +SATISFYING THE BEST PEOPLE.—If we have satisfied the best people of our +time with our art, it is a sign that we shall not satisfy the best people +of the succeeding period. We have indeed “lived for all time,” and the +applause of the best people ensures our fame.(10) + + + + +104. + + +OF ONE SUBSTANCE.—If we are of one substance with a book or a work of art, +we think in our heart of hearts that it must be excellent, and are +offended if others find it ugly, over-spiced, or pretentious. + + + + +105. + + +SPEECH AND EMOTION.—That speech is not given to us to communicate our +emotions may be seen from the fact that all simple men are ashamed to seek +for words to express their deeper feelings. These feelings are expressed +only in actions, and even here such men blush if others seem to divine +their motives. After all, among poets, to whom God generally denies this +shame, the more noble are more monosyllabic in the language of emotion, +and evince a certain constraint: whereas the real poets of emotion are for +the most part shameless in practical life. + + + + +106. + + +A MISTAKE ABOUT A PRIVATION.—He that has not for a long time been +completely weaned from an art, and is still always at home in it, has no +idea how small a privation it is to live without that art. + + + + +107. + + +THREE-QUARTER STRENGTH.—A work that is meant to give an impression of +health should be produced with three-quarters, at the most, of the +strength of its creator. If he has gone to his farthest limit, the work +excites the observer and disconcerts him by its tension. All good things +have something lazy about them and lie like cows in the meadow. + + + + +108. + + +REFUSING TO HAVE HUNGER AS A GUEST.—As refined fare serves a hungry man as +well as and no better than coarser food, the more pretentious artist will +not dream of inviting the hungry man to his meal. + + + + +109. + + +LIVING WITHOUT ART AND WINE.—It is with works of art as with wine—it is +better if one can do without both and keep to water, and if from the inner +fire and inner sweetness of the soul the water spontaneously changes again +into wine. + + + + +110. + + +THE PIRATE-GENIUS.—The pirate-genius in art, who even knows how to deceive +subtle minds, arises when some one unscrupulously and from youth upwards +regards all good things, that are not protected by law, as the property of +a particular person, as his legitimate spoil. Now all the good things of +past ages and masters lie free around us, hedged about and protected by +the reverential awe of the few who know them. To these few our +robber-genius, by the force of his impudence, bids defiance and +accumulates for himself a wealth that once more calls forth homage and +awe. + + + + +111. + + +TO THE POETS OF GREAT TOWNS.—In the gardens of modern poetry it will +clearly be observed that the sewers of great towns are too near. With the +fragrance of flowers is mingled something that betrays abomination and +putrescence. With pain I ask: “Must you poets always request wit and dirt +to stand godfather, when an innocent and beautiful sensation has to be +christened by you? Are you obliged to dress your noble goddess in a hood +of devilry and caricature? But whence this necessity, this obligation?” +The reason is—because you live too near the sewers. + + + + +112. + + +OF THE SALT OF SPEECH.—No one has ever explained why the Greek writers, +having at command such an unparalleled wealth and power of language, made +so sparing a use of their resources that every post-classical Greek book +appears by comparison crude, over-coloured, and extravagant. It is said +that towards the North Polar ice and in the hottest countries salt is +becoming less and less used, whereas on the other hand the dwellers on the +plains and by the coast in the more temperate zones use salt in great +abundance. Is it possible that the Greeks from a twofold reason—because +their intellect was colder and clearer but their fundamental passionate +nature far more tropical than ours—did not need salt and spice to the same +extent that we do? + + + + +113. + + +THE FREEST WRITER.—In a book for free spirits one cannot avoid mention of +Laurence Sterne, the man whom Goethe honoured as the freest spirit of his +century. May he be satisfied with the honour of being called the freest +writer of all times, in comparison with whom all others appear stiff, +square-toed, intolerant, and downright boorish! In his case we should not +speak of the clear and rounded but of “the endless melody”—if by this +phrase we arrive at a name for an artistic style in which the definite +form is continually broken, thrust aside and transferred to the realm of +the indefinite, so that it signifies one and the other at the same time. +Sterne is the great master of _double entendre_, this phrase being +naturally used in a far wider sense than is commonly done when one applies +it to sexual relations. We may give up for lost the reader who always +wants to know exactly what Sterne thinks about a matter, and whether he be +making a serious or a smiling face (for he can do both with one wrinkling +of his features; he can be and even wishes to be right and wrong at the +same moment, to interweave profundity and farce). His digressions are at +once continuations and further developments of the story, his maxims +contain a satire on all that is sententious, his dislike of seriousness is +bound up with a disposition to take no matter merely externally and on the +surface. So in the proper reader he arouses a feeling of uncertainty +whether he be walking, lying, or standing, a feeling most closely akin to +that of floating in the air. He, the most versatile of writers, +communicates something of this versatility to his reader. Yes, Sterne +unexpectedly changes the parts, and is often as much reader as author, his +book being like a play within a play, a theatre audience before another +theatre audience. We must surrender at discretion to the mood of Sterne, +although we can always expect it to be gracious. It is strangely +instructive to see how so great a writer as Diderot has affected this +_double entendre_ of Sterne’s—to be equally ambiguous throughout is just +the Sternian super-humour. Did Diderot imitate, admire, ridicule, or +parody Sterne in his _Jacques le Fataliste_? One cannot be exactly +certain, and this uncertainty was perhaps intended by the author. This +very doubt makes the French unjust to the work of one of their first +masters, one who need not be ashamed of comparison with any of the +ancients or moderns. For humour (and especially for this humorous attitude +towards humour itself) the French are too serious. Is it necessary to add +that of all great authors Sterne is the worst model, in fact the +inimitable author, and that even Diderot had to pay for his daring? What +the worthy Frenchmen and before them some Greeks and Romans aimed at and +attained in prose is the very opposite of what Sterne aims at and attains. +He raises himself as a masterly exception above all that artists in +writing demand of themselves—propriety, reserve, character, steadfastness +of purpose, comprehensiveness, perspicuity, good deportment in gait and +feature. Unfortunately Sterne the man seems to have been only too closely +related to Sterne the writer. His squirrel-soul sprang with insatiable +unrest from branch to branch; he knew what lies between sublimity and +rascality; he had sat on every seat, always with unabashed watery eyes and +mobile play of feature. He was—if language does not revolt from such a +combination—of a hard-hearted kindness, and in the midst of the joys of a +grotesque and even corrupt imagination he showed the bashful grace of +innocence. Such a carnal and spiritual hermaphroditism, such untrammelled +wit penetrating into every vein and muscle, was perhaps never possessed by +any other man. + + + + +114. + + +A CHOICE REALITY.—Just as the good prose writer only takes words that +belong to the language of daily intercourse, though not by a long way all +its words—whence arises a choice style—so the good poet of the future will +only represent the real and turn his eyes away from all fantastic, +superstitious, half-voiced, forgotten stories, to which earlier poets +devoted their powers. Only reality, though by a long way not every +reality—but a choice reality. + + + + +115. + + +DEGENERATE SPECIES OF ART.—Side by side with the genuine species of art, +those of great repose and great movement, there are degenerate +species—weary, blasé art and excited art. Both would have their weakness +taken for strength and wish to be confounded with the genuine species. + + + + +116. + + +A HERO IMPOSSIBLE FROM LACK OF COLOUR.—The typical poets and artists of +our age like to compose their pictures upon a background of shimmering +red, green, grey, and gold, on the background of nervous sensuality—a +condition well understood by the children of this century. The drawback +comes when we do _not_ look at these pictures with the eyes of our +century. Then we see that the great figures painted by these artists have +something flickering, tremulous, and dizzy about them, and accordingly we +do not ascribe to them heroic deeds, but at best mock-heroic, swaggering +_mis_deeds. + + + + +117. + + +OVERLADEN STYLE.—The overladen style is a consequence of the +impoverishment of the organising force together with a lavish stock of +expedients and intentions. At the beginnings of art the very reverse +conditions sometimes appear. + + + + +118. + + +_PULCHRUM EST PAUCORUM HOMINUM._—History and experience tell us that the +significant grotesqueness that mysteriously excites the imagination and +carries one beyond everyday reality, is older and grows more luxuriantly +than the beautiful and reverence for the beautiful in art: and that it +begins to flourish exceedingly when the sense for beauty is on the wane. +For the vast majority of mankind this grotesque seems to be a higher need +than the beautiful, presumably because it contains a coarser narcotic. + + + + +119. + + +ORIGINS OF TASTE IN WORKS OF ART.—If we consider the primary germs of the +artistic sense, and ask ourselves what are the various kinds of joy +produced by the firstlings of art—as, for example, among savage tribes—we +find first of all the joy of understanding what another means. Art in this +case is a sort of conundrum, which causes its solver pleasure in his own +quick and keen perceptions.—Then the roughest works of art remind us of +the pleasant things we have actually experienced, and so give joy—as, for +example, when the artist alludes to a chase, a victory, a wedding.—Again, +the representation may cause us to feel excited, touched, inflamed, as for +instance in the glorification of revenge and danger. Here the enjoyment +lies in the excitement itself, in the victory over tedium.—The memory, +too, of unpleasant things, so far as they have been overcome or make us +appear interesting to the listener as subjects for art (as when the singer +describes the mishaps of a daring seaman), can inspire great joy, the +credit for which is given to art.—A more subtle variety is the joy that +arises at the sight of all that is regular and symmetrical in lines, +points, and rhythms. For by a certain analogy is awakened the feeling for +all that is orderly and regular in life, which one has to thank alone for +all well-being. So in the cult of symmetry we unconsciously do homage to +rule and proportion as the source of our previous happiness, and the joy +in this case is a kind of hymn of thanksgiving. Only when a certain +satiety of the last-mentioned joy arises does a more subtle feeling step +in, that enjoyment might even lie in a violation of the symmetrical and +regular. This feeling, for example, impels us to seek reason in apparent +unreason, and the sort of æsthetic riddle-guessing that results is in a +way the higher species of the first-named artistic joy.—He who pursues +this speculation still further will know what kind of hypotheses for the +explanation of æsthetic phenomena are hereby fundamentally rejected. + + + + +120. + + +NOT TOO NEAR.—It is a disadvantage for good thoughts when they follow too +closely on one another, for they hide the view from each other. That is +why great artists and writers have made an abundant use of the mediocre. + + + + +121. + + +ROUGHNESS AND WEAKNESS.—Artists of all periods have made the discovery +that in roughness lies a certain strength, and that not every one can be +rough who wants to be: also that many varieties of weakness have a +powerful effect on the emotions. From this source are derived many +artistic substitutes, which not even the greatest and most conscientious +artists can abstain from using. + + + + +122. + + +GOOD MEMORY.—Many a man fails to become a thinker for the sole reason that +his memory is too good. + + + + +123. + + +AROUSING INSTEAD OF APPEASING HUNGER.—Great artists fancy that they have +taken full possession of a soul. In reality, and often to their painful +disappointment, that soul has only been made more capacious and +insatiable, so that a dozen greater artists could plunge into its depths +without filling it up. + + + + +124. + + +ARTISTS’ ANXIETY.—The anxiety lest people may not believe that their +figures are _alive_ can mislead many artists of declining taste to portray +these figures so that they appear as if mad. From the same anxiety, on the +other hand, Greek artists of the earliest ages gave even dead and sorely +wounded men that smile which they knew as the most vivid sign of +life—careless of the actual forms bestowed by nature on life at its last +gasp. + + + + +125. + + +THE CIRCLE MUST BE COMPLETED.—He who follows a philosophy or a genre of +art to the end of its career and beyond, understands from inner experience +why the masters and disciples who come after have so often turned, with a +depreciatory gesture, into a new groove. The circle must be described—but +the individual, even the greatest, sits firm on his point of the +circumference, with an inexorable look of obstinacy, as if the circle +ought never to be completed. + + + + +126. + + +THE OLDER ART AND THE SOUL OF THE PRESENT.—Since every art becomes more +and more adapted to the expression of spiritual states, of the more +lively, delicate, energetic, and passionate states, the later masters, +spoilt by these means of expression, do not feel at their ease in the +presence of the old-time works of art. They feel as if the ancients had +merely been lacking in the means of making their souls speak clearly, also +perhaps in some necessary technical preliminaries. They think that they +must render some assistance in this quarter, for they believe in the +similarity or even unity of all souls. In truth, however, measure, +symmetry, a contempt for graciousness and charm, an unconscious severity +and morning chilliness, an evasion of passion, as if passion meant the +death of art—such are the constituents of sentiment and morality in all +old masters, who selected and arranged their means of expression not at +random but in a necessary connection with their morality. Knowing this, +are we to deny those that come after the right to animate the older works +with their soul? No, for these works can only survive through our giving +them our soul, and our blood alone enables them to speak to _us_. The real +“historic” discourse would talk ghostly speech to ghosts. We honour the +great artists less by that barren timidity that allows every word, every +note to remain intact than by energetic endeavours to aid them continually +to a new life.—True, if Beethoven were suddenly to come to life and hear +one of his works performed with that modern animation and nervous +refinement that bring glory to our masters of execution, he would probably +be silent for a long while, uncertain whether he should raise his hand to +curse or to bless, but perhaps say at last: “Well, well! That is neither I +nor not-I, but a third thing—it seems to me, too, something right, if not +just _the_ right thing. But you must know yourselves what to do, as in any +case it is you who have to listen. As our Schiller says, ‘the living man +is right.’ So have it your own way, and let me go down again.” + + + + +127. + + +AGAINST THE DISPARAGERS OF BREVITY.—A brief dictum may be the fruit and +harvest of long reflection. The reader, however, who is a novice in this +field and has never considered the case in point, sees something embryonic +in all brief dicta, not without a reproachful hint to the author, +requesting him not to serve up such raw and ill-prepared food. + + + + +128. + + +AGAINST THE SHORT-SIGHTED.—Do you think it is piece-work because it is +(and must be) offered you in pieces? + + + + +129. + + +READERS OF APHORISMS.—The worst readers of aphorisms are the friends of +the author, if they make a point of referring the general to the +particular instance to which the aphorism owes its origin. This +namby-pamby attitude brings all the author’s trouble to naught, and +instead of a philosophic lesson and a philosophic frame of mind, they +deservedly gain nothing but the satisfaction of a vulgar curiosity. + + + + +130. + + +READERS’ INSULTS.—The reader offers a two-fold insult to the author by +praising his second book at the expense of his first (or _vice versa_) and +by expecting the author to be grateful to him on that account. + + + + +131. + + +THE EXCITING ELEMENT IN THE HISTORY OF ART.—We fall into a state of +terrible tension when we follow the history of an art—as, for example, +that of Greek oratory—and, passing from master to master, observe their +increasing precautions to obey the old and the new laws and all these +self-imposed limitations. We see that the bow _must_ snap, and that the +so-called “loose” composition, with the wonderful means of expression +smothered and concealed (in this particular case the florid style of +Asianism), was once necessary and almost _beneficial_. + + + + +132. + + +TO THE GREAT IN ART.—That enthusiasm for some object which you, O great +man, introduce into this world causes the intelligence of the many to be +stunted. The knowledge of this fact spells humiliation. But the enthusiast +wears his hump with pride and pleasure, and you have the consolation of +feeling that you have increased the world’s happiness. + + + + +133. + + +CONSCIENCELESS ÆSTHETES.—The real fanatics of an artistic school are +perhaps those utterly inartistic natures that are not even grounded in the +elements of artistic study and creation, but are impressed with the +strongest of all the elementary influences of an art. For them there is no +æsthetic conscience—hence nothing to hold them back from fanaticism. + + + + +134. + + +HOW THE SOUL SHOULD BE MOVED BY THE NEW MUSIC.—The artistic purpose +followed by the new music, in what is now forcibly but none too lucidly +termed “endless melody,” can be understood by going into the sea, +gradually losing one’s firm tread on the bottom, and finally surrendering +unconditionally to the fluid element. One has to _swim_. In the previous, +older music one was forced, with delicate or stately or impassioned +movement, to _dance_. The measure necessary for dancing, the observance of +a distinct balance of time and force in the soul of the hearer, imposed a +continual self-control. Through the counteraction of the cooler draught of +air which came from this caution and the warmer breath of musical +enthusiasm, that music exercised its spell.—Richard Wagner aimed at a +different excitation of the soul, allied, as above said, to swimming and +floating. This is perhaps the most essential of his innovations. His +famous method, originating from this aim and adapted to it—the “endless +melody”—strives to break and sometimes even to despise all mathematical +equilibrium of time and force. He is only too rich in the invention of +such effects, which sound to the old school like rhythmic paradoxes and +blasphemies. He dreads petrifaction, crystallisation, the development of +music into the architectural. He accordingly sets up a three-time rhythm +in opposition to the double-time, not infrequently introduces five-time +and seven-time, immediately repeats a phrase, but with a prolation, so +that its time is again doubled and trebled. From an easy-going imitation +of such art may arise a great danger to music, for by the side of the +superabundance of rhythmic emotion demoralisation and decadence lurk in +ambush. The danger will become very great if such music comes to associate +itself more and more closely with a quite naturalistic art of acting and +pantomime, trained and dominated by no higher plastic models; an art that +knows no measure in itself and can impart no measure to the kindred +element, the all-too-womanish nature of music. + + + + +135. + + +POET AND REALITY.—The Muse of the poet who is not in love with reality +will not be reality, and will bear him children with hollow eyes and all +too tender bones. + + + + +136. + + +MEANS AND END.—In art the end does not justify the means, but holy means +can justify the end. + + + + +137. + + +THE WORST READERS.—The worst readers are those who act like plundering +soldiers. They take out some things that they might use, cover the rest +with filth and confusion, and blaspheme about the whole. + + + + +138. + + +SIGNS OF A GOOD WRITER.—Good writers have two things in common: they +prefer being understood to being admired, and they do not write for the +critical and over-shrewd reader. + + + + +139. + + +THE MIXED SPECIES.—The mixed species in art bear witness to their authors’ +distrust of their own strength. They seek auxiliary powers, advocates, +hiding-places—such is the case with the poet who calls in philosophy, the +musician who calls in the drama, and the thinker who calls in rhetoric to +his aid. + + + + +140. + + +SHUTTING ONE’S MOUTH.—When his book opens its mouth, the author must shut +his. + + + + +141. + + +BADGES OF RANK.—All poets and men of letters who are in love with the +superlative want to do more than they can. + + + + +142. + + +COLD BOOKS.—The deep thinker reckons on readers who feel with him the +happiness that lies in deep thinking. Hence a book that looks cold and +sober, if seen in the right light, may seem bathed in the sunshine of +spiritual cheerfulness and become a genuine soul-comforter. + + + + +143. + + +A KNACK OF THE SLOW-WITTED.—The slow-witted thinker generally allies +himself with loquacity and ceremoniousness. By the former he thinks he is +gaining mobility and fluency, by the latter he gives his peculiarity the +appearance of being a result of free will and artistic purpose, with a +view to dignity, which needs slow movement. + + + + +144. + + +_LE STYLE BAROQUE._(11)—He who as thinker and writer is not born or +trained to dialectic and the consecutive arrangement of ideas, will +unconsciously turn to the rhetoric and dramatic forms. For, after all, his +object is to make himself understood and to carry the day by force, and he +is indifferent whether, as shepherd, he honestly guides to himself the +hearts of his fellow-men, or, as robber, he captures them by surprise. +This is true of the plastic arts as of music: where the feeling of +insufficient dialectic or a deficiency in expression or narration, +together with an urgent, over-powerful impulse to form, gives birth to +that species of style known as “baroque.” Only the ill-educated and the +arrogant will at once find a depreciatory force in this word. The baroque +style always arises at the time of decay of a great art, when the demands +of art in classical expression have become too great. It is a natural +phenomenon which will be observed with melancholy—for it is a forerunner +of the night—but at the same time with admiration for its peculiar +compensatory arts of expression and narration. To this style belongs +already a choice of material and subjects of the highest dramatic tension, +at which the heart trembles even when there is no art, because heaven and +hell are all too near the emotions: then, the oratory of strong passion +and gestures, of ugly sublimity, of great masses, in fact of absolute +quantity _per se_ (as is shown in Michael Angelo, the father or +grandfather of the Italian baroque stylists): the lights of dusk, +illumination and conflagration playing upon those strongly moulded forms: +ever-new ventures in means and aims, strongly underscored by artists for +artists, while the layman must fancy he sees an unconscious overflowing of +all the horns of plenty of an original nature-art: all these +characteristics that constitute the greatness of that style are neither +possible nor permitted in the earlier ante-classical and classical periods +of a branch of art. Such luxuries hang long on the tree like forbidden +fruit. Just now, when music is passing into this last phase, we may learn +to know the phenomenon of the baroque style in peculiar splendour, and, by +comparison, find much that is instructive for earlier ages. For from Greek +times onward there has often been a baroque style, in poetry, oratory, +prose writing, sculpture, and, as is well known, in architecture. This +style, though wanting in the highest nobility,—the nobility of an +innocent, unconscious, triumphant perfection,—has nevertheless given +pleasure to many of the best and most serious minds of their time. Hence, +as aforesaid, it is presumptuous to depreciate it without reserve, however +happy we may feel because our taste for it has not made us insensible to +the purer and greater style. + + + + +145. + + +THE VALUE OF HONEST BOOKS.—Honest books make the reader honest, at least +by exciting his hatred and aversion, which otherwise cunning cleverness +knows so well how to conceal. Against a book, however, we let ourselves +go, however restrained we may be in our relations with men. + + + + +146. + + +HOW ART MAKES PARTISANS.—Individual fine passages, an exciting general +tenor, a moving and absorbing finale—so much of a work of art is +accessible even to most laymen. In an art period when it is desired to win +over the great majority of the laymen to the side of the artists and to +make a party perhaps for the very preservation of art, the creative artist +will do well to offer nothing more than the above. Then he will not be a +squanderer of his strength, in spheres where no one is grateful to him. +For to perform the remaining functions, the imitation of Nature in her +organic development and growth, would in that case be like sowing seeds in +water. + + + + +147. + + +BECOMING GREAT TO THE DETRIMENT OF HISTORY.—Every later master who leads +the taste of art-lovers into his channel unconsciously gives rise to a +selection and revaluation of the older masters and their works. Whatever +in them is conformable and akin to him, and anticipates and foreshadows +him, appears henceforth as the only important element in them and their +works—a fruit in which a great error usually lies hidden like a worm. + + + + +148. + + +HOW AN EPOCH BECOMES LURED TO ART.—If we teach people by all the +enchantments of artists and thinkers to feel reverence for their defects, +their intellectual poverty, their absurd infatuations and passions (as it +is quite possible to do); if we show them only the lofty side of crime and +folly, only the touching and appealing element in weakness and flabbiness +and blind devotion (that too has often enough been done):—we have employed +the means for inspiring even an unphilosophical and inartistic age with an +ecstatic love of philosophy and art (especially of thinkers and artists as +personalities) and, in the worst case, perhaps with the only means of +defending the existence of such tender and fragile beings. + + + + +149. + + +CRITICISM AND JOY.—Criticism, one-sided and unjust as well as intelligent +criticism, gives so much pleasure to him who exercises it that the world +is indebted to every work and every action that inspires much criticism +and many critics. For criticism draws after it a glittering train of +joyousness, wit, self-admiration, pride, instruction, designs of +improvement.—The God of joy created the bad and the mediocre for the same +reason that he created the good. + + + + +150. + + +BEYOND HIS LIMITS.—When an artist wants to be more than an artist—for +example, the moral awakener of his people—he at last falls in love, as a +punishment, with a monster of moral substance. The Muse laughs, for, +though a kind-hearted Goddess, she can also be malignant from jealousy. +Milton and Klopstock are cases in point. + + + + +151. + + +A GLASS EYE.—The tendency of a talent towards moral subjects, characters, +motives, towards the “beautiful soul” of the work of art, is often only a +glass eye put on by the artist who lacks a beautiful soul. It may result, +though rarely, that his eye finally becomes living Nature, if indeed it be +Nature with a somewhat troubled look. But the ordinary result is that the +whole world thinks it sees Nature where there is only cold glass. + + + + +152. + + +WRITING AND DESIRE FOR VICTORY.—Writing should always indicate a victory, +indeed a conquest of oneself which must be communicated to others for +their behoof. There are, however, dyspeptic authors who only write when +they cannot digest something, or when something has remained stuck in +their teeth. Through their anger they try unconsciously to disgust the +reader too, and to exercise violence upon him—that is, they desire +victory, but victory over others. + + + + +153. + + +A GOOD BOOK NEEDS TIME.—Every good book tastes bitter when it first comes +out, for it has the defect of newness. Moreover, it suffers damage from +its living author, if he is well known and much talked about. For all the +world is accustomed to confuse the author with his work. Whatever of +profundity, sweetness, and brilliance the work may contain must be +developed as the years go by, under the care of growing, then old, and +lastly traditional reverence. Many hours must pass, many a spider must +have woven its web about the book. A book is made better by good readers +and clearer by good opponents. + + + + +154. + + +EXTRAVAGANCE AS AN ARTISTIC MEANS.—Artists well understand the idea of +using extravagance as an artistic means in order to convey an impression +of wealth. This is one of those innocent wiles of soul-seduction that the +artist must know, for in his world, which has only appearance in view, the +means to appearance need not necessarily be genuine. + + + + +155. + + +THE HIDDEN BARREL-ORGAN.—Genius, by virtue of its more ample drapery, +knows better than talent how to hide its barrel-organ. Yet after all it +too can only play its seven old pieces over and over again. + + + + +156. + + +THE NAME ON THE TITLE-PAGE.—It is now a matter of custom and almost of +duty for the author’s name to appear on the book, and this is a main cause +of the fact that books have so little influence. If they are good, they +are worth more than the personalities of their authors, of which they are +the quintessences. But as soon as the author makes himself known on the +title-page, the quintessence, from the reader’s point of view, becomes +diluted with the personal, the most personal element, and the aim of the +book is frustrated. It is the ambition of the intellect no longer to +appear individual. + + + + +157. + + +THE MOST CUTTING CRITICISM.—We make the most cutting criticism of a man or +a book when we indicate his or its ideal. + + + + +158. + + +LITTLE OR NO LOVE.—Every good book is written for a particular reader and +men of his stamp, and for that very reason is looked upon unfavourably by +all other readers, by the vast majority. Its reputation accordingly rests +on a narrow basis and must be built up by degrees.—The mediocre and bad +book is mediocre and bad because it seeks to please, and does please, a +great number. + + + + +159. + + +MUSIC AND DISEASE.—The danger of the new music lies in the fact that it +puts the cup of rapture and exaltation to the lips so invitingly, and with +such a show of moral ecstasy, that even the noble and temperate man always +drinks a drop too much. This minimum of intemperance, constantly repeated, +can in the end bring about a deeper convulsion and destruction of mental +health than any coarse excess could do. Hence nothing remains but some day +to fly from the grotto of the nymph, and through perils and billowy seas +to forge one’s way to the smoke of Ithaca and the embraces of a simpler +and more human spouse. + + + + +160. + + +ADVANTAGE FOR OPPONENTS.—A book full of intellect communicates something +thereof even to its opponents. + + + + +161. + + +YOUTH AND CRITICISM.—To criticise a book means, for the young, not to let +oneself be touched by a single productive thought therefrom, and to +protect one’s skin with hands and feet. The youngster lives in opposition +to all novelty that he cannot love in the lump, in a position of +self-defence, and in this connection he commits, as often as he can, a +superfluous sin. + + + + +162. + + +EFFECT OF QUANTITY.—The greatest paradox in the history of poetic art lies +in this: that in all that constitutes the greatness of the old poets a man +may be a barbarian, faulty and deformed from top to toe, and still remain +the greatest of poets. This is the case with Shakespeare, who, as compared +with Sophocles, is like a mine of immeasurable wealth in gold, lead, and +rubble, whereas Sophocles is not merely gold, but gold in its noblest +form, one that almost makes us forget the money-value of the metal. But +quantity in its highest intensity has the same effect as quality. That is +a good thing for Shakespeare. + + + + +163. + + +ALL BEGINNING IS DANGEROUS.—The Poet can choose whether to raise emotion +from one grade to another, and so finally to exalt it to a great height—or +to try a surprise attack, and from the start to pull the bell-rope with +might and main. Both processes have their danger—in the first case his +hearer may run away from him through boredom, in the second through +terror. + + + + +164. + + +IN FAVOUR OF CRITICS.—Insects sting, not from malice, but because they too +want to live. It is the same with our critics—they desire our blood, not +our pain. + + + + +165. + + +SUCCESS OF APHORISMS.—The inexperienced, when an aphorism at once +illuminates their minds with its naked truth, always think that it is old +and well known. They look askance at the author, as if he had wanted to +steal the common property of all, whereas they enjoy highly spiced +half-truths, and give the author to understand as much. He knows how to +appreciate the hint, and easily guesses thereby where he has succeeded and +failed. + + + + +166. + + +THE DESIRE FOR VICTORY.—An artist who exceeds the limit of his strength in +all that he undertakes will end by carrying the multitude along with him +through the spectacle of violent wrestling that he affords. Success is not +always the accompaniment only of victory, but also of the desire for +victory. + + + + +167. + + +_SIBI SCRIBERE._—The sensible author writes for no other posterity than +his own—that is, for his age—so as to be able even then to take pleasure +in himself. + + + + +168. + + +PRAISE OF THE APHORISM.—A good aphorism is too hard for the tooth of time, +and is not worn away by all the centuries, although it serves as food for +every epoch. Hence it is the greatest paradox in literature, the +imperishable in the midst of change, the nourishment which always remains +highly valued, as salt does, and never becomes stupid like salt. + + + + +169. + + +THE ART-NEED OF THE SECOND ORDER.—The people may have something of what +can be called art-need, but it is small, and can be cheaply satisfied. On +the whole, the remnant of art (it must be honestly confessed) suffices for +this need. Let us consider, for example, the kind of melodies and songs in +which the most vigorous, unspoiled, and true-hearted classes of the +population find genuine delight; let us live among shepherds, cowherds, +peasants, huntsmen, soldiers, and sailors, and give ourselves the answer. +And in the country town, just in the houses that are the homes of +inherited civic virtue, is it not the worst music at present produced that +is loved and, one might say, cherished? He who speaks of deeper needs and +unsatisfied yearnings for art among the people, as it is, is a crank or an +impostor. Be honest! Only in exceptional men is there now an art-need in +the highest sense—because art is once more on the down-grade, and human +powers and hopes are for the time being directed to other matters.—Apart +from this, outside the populace, there exists indeed, in the higher and +highest strata of society, a broader and more comprehensive art-need, but +_of the second order_. Here there is a sort of artistic commune, which +possibly means to be sincere. But let us look at the elements! They are in +general the more refined malcontents, who attain no genuine pleasure in +themselves; the cultured, who have not become free enough to dispense with +the consolations of religion, and yet do not find its incense sufficiently +fragrant; the half-aristocratic, who are too weak to combat by a heroic +conversion or renunciation the one fundamental error of their lives or the +pernicious bent of their characters; the highly gifted, who think +themselves too dignified to be of service by modest activity, and are too +lazy for real, self-sacrificing work; girls who cannot create for +themselves a satisfactory sphere of duties; women who have tied themselves +by a light-hearted or nefarious marriage, and know that they are not tied +securely enough; scholars, physicians, merchants, officials who +specialised too early and never gave their lives a free enough scope—who +do their work efficiently, it is true, but with a worm gnawing at their +hearts; finally, all imperfect artists—these are nowadays the true needers +of art! What do they really desire from art? Art is to drive away hours +and moments of discomfort, boredom, half-bad conscience, and, if possible, +transform the faults of their lives and characters into faults of +world-destiny. Very different were the Greeks, who realised in their art +the outflow and overflow of their own sense of well-being and health, and +loved to see their perfection once more from a standpoint outside +themselves. They were led to art by delight in themselves; our +contemporaries—by disgust of themselves. + + + + +170. + + +THE GERMANS IN THE THEATRE.—The real theatrical talent of the Germans was +Kotzebue. He and his Germans, those of higher as well as those of +middle-class society, were necessarily associated, and his contemporaries +should have said of him in all seriousness, “in him we live and move and +have our being.” Here was nothing—no constraint, pretence, or +half-enjoyment: what he could and would do was understood. Yes, until now +the honest theatrical success on the German stage has been in the hands of +the shamefaced or unashamed heirs of Kotzebue’s methods and influence—that +is, as far as comedy still flourishes at all. The result is that much of +the Germanism of that age, sometimes far off from the great towns, still +survives. Good-natured; incontinent in small pleasures; always ready for +tears; with the desire, in the theatre at any rate, to be able to get rid +of their innate sobriety and strict attention to duty and exercise; a +smiling, nay, a laughing indulgence; confusing goodness and sympathy and +welding them into one, as is the essential characteristic of German +sentimentality; exceedingly happy at a noble, magnanimous action; for the +rest, submissive towards superiors, envious of each other, and yet in +their heart of hearts thoroughly self-satisfied—such were they and such +was he.—The second dramatic talent was Schiller. He discovered a class of +hearers which had hitherto never been taken into consideration: among the +callow German youth of both sexes. His poetry responded to their higher, +nobler, more violent if more confused emotions, their delight in the +jingle of moral words (a delight that begins to disappear when we reach +the thirties). Thus he won for himself, by virtue of the passionateness +and partisanship of the young, a success which gradually reacted with +advantage upon those of riper years. Generally speaking, Schiller +rejuvenated the Germans. Goethe stood and still stands above the Germans +in every respect. To them he will never belong. How could a nation in +well-being and well-wishing come up to the intellectuality of Goethe? +Beethoven composed and Schopenhauer philosophised above the heads of the +Germans, and it was above their heads, in the same way, that Goethe wrote +his _Tasso_, his _Iphigenie_. He was followed by a small company of highly +cultured persons, who were educated by antiquity, life, and travel, and +had grown out of German ways of thought. He himself did not wish it to be +otherwise.—When the Romantics set up their well-conceived Goethe cult; +when their amazing skill in appreciation was passed on to the disciples of +Hegel, the real educators of the Germans of this century; when the +awakening national ambition turned out advantageous to the fame of the +German poets; when the real standard of the nation, as to whether it could +honestly find enjoyment in anything, became inexorably subordinated to the +judgment of individuals and to that national ambition,—that is, when +people began to enjoy by compulsion,—then arose that false, spurious +German culture which was ashamed of Kotzebue; which brought Sophocles, +Calderon, and even the Second Part of Goethe’s _Faust_ on the stage; and +which, on account of its foul tongue and congested stomach, no longer +knows now what it likes and what it finds tedious.—Happy are those who +have taste, even if it be a bad taste! Only by this characteristic can one +be wise as well as happy. Hence the Greeks, who were very refined in such +matters, designated the sage by a word that means “man of taste,” and +called wisdom, artistic as well as scientific, “taste” (_sophia_). + + + + +171. + + +MUSIC AS A LATE-COMER IN EVERY CULTURE.—Among all the arts that are +accustomed to grow on a definite culture-soil and under definite social +and political conditions, music is the last plant to come up, arising in +the autumn and fading-season of the culture to which it belongs. At the +same time, the first signs and harbingers of a new spring are usually +already noticeable, and sometimes music, like the language of a forgotten +age, rings out into a new, astonished world, and comes too late. In the +art of the Dutch and Flemish musicians the soul of the Christian middle +ages at last found its fullest tone: their sound-architecture is the +posthumous but legitimate and equal sister of Gothic. Not until Handel’s +music was heard the note of the best in the soul of Luther and his kin, +the great Judæo-heroical impulse that created the whole Reformation +movement. Mozart first expressed in golden melody the age of Louis XIV. +and the art of Racine and Claude Lorrain. The eighteenth century—that +century of rhapsody, of broken ideals and transitory happiness—only sang +itself out in the music of Beethoven and Rossini. A lover of sentimental +similes might say that all really important music was a swan-song.—Music +is, in fact, not a universal language for all time, as is so often said in +its praise, but responds exactly to a particular period and warmth of +emotion which involves a quite definite, individual culture, determined by +time and place, as its inner law. The music of Palestrina would be quite +unintelligible to a Greek; and again, what would the music of Rossini +convey to Palestrina?—It may be that our most modern German music, with +all its pre-eminence and desire of pre-eminence, will soon be no longer +understood. For this music sprang from a culture that is undergoing a +rapid decay, from the soil of that epoch of reaction and restoration in +which a certain Catholicism of feeling, as well as a delight in all +indigenous, national, primitive manners, burst into bloom and scattered a +blended perfume over Europe. These two emotional tendencies, adopted in +their greatest strength and carried to their farthest limits, found final +expression in the music of Wagner. Wagner’s predilection for the old +native sagas, his free idealisation of their unfamiliar gods and +heroes,—who are really sovereign beasts of prey with occasional fits of +thoughtfulness, magnanimity, and boredom,—his re-animation of those +figures, to which he gave in addition the mediæval Christian thirst for +ecstatic sensuality and spiritualisation—all this Wagnerian give-and-take +with regard to materials, souls, figures, and words—would clearly express +the spirit of his music, if it could not, like all music, speak quite +unambiguously of itself. This spirit wages the last campaign of reaction +against the spirit of illumination which passed into this century from the +last, and also against the super-national ideas of French revolutionary +romanticism and of English and American insipidity in the reconstruction +of state and society.—But is it not evident that the spheres of thought +and emotion apparently suppressed by Wagner and his school have long since +acquired fresh strength, and that his late musical protest against them +generally rings into ears that prefer to hear different and opposite +notes; so that one day that high and wonderful art will suddenly become +unintelligible and will be covered by the spider’s web of oblivion?—In +considering this state of affairs we must not let ourselves be led astray +by those transitory fluctuations which arise like a reaction within a +reaction, as a temporary sinking of the mountainous wave in the midst of +the general upheaval. Thus, this decade of national war, ultramontane +martyrdom, and socialistic unrest may, in its remoter after-effect, even +aid the Wagnerian art to acquire a sudden halo, without guaranteeing that +it “has a future” or that it has _the_ future. It is in the very nature of +music that the fruits of its great culture-vintage should lose their taste +and wither earlier than the fruits of the plastic arts or those that grow +on the tree of knowledge. Among all the products of the human artistic +sense ideas are the most solid and lasting. + + + + +172. + + +THE POET NO LONGER A TEACHER.—Strange as it may sound to our time, there +were once poets and artists whose soul was above the passions with their +delights and convulsions, and who therefore took their pleasure in purer +materials, worthier men, more delicate complications and dénouements. If +the artists of our day for the most part unfetter the will, and so are +under certain circumstances for that very reason emancipators of life, +those were tamers of the will, enchanters of animals, creators of men. In +fact, they moulded, re-moulded, and new-moulded life, whereas the fame of +poets of our day lies in unharnessing, unchaining, and shattering.—The +ancient Greeks demanded of the poet that he should be the teacher of grown +men. How ashamed the poet would be now if this demand were made of him! He +is not even a good student of himself, and so never himself becomes a good +poem or a fine picture. Under the most favourable circumstances he remains +the shy, attractive ruin of a temple, but at the same time a cavern of +cravings, overgrown like a ruin with flowers, nettles, and poisonous +weeds, inhabited and haunted by snakes, worms, spiders, and birds; an +object for sad reflection as to why the noblest and most precious must +grow up at once like a ruin, without the past and future of perfection. + + + + +173. + + +LOOKING FORWARD AND BACKWARD.—An art like that which streams out of Homer, +Sophocles, Theocritus, Calderon, Racine, Goethe, as the superabundance of +a wise and harmonious conduct of life—that is the true art, at which we +grasp when we have ourselves become wiser and more harmonious. It is not +that barbaric, if ever so delightful, outpouring of hot and highly +coloured things from an undisciplined, chaotic soul, which is what we +understood by “art” in our youth. It is obvious from the nature of the +case that for certain periods of life an art of overstrain, excitement, +antipathy to the orderly, monotonous, simple, logical, is an inevitable +need, to which artists must respond, lest the soul of such periods should +unburden itself in other ways, through all kinds of disorder and +impropriety. Hence youths as they generally are, full, fermenting, +tortured above all things by boredom, and women who lack work that fully +occupies their soul, require that art of delightful disorder. All the more +violently on that account are they inflamed with a desire for satisfaction +without change, happiness without stupor and intoxication. + + + + +174. + + +AGAINST THE ART OF WORKS OF ART.—Art is above all and first of all meant +to embellish life, to make us ourselves endurable and if possible +agreeable in the eyes of others. With this task in view, art moderates us +and holds us in restraint, creates forms of intercourse, binds over the +uneducated to laws of decency, cleanliness, politeness, well-timed speech +and silence. Hence art must conceal or transfigure everything that is +ugly—the painful, terrible, and disgusting elements which in spite of +every effort will always break out afresh in accordance with the very +origin of human nature. Art has to perform this duty especially in regard +to the passions and spiritual agonies and anxieties, and to cause the +significant factor to shine through unavoidable or unconquerable ugliness. +To this great, super-great task the so-called art proper, that of works of +art, is a mere accessary. A man who feels within himself a surplus of such +powers of embellishment, concealment, and transfiguration will finally +seek to unburden himself of this surplus in works of art. The same holds +good, under special circumstances, of a whole nation.—But as a rule we +nowadays begin art at the end, hang on to its tail, and think that works +of art constitute art proper, and that life should be improved and +transformed by this means—fools that we are! If we begin a dinner with +dessert, and try sweet after sweet, small wonder that we ruin our +digestions and even our appetites for the good, hearty, nourishing meal to +which art invites us! + + + + +175. + + +CONTINUED EXISTENCE OF ART.—Why, really, does a creative art nowadays +continue to exist? Because the majority who have hours of leisure (and +such an art is for them only) think that they cannot fill up their time +without music, theatres and picture-galleries, novels and poetry. Granted +that one could keep them from this indulgence, either they would strive +less eagerly for leisure, and the invidious sight of the rich would be +less common (a great gain for the stability of society), or they would +have leisure, but would learn to reflect on what can be learnt and +unlearnt: on their work, for instance, their associations, the pleasure +they could bestow. All the world, with the exception of the artist, would +in both cases reap the advantage.—Certainly, there are many vigorous, +sensible readers who could take objection to this. Still, it must be said +on behalf of the coarse and malignant that the author himself is concerned +with this protest, and that there is in his book much to be read that is +not actually written down therein. + + + + +176. + + +THE MOUTHPIECE OF THE GODS.—The poet expresses the universal higher +opinions of the nation, he is its mouthpiece and flute; but by virtue of +metre and all other artistic means he so expresses them that the nation +regards them as something quite new and wonderful, and believes in all +seriousness that he is the mouthpiece of the Gods. Yes, under the clouds +of creation the poet himself forgets whence he derives all his +intellectual wisdom—from father and mother, from teachers and books of all +kinds, from the street and particularly from the priest. He is deceived by +his own art, and really believes, in a naïve period, that a God is +speaking through him, that he is creating in a state of religious +inspiration. As a matter of fact, he is only saying what he has learnt, a +medley of popular wisdom and popular foolishness. Hence, so far as a poet +is really _vox populi_ he is held to be _vox dei_. + + + + +177. + + +WHAT ALL ART WANTS TO DO AND CANNOT.—The last and hardest task of the +artist is the presentment of what remains the same, reposes in itself, is +lofty and simple and free from the bizarre. Hence the noblest forms of +moral perfection are rejected as inartistic by weaker artists, because the +sight of these fruits is too painful for their ambition. The fruit gleams +at them from the topmost branches of art, but they lack the ladder, the +courage, the grip to venture so high. In himself a Phidias is quite +possible as a poet, but, if modern strength be taken into consideration, +almost solely in the sense that to God nothing is impossible. The desire +for a poetical Claude Lorrain is already an immodesty at present, however +earnestly one man’s heart may yearn for such a consummation.—The +presentment of the highest man, the most simple and at the same time the +most complete, has hitherto been beyond the scope of all artists. Perhaps, +however, the Greeks, in the ideal of Athene, saw farther than any men did +before or after their time. + + + + +178. + + +ART AND RESTORATION.—The retrograde movements in history, the so-called +periods of restoration, which try to revive intellectual and social +conditions that existed before those immediately preceding,—and seem +really to succeed in giving them a brief resurrection,—have the charm of +sentimental recollection, ardent longing for what is almost lost, hasty +embracing of a transitory happiness. It is on account of this strange +trend towards seriousness that in such transient and almost dreamy periods +art and poetry find a natural soil, just as the tenderest and rarest +plants grow on mountain-slopes of steep declivity.—Thus many a good artist +is unwittingly impelled to a “restoration” way of thinking in politics and +society, for which, on his own account, he prepares a quiet little corner +and garden. Here he collects about himself the human remains of the +historical epoch that appeals to him, and plays his lyre to many who are +dead, half-dead, and weary to death, perhaps with the above-mentioned +result of a brief resurrection. + + + + +179. + + +HAPPINESS OF THE AGE.—In two respects our age is to be accounted happy. +With respect to the _past_, we enjoy all cultures and their productions, +and nurture ourselves on the noblest blood of all periods. We stand +sufficiently near to the magic of the forces from whose womb these periods +are born to be able in passing to submit to their spell with pleasure and +terror; whereas earlier cultures could only enjoy themselves, and never +looked beyond themselves, but were rather overarched by a bell of broader +or narrower dome, through which indeed light streamed down to them, but +which their gaze could not pierce. With respect to the _future_, there +opens out to us for the first time a mighty, comprehensive vista of human +and economic purposes engirdling the whole inhabited globe. At the same +time, we feel conscious of a power ourselves to take this new task in hand +without presumption, without requiring supernatural aids. Yes, whatever +the result of our enterprise, however much we may have overestimated our +strength, at any rate we need render account to no one but ourselves, and +mankind can henceforth begin to do with itself what it will.—There are, it +is true, peculiar human bees, who only know how to suck the bitterest and +worst elements from the chalice of every flower. It is true that all +flowers contain something that is not honey, but these bees may be allowed +to feel in their own way about the happiness of our time, and continue to +build up their hive of discomfort. + + + + +180. + + +A VISION.—Hours of instruction and meditation for adults, even the most +mature, and such institutions visited without compulsion but in accordance +with the moral injunction of the whole community; the churches as the +meeting-places most worthy and rich in memories for the purpose; at the +same time daily festivals in honour of the reason that is attained and +attainable by man; a newer and fuller budding and blooming of the ideal of +the teacher, in which the clergyman, the artist and the physician, the man +of science and the sage are blended, and their individual virtues should +come to the fore as a collective virtue in their teaching itself, in their +discourses, in their method—this is my ever-recurring vision, of which I +firmly believe that it has raised a corner of the veil of the future. + + + + +181. + + +EDUCATION A DISTORTION.—The extraordinary haphazardness of the whole +system of education, which leads every adult to say nowadays that his sole +educator was chance, and the weathercock-nature of educational methods and +aims, may be explained as follows. The oldest and the newest +culture-powers, as in a turbulent mass-meeting, would rather be heard than +understood, and wish to prove at all costs by their outcries and +clamourings that they still exist or already exist. The poor teachers and +educators are first dazed by this senseless noise, then become silent and +finally apathetic, allowing anything to be done to them just as they in +their turn allow anything to be done to their pupils. They are not trained +themselves, so how are they to train others? They are themselves no +straight-growing, vigorous, succulent trees, and he who wishes to attach +himself to them must wind and bend himself and finally become distorted +and deformed as they. + + + + +182. + + +PHILOSOPHERS AND ARTISTS OF THE AGE.—Rhapsody and frigidity, burning +desires and waning of the heart’s glow—this wretched medley is to be found +in the picture of the highest European society of the present day. There +the artist thinks that he is achieving a great deal when through his art +he lights the torch of the heart as well as the torch of desire. The +philosopher has the same notion, when in the chilliness of his heart, +which he has in common with his age, he cools hot desires in himself and +his following by his world-denying judgments. + + + + +183. + + +NOT TO BE A SOLDIER OF CULTURE WITHOUT NECESSITY.—At last people are +learning what it costs us so dear not to know in our youth—that we must +first do superior actions and secondly seek the superior wherever and +under whatever names it is to be found; that we must at once go out of the +way of all badness and mediocrity _without fighting it_; and that even +doubt as to the excellence of a thing (such as quickly arises in one of +practised taste) should rank as an argument against it and a reason for +completely avoiding it. We must not shrink from the danger of occasionally +making a mistake and confounding the less accessible good with the bad and +imperfect. Only he who can do nothing better should attack the world’s +evils as the soldier of culture. But those who should support culture and +spread its teachings ruin themselves if they go about armed, and by +precautions, night-watches, and bad dreams turn the peace of their +domestic and artistic life into sinister unrest. + + + + +184. + + +HOW NATURAL HISTORY SHOULD BE EXPOUNDED.—Natural history, like the history +of the war and victory of moral and intellectual forces in the campaign +against anxiety, self-delusion, laziness, superstition, folly, should be +so expounded that every reader or listener may be continually aroused to +strive after mental and physical health and soundness, after the feeling +of joy, and be awakened to the desire to be the heir and continuator of +mankind, to an ever nobler adventurous impulse. Hitherto natural history +has not found its true language, because the inventive and eloquent +artists—who are needed for this purpose—never rid themselves of a secret +mistrust of it, and above all never wish to learn from it a thorough +lesson. Nevertheless it must be conceded to the English that their +scientific manuals for the lower strata of the people have made admirable +strides towards that ideal. But then such books are written by their +foremost men of learning, full, complete, and inspiring natures, and not, +as among us, by mediocre investigators. + + + + +185. + + +GENIUS IN HUMANITY.—If genius, according to Schopenhauer’s observation, +lies in the coherent and vivid recollection of our own experience, a +striving towards genius in humanity collectively might be deduced from the +striving towards knowledge of the whole historic past—which is beginning +to mark off the modern age more and more as compared with earlier ages and +has for the first time broken down the barriers between nature and spirit, +men and animals, morality and physics. A perfectly conceived history would +be cosmic self-consciousness. + + + + +186. + + +THE CULT OF CULTURE.—On great minds is bestowed the terrifying +all-too-human of their natures, their blindnesses, deformities, and +extravagances, so that their more powerful, easily all-too-powerful +influence may be continually held within bounds through the distrust +aroused by such qualities. For the sum-total of all that humanity needs +for its continued existence is so comprehensive, and demands powers so +diverse and so numerous, that for every one-sided predilection, whether in +science or politics or art or commerce, to which such natures would +persuade us, mankind as a whole has to pay a heavy price. It has always +been a great disaster to culture when human beings are worshipped. In this +sense we may understand the precept of Mosaic law which forbids us to have +any other gods but God.—Side by side with the cult of genius and violence +we must always place, as its complement and remedy, the cult of culture. +This cult can find an intelligent appreciation even for the material, the +inferior, the mean, the misunderstood, the weak, the imperfect, the +one-sided, the incomplete, the untrue, the apparent, even the wicked and +horrible, and can grant them the concession that _all this is necessary_. +For the continued harmony of all things human, attained by amazing toil +and strokes of luck, and just as much the work of Cyclopes and ants as of +geniuses, shall never be lost. How, indeed, could we dispense with that +deep, universal, and often uncanny bass, without which, after all, melody +cannot be melody? + + + + +187. + + +THE ANTIQUE WORLD AND PLEASURE.—The man of the antique world understood +better how to rejoice, we understand better how to grieve less. They +continually found new motives for feeling happy, for celebrating +festivals, being inventive with all their wealth of shrewdness and +reflection. We, on the other hand, concentrate our intellect rather on the +solving of problems which have in view painlessness and the removal of +sources of discomfort. With regard to suffering existence, the ancients +sought to forget or in some way to convert the sensation into a pleasant +one, thus trying to supply palliatives. We attack the causes of suffering, +and on the whole prefer to use prophylactics.—Perhaps we are only building +upon a foundation whereon a later age will once more set up the temple of +joy. + + + + +188. + + +THE MUSES AS LIARS.—“We know how to tell many lies,” so sang the Muses +once, when they revealed themselves to Hesiod.—The conception of the +artist as deceiver, once grasped, leads to important discoveries. + + + + +189. + + +HOW PARADOXICAL HOMER CAN BE.—Is there anything more desperate, more +horrible, more incredible, shining over human destiny like a winter sun, +than that idea of Homer’s: + +“So the decree of the Gods willed it, and doomed man to perish, that it +might be a matter for song even to distant generations”? + +In other words, we suffer and perish so that poets may not lack material, +and this is the dispensation of those very Gods of Homer who seem much +concerned about the joyousness of generations to come, but very little +about us men of the present. To think that such ideas should ever have +entered the head of a Greek! + + + + +190. + + +SUPPLEMENTARY JUSTIFICATION OF EXISTENCE.—Many ideas have come into the +world as errors and fancies but have turned out truths, because men have +afterwards given them a genuine basis to rest upon. + + + + +191. + + +PRO AND CON NECESSARY.—He who has not realised that every great man must +not only be encouraged but also, for the sake of the common welfare, +opposed, is certainly still a great child—or himself a great man. + + + + +192. + + +INJUSTICE OF GENIUS.—Genius is most unjust towards geniuses, if they be +contemporary. Either it thinks it has no need of them and considers them +superfluous (for it can do without them), or their influence crosses the +path of its electric current, in which case it even calls them pernicious. + + + + +193. + + +THE SADDEST DESTINY OF A PROPHET.—He has worked twenty years to convince +his contemporaries, and succeeds at last, but in the meantime his +adversaries have also succeeded—he is no longer convinced of himself. + + + + +194. + + +THREE THINKERS LIKE ONE SPIDER.—In every philosophical school three +thinkers follow one another in this relation: the first produces from +himself sap and seed, the second draws it out in threads and spins a +cunning web, the third waits in this web for the victims who are caught in +it—and tries to live upon this philosophy. + + + + +195. + + +FROM ASSOCIATION WITH AUTHORS.—It is as bad a habit to go about with an +author grasping him by the nose as grasping him by the horn (and every +author has his horn). + + + + +196. + + +A TEAM OF TWO.—Vagueness of thought and outbursts of sentimentality are as +often wedded to the reckless desire to have one’s own way by hook or by +crook, to make oneself alone of any consequence, as a genuinely helpful, +gracious, and kindly spirit is wedded to the impulse towards clearness and +purity of thought and towards emotional moderation and self-restraint. + + + + +197. + + +BINDING AND SEPARATING FORCES.—Surely it is in the heads of men that there +arises the force that binds them—an understanding of their common interest +or the reverse; and in their hearts the force that separates them—a blind +choosing and groping in love and hate, a devotion to one at the expense of +all, and a consequent contempt for the common utility. + + + + +198. + + +MARKSMEN AND THINKERS.—There are curious marksmen who miss their mark, but +leave the shooting-gallery with secret pride in the fact that their bullet +at any rate flew very far (beyond the mark, it is true), or that it did +not hit the mark but hit something else. There are thinkers of the same +stamp. + + + + +199. + + +ATTACK FROM TWO SIDES.—We act as enemies towards an intellectual tendency +or movement when we are superior to it and disapprove of its aim, or when +its aim is too high and unrecognisable to our eye—in other words, when it +is superior to us. So the same party may be attacked from two sides, from +above and from below. Not infrequently the assailants, from common hatred, +form an alliance which is more repulsive than all that they hate. + + + + +200. + + +ORIGINAL.—Original minds are distinguished not by being the first to see a +new thing, but by seeing the old, well-known thing, which is seen and +overlooked by every one, as something new. The first discoverer is usually +that quite ordinary and unintellectual visionary—chance. + + + + +201. + + +ERROR OF PHILOSOPHERS.—The philosopher believes that the value of his +philosophy lies in the whole, in the structure. Posterity finds it in the +stone with which he built and with which, from that time forth, men will +build oftener and better—in other words, in the fact that the structure +may be destroyed and yet have value as material. + + + + +202. + + +WIT.—Wit is the epitaph of an emotion. + + + + +203. + + +THE MOMENT BEFORE SOLUTION.—In science it occurs every day and every hour +that a man, immediately before the solution, remains stuck, being +convinced that his efforts have been entirely in vain—like one who, in +untying a noose, hesitates at the moment when it is nearest to coming +loose, because at that very moment it looks most like a knot. + + + + +204. + + +AMONG THE VISIONARIES.—The thoughtful man, and he who is sure of his +intelligence, may profitably consort with visionaries for a decade and +abandon himself in their torrid zone to a moderate insanity. He will thus +have travelled a good part of the road towards that cosmopolitanism of the +intellect which can say without presumption, “Nothing intellectual is +alien to me.” + + + + +205. + + +KEEN AIR.—The best and healthiest element in science as amid the mountains +is the keen air that plays about it.—Intellectual molly-coddles (such as +artists) dread and abuse science on account of this atmosphere. + + + + +206. + + +WHY SAVANTS ARE NOBLER THAN ARTISTS.—Science requires nobler natures than +does poetry; natures that are more simple, less ambitious, more +restrained, calmer, that think less of posthumous fame and can bury +themselves in studies which, in the eye of the many, scarcely seem worthy +of such a sacrifice of personality. There is another loss of which they +are conscious. The nature of their occupation, its continual exaction of +the greatest sobriety, weakens their will; the fire is not kept up so +vigorously as on the hearths of poetic minds. As such, they often lose +their strength and prime earlier than artists do—and, as has been said, +they are aware of their danger. Under all circumstances they seem less +gifted because they shine less, and thus they will always be rated below +their value. + + + + +207. + + +HOW FAR PIETY OBSCURES.—In later centuries the great man is credited with +all the great qualities and virtues of his century. Thus all that is best +is continually obscured by piety, which treats the picture as a sacred +one, to be surrounded with all manner of votive offerings. In the end the +picture is completely veiled and covered by the offerings, and thenceforth +is more an object of faith than of contemplation. + + + + +208. + + +STANDING ON ONE’S HEAD.—If we make truth stand on its head, we generally +fail to notice that our own head, too, is not in its right position. + + + + +209. + + +ORIGIN AND UTILITY OF FASHION.—The obvious satisfaction of the individual +with his own form excites imitation and gradually creates the form of the +many—that is, fashion. The many desire, and indeed attain, that same +comforting satisfaction with their own form. Consider how many reasons +every man has for anxiety and shy self-concealment, and how, on this +account, three-fourths of his energy and goodwill is crippled and may +become unproductive! So we must be very grateful to fashion for +unfettering that three-fourths and communicating self-confidence and the +power of cheerful compromise to those who feel themselves bound to each +other by its law. Even foolish laws give freedom and calm of the spirit, +so long as many persons have submitted to their sway. + + + + +210. + + +LOOSENERS OF TONGUES.—The value of many men and books rests solely on +their faculty for compelling all to speak out the most hidden and intimate +things. They are looseners of tongues and crowbars to open the most +stubborn teeth. Many events and misdeeds which are apparently only sent as +a curse to mankind possess this value and utility. + + + + +211. + + +INTELLECTUAL FREEDOM OF DOMICILE.(12)—Who of us could dare to call himself +a “free spirit” if he could not render homage after his fashion, by taking +on his own shoulders a portion of that burden of public dislike and abuse, +to men to whom this name is attached as a reproach? We might as well call +ourselves in all seriousness “spirits free of domicile” (_Freizügig_) (and +without that arrogant or high-spirited defiance) because we feel the +impulse to freedom (_Zug zur Freiheit_) as the strongest instinct of our +minds and, in contrast to fixed and limited minds, practically see our +ideal in an intellectual nomadism—to use a modest and almost depreciatory +expression. + + + + +212. + + +YES, THE FAVOUR OF THE MUSES!—What Homer says on this point goes right to +our heart, so true, so terrible is it: + +“The Muse loved him with all her heart and gave him good and evil, for she +took away his eyes and vouchsafed him sweet song.” + +This is an endless text for thinking men: she gives good and evil, that is +_her_ manner of loving with all her heart and soul! And each man will +interpret specially for himself why we poets and thinkers have to give up +our eyes in her service.(13) + + + + +213. + + +AGAINST THE CULTIVATION OF MUSIC.—The artistic training of the eye from +childhood upwards by means of drawing, painting, landscape-sketching, +figures, scenes, involves an estimable gain in life, making the eyesight +keen, calm, and enduring in the observation of men and circumstances. No +similar secondary advantage arises from the artistic cultivation of the +ear, whence public schools will generally do well to give the art of the +eye a preference over that of the ear. + + + + +214. + + +THE DISCOVERERS OF TRIVIALITIES.—Subtle minds, from which nothing is +farther than trivialities, often discover a triviality after taking all +manner of circuitous routes and mountain paths, and, to the astonishment +of the non-subtle, rejoice exceedingly. + + + + +215. + + +MORALS OF SAVANTS.—A regular and rapid advance in the sciences is only +possible when the individual is compelled to be not so distrustful as to +test every calculation and assertion of others, in fields which are remote +from his own. A necessary condition, however, is that every man should +have competitors in his own sphere, who are extremely distrustful and keep +a sharp eye upon him. From this juxtaposition of “not too distrustful” and +“extremely distrustful” arises sincerity in the republic of learning. + + + + +216. + + +REASONS FOR STERILITY.—There are highly gifted minds which are always +sterile only because, from temperamental weakness, they are too impatient +to wait for their pregnancy. + + + + +217. + + +THE PERVERTED WORLD OF TEARS.—The manifold discomforts which the demands +of higher culture cause to man finally pervert his nature to such an +extent that he usually keeps himself stoical and unbending. Thus he has +tears in reserve only for rare occasions of happiness, so that many must +weep even at the enjoyment of painlessness—only when happy does his heart +still beat. + + + + +218. + + +THE GREEKS AS INTERPRETERS.—When we speak of the Greeks we unwittingly +speak of to-day and yesterday; their universally known history is a blank +mirror, always reflecting something that is not in the mirror itself. We +enjoy the freedom of speaking about them in order to have the right of +being silent about others—so that these Greeks themselves may whisper +something in the ear of the reflective reader. Thus the Greeks facilitate +to modern men the communication of much that is debatable and hard to +communicate. + + + + +219. + + +OF THE ACQUIRED CHARACTER OF THE GREEKS.—We are easily led astray by the +renowned Greek clearness, transparency, simplicity, and order, by their +crystal-like naturalness and crystal-like art, into believing that all +these gifts were bestowed on the Greeks—for instance, that they could not +but write well, as Lichtenberg expressed it on one occasion. Yet no +statement could be more hasty and more untenable. The history of prose +from Gorgias to Demosthenes shows a course of toiling and wrestling +towards light from the obscure, overloaded, and tasteless, reminding one +of the labour of heroes who had to construct the first roads through +forest and bog. The dialogue of tragedy was the real achievement of the +dramatist, owing to its uncommon clearness and precision, whereas the +national tendency was to riot in symbolism and innuendo, a tendency +expressly fostered by the great choral lyric. Similarly it was the +achievement of Homer to liberate the Greeks from Asiatic pomp and gloom, +and to have attained the clearness of architecture in details great and +small. Nor was it by any means thought easy to say anything in a pure and +illuminating style. How else should we account for the great admiration +for the epigram of Simonides, which shows itself so simple, with no gilded +points or arabesques of wit, but says all that it has to say plainly and +with the calm of the sun, not with the straining after effect of the +lightning. Since the struggle towards light from an almost native twilight +is Greek, a thrill of jubilation runs through the people when they hear a +laconic sentence, the language of elegy or the maxims of the Seven Wise +Men. Hence they were so fond of giving precepts in verse, a practice that +we find objectionable. This was the true Apolline task of the Hellenic +spirit, with the aim of rising superior to the perils of metre and the +obscurity which is otherwise characteristic of poetry. Simplicity, +flexibility, and sobriety were wrestled for and not given by nature to +this people. The danger of a relapse into Asianism constantly hovered over +the Greeks, and really overtook them from time to time like a murky, +overflowing tide of mystical impulses, primitive savagery and darkness. We +see them plunge in; we see Europe, as it were, flooded, washed away—for +Europe was very small then; but they always emerge once more to the light, +good swimmers and divers that they are, those fellow-countrymen of +Odysseus. + + + + +220. + + +THE PAGAN CHARACTERISTIC.—Perhaps there is nothing more astonishing to the +observer of the Greek world than to discover that the Greeks from time to +time held festivals, as it were, for all their passions and evil +tendencies alike, and in fact even established a kind of series of +festivals, by order of the State, for their “all-too-human.” This is the +pagan characteristic of their world, which Christianity has never +understood and never can understand, and has always combated and +despised.—They accepted this all-too-human as unavoidable, and preferred, +instead of railing at it, to give it a kind of secondary right by grafting +it on to the usages of society and religion. All in man that has power +they called divine, and wrote it on the walls of their heaven. They do not +deny this natural instinct that expresses itself in evil characteristics, +but regulate and limit it to definite cults and days, so as to turn those +turbulent streams into as harmless a course as possible, after devising +sufficient precautionary measures. That is the root of all the moral +broad-mindedness of antiquity. To the wicked, the dubious, the backward, +the animal element, as to the barbaric, pre-Hellenic and Asiatic, which +still lived in the depths of Greek nature, they allowed a moderate +outflow, and did not strive to destroy it utterly. The whole system was +under the domain of the State, which was built up not on individuals or +castes, but on common human qualities. In the structure of the State the +Greeks show that wonderful sense for typical facts which later on enabled +them to become investigators of Nature, historians, geographers, and +philosophers. It was not a limited moral law of priests or castes, which +had to decide about the constitution of the State and State worship, but +the most comprehensive view of the reality of all that is human. Whence do +the Greeks derive this freedom, this sense of reality? Perhaps from Homer +and the poets who preceded him. For just those poets whose nature is +generally not the most wise or just possess, in compensation, that delight +in reality and activity of every kind, and prefer not to deny even evil. +It suffices for them if evil moderates itself, does not kill or inwardly +poison everything—in other words, they have similar ideas to those of the +founders of Greek constitutions, and were their teachers and forerunners. + + + + +221. + + +EXCEPTIONAL GREEKS.—In Greece, deep, thorough, serious minds were the +exception. The national instinct tended rather to regard the serious and +thorough as a kind of grimace. To borrow forms from a foreign source, not +to create but to transform into the fairest shapes—that is Greek. To +imitate, not for utility but for artistic illusion, ever and anon to gain +the mastery over forced seriousness, to arrange, beautify, simplify—that +is the continual task from Homer to the Sophists of the third and fourth +centuries of our era, who are all outward show, pompous speech, +declamatory gestures, and address themselves to shallow souls that care +only for appearance, sound, and effect. And now let us estimate the +greatness of those exceptional Greeks, who created science! Whoever tells +of them, tells the most heroic story of the human mind! + + + + +222. + + +SIMPLICITY NOT THE FIRST NOR THE LAST THING IN POINT OF TIME.—In the +history of religious ideas many errors about development and false +gradations are made in matters which in reality are not consecutive +outgrowths but contemporary yet separate phenomena. In particular, +simplicity has still far too much the reputation of being the oldest, the +initial thing. Much that is human arises by subtraction and division, and +not merely by doubling, addition, and unification.—For instance, men still +believe in a gradual development of the idea of God from those unwieldy +stones and blocks of wood up to the highest forms of anthropomorphism. Yet +the fact is that so long as divinity was attributed to and felt in trees, +logs of wood, stones, and beasts, people shrank from humanising their +forms as from an act of godlessness. First of all, poets, apart from all +considerations of cult and the ban of religious shame, have had to make +the inner imagination of man accustomed and compliant to this notion. +Wherever more pious periods and phases of thought gained the upper hand, +this liberating influence of poets fell into the background, and sanctity +remained, after as before, on the side of the monstrous, uncanny, quite +peculiarly inhuman. And then, much of what the inner imagination ventures +to picture to itself would exert a painful influence if externally and +corporeally represented. The inner eye is far bolder and more shameless +than the outer (whence the well-known difficulty and, to some extent, +impossibility, of working epic material into dramatic form). The religious +imagination for a long time entirely refuses to believe in the identity of +God with an image: the image is meant to fix the _numen_ of the Deity, +actually and specifically, although in a mysterious and not altogether +intelligible way. The oldest image of the Gods is meant to shelter and at +the same time to hide(14) the God—to indicate him but not to expose him to +view. No Greek really looked upon his Apollo as a pointed pillar of wood, +his Eros as a lump of stone. These were symbols, which were intended to +inspire dread of the manifestation of the God. It was the same with those +blocks of wood out of which individual limbs, generally in excessive +number, were fashioned with the scantiest of carving—as, for instance, a +Laconian Apollo with four hands and four ears. In the incomplete, +symbolical, or excessive lies a terrible sanctity, which is meant to +prevent us from thinking of anything human or similar to humanity. It is +not an embryonic stage of art in which such things are made—as if they +were not _able_ to speak more plainly and portray more sensibly in the age +when such images were honoured! Rather, men are afraid of just one +thing—direct speaking out. Just as the cella hides and conceals in a +mysterious twilight, yet not completely, the holy of holies, the real +_numen_ of the Deity; just as, again, the peripteric temple hides the +cella, protecting it from indiscreet eyes as with a screen and a veil, yet +not completely—so it is with the image of the Deity, and at the same time +the concealment of the Deity.—Only when outside the cult, in the profane +world of athletic contest, the joy in the victor had risen so high that +the ripples thus started reacted upon the lake of religious emotion, was +the statue of the victor set up before the temple. Then the pious pilgrim +had to accustom his eye and his soul, whether he would or no, to the +inevitable sight of human beauty and super-strength, so that the worship +of men and Gods melted into each other from physical and spiritual +contact. Then too for the first time the fear of really humanising the +figures of the Gods is lost, and the mighty arena for great plastic art is +opened—even now with the limitation that wherever there is to be adoration +the primitive form and ugliness are carefully preserved and copied. But +the Hellene, as he dedicates and makes offerings, may now with religious +sanction indulge in his delight in making God become a man. + + + + +223. + + +WHITHER WE MUST TRAVEL.—Immediate self-observation is not enough, by a +long way, to enable us to learn to know ourselves. We need history, for +the past continues to flow through us in a hundred channels. We ourselves +are, after all, nothing but our own sensation at every moment of this +continued flow. Even here, when we wish to step down into the stream of +our apparently most peculiar and personal development, Heraclitus’ +aphorism, “You cannot step twice into the same river,” holds good.—This is +a piece of wisdom which has, indeed, gradually become trite, but +nevertheless has remained as strong and true as it ever was. It is the +same with the saying that, in order to understand history, we must +scrutinise the living remains of historical periods; that we must travel, +as old Herodotus travelled, to other nations, especially to those +so-called savage or half-savage races in regions where man has doffed or +not yet donned European garb. For they are ancient and firmly established +steps of culture on which we can stand. There is, however, a more subtle +art and aim in travelling, which does not always necessitate our passing +from place to place and going thousands of miles away. Very probably the +last three centuries, in all their colourings and refractions of culture, +survive even in our vicinity, only they have to be discovered. In some +families, or even in individuals, the strata are still superimposed on +each other, beautifully and perceptibly; in other places there are +dispersions and displacements of the structure which are harder to +understand. Certainly in remote districts, in less known mountain valleys, +circumscribed communities have been able more easily to maintain an +admirable pattern of a far older sentiment, a pattern that must here be +investigated. On the other hand, it is improbable that such discoveries +will be made in Berlin, where man comes into the world washed-out and +sapless. He who after long practice of this art of travel has become a +hundred-eyed Argus will accompany his Io—I mean his ego—everywhere, and in +Egypt and Greece, Byzantium and Rome, France and Germany, in the age of +wandering or settled races, in Renaissance or Reformation, at home and +abroad, in sea, forest, plant, and mountain, will again light upon the +travel-adventure of this ever-growing, ever-altered ego.—Thus +self-knowledge becomes universal knowledge as regards the entire past, +and, by another chain of observation, which can only be indicated here, +self-direction and self-training in the freest and most far-seeing spirits +might become universal direction as regards all future humanity. + + + + +224. + + +BALM AND POISON.—We cannot ponder too deeply on this fact: Christianity is +the religion of antiquity grown old; it presupposes degenerate old +culture-stocks, and on them it had, and still has, power to work like +balm. There are periods when ears and eyes are full of slime, so that they +can no longer hear the voice of reason and philosophy or see the wisdom +that walks in bodily shape, whether it bears the name of Epictetus or of +Epicurus. Then, perhaps, the erection of the martyr’s cross and the +“trumpet of the last judgment” may have the effect of still inspiring such +races to end their lives decently. If we think of Juvenal’s Rome, of that +poisonous toad with the eyes of Venus, we understand what it means to make +the sign of the Cross before the world, we honour the silent Christian +community and are grateful for its having stifled the Greco-Roman Empire. +If, indeed, most men were then born in spiritual slavery, with the +sensuality of old men, what a pleasure to meet beings who were more soul +than body, and who seemed to realise the Greek idea of the shades of the +under-world—shy, scurrying, chirping, kindly creatures, with a reversion +on the “better life,” and therefore so unassuming, so secretly scornful, +so proudly patient!—This Christianity, as the evening chime of the _good_ +antiquity, with cracked, weary and yet melodious bell, is balm in the ears +even to one who only now traverses those centuries historically. What must +it have been to those men themselves!—To young and fresh barbarian +nations, on the other hand, Christianity is a poison. For to implant the +teaching of sinfulness and damnation in the heroic, childlike, and animal +soul of the old Germans is nothing but poisoning. An enormous chemical +fermentation and decomposition, a medley of sentiments and judgments, a +rank growth of adventurous legend, and hence in the long run a fundamental +weakening of such barbarian peoples, was the inevitable result. True, +without this weakening what should we have left of Greek culture, of the +whole cultured past of the human race? For the barbarians untouched by +Christianity knew very well how to make a clean sweep of old cultures, as +was only too clearly shown by the heathen conquerors of Romanised Britain. +Thus Christianity, against its will, was compelled to aid in making “the +antique world” immortal.—There remains, however, a counter-question and +the possibility of a counter-reckoning. Without this weakening through the +poisoning referred to, would any of those fresh stocks—the Germans, for +instance—have been in a position gradually to find by themselves a higher, +a peculiar, a new culture, of which the most distant conception would +therefore have been lost to humanity?—In this, as in every case, we do not +know, Christianly speaking, whether God owes the devil or the devil God +more thanks for everything having turned out as it has. + + + + +225. + + +FAITH MAKES HOLY AND CONDEMNS.—A Christian who happened upon forbidden +paths of thought might well ask himself on some occasion whether it is +really necessary that there should be a God, side by side with a +representative Lamb, if faith in the existence of these beings suffices to +produce the same influences? If they do exist after all, are they not +superfluous beings? For all that is given by the Christian religion to the +human soul, all that is beneficent, consoling, and edifying, just as much +as all that depresses and crushes, emanates from that faith and not from +the objects of that faith. It is here as in another well-known case—there +were indeed no witches, but the terrible effects of the belief in witches +were the same as if they really had existed. For all occasions where the +Christian awaits the immediate intervention of a God, though in vain (for +there is no God), his religion is inventive enough to find subterfuges and +reasons for tranquillity. In so far Christianity is an ingenious +religion.—Faith, indeed, has up to the present not been able to move real +mountains, although I do not know who assumed that it could. But it can +put mountains where there are none. + + + + +226. + + +THE TRAGI-COMEDY OF REGENSBURG.—Here and there we see with terrible +clearness the harlequinade of Fortune, how she fastens the rope, on which +she wills that succeeding centuries should dance, on to a few days, one +place, the condition and opinions of one brain. Thus the fate of modern +German history lies in the days of that disputation at Regensburg: the +peaceful settlement of ecclesiastical and moral affairs, without religious +wars or a counter-reformation, and also the unity of the German nation, +seemed assured: the deep, gentle spirit of Contarini hovered for one +moment over the theological squabble, victorious, as representative of the +riper Italian piety, reflecting the morning glory of intellectual freedom. +But Luther’s hard head, full of suspicions and strange misgivings, showed +resistance. Because justification by grace appeared to him _his_ greatest +motto and discovery, he did not believe the phrase in the mouth of +Italians; whereas, in point of fact, as is well known, they had invented +it much earlier and spread it throughout Italy in deep silence. In this +apparent agreement Luther saw the tricks of the devil, and hindered the +work of peace as well as he could, thereby advancing to a great extent the +aims of the Empire’s foes.—And now, in order to have a still stronger idea +of the dreadful farcicality of it all, let us add that none of the +principles about which men then disputed in Regensburg—neither that of +original sin, nor that of redemption by proxy, nor that of justification +by faith—is in any way true or even has any connection with truth: that +they are now all recognised as incapable of being discussed. Yet on this +account the world was set on fire—that is to say, by opinions which +correspond to no things or realities; whereas as regards purely +philological questions—as, for instance, that of the sacramental words in +the Eucharist—discussion at any rate is permitted, because in this case +the truth can be said. But “where nothing is, even truth has lost her +right.”(15)—Lastly, it only remains to be said that it is true these +principles give rise to sources of power so mighty that without them all +the mills of the modern world could not be driven with such force. And it +is primarily a matter of force, only secondarily of truth (and perhaps not +even secondarily)—is it not so, my dear up-to-date friends? + + + + +227. + + +GOETHE’S ERRORS.—Goethe is a signal exception among great artists in that +he did not live within the limited confines of his real capacity, as if +that must be the essential, the distinctive, the unconditional, and the +last thing in him and for all the world. Twice he intended to possess +something higher than he really possessed—and went astray in the second +half of his life, where he seems quite convinced that he is one of the +great scientific discoverers and illuminators. So too in the first half of +his life he demanded of himself something higher than the poetic art +seemed to him—and here already he made a mistake. That nature wished to +make him a plastic artist,—_this_ was his inwardly glowing and scorching +secret, which finally drove him to Italy, that he might give vent to his +mania in this direction and make to it every possible sacrifice. At last, +shrewd as he was, and honestly averse to any mental perversion in himself, +he discovered that a tricksy elf of desire had attracted him to the belief +in this calling, and that he must free himself of the greatest passion of +his heart and bid it farewell. The painful conviction, tearing and gnawing +at his vitals, that it was necessary to bid farewell, finds full +expression in the character of Tasso. Over Tasso, that Werther +intensified, hovers the premonition of something worse than death, as when +one says: “Now it is over, after this farewell: how shall I go on living +without going mad?” These two fundamental errors of his life gave Goethe, +in face of a purely literary attitude towards poetry (the only attitude +then known to the world), such an unembarrassed and apparently almost +arbitrary position. Not to speak of the period when Schiller (poor +Schiller, who had no time himself and left no time to others) drove away +his shy dread of poetry, his fear of all literary life and craftsmanship, +Goethe appears like a Greek who now and then visits his beloved, doubting +whether she be not a Goddess to whom he can give no proper name. In all +his poetry one notices the inspiring neighbourhood of plastic art and +Nature. The features of these figures that floated before him—and perhaps +he always thought he was on the track of the metamorphoses of one +Goddess—became, without his will or knowledge, the features of all the +children of his art. Without the extravagances of error he would not have +been Goethe—that is, the only German artist in writing who has not yet +become out of date—just because he desired as little to be a writer as a +German by vocation. + + + + +228. + + +TRAVELLERS AND THEIR GRADES.—Among travellers we may distinguish five +grades. The first and lowest grade is of those who travel and are +seen—they become really travelled and are, as it were, blind. Next come +those who really see the world. The third class experience the results of +their seeing. The fourth weave their experience into their life and carry +it with them henceforth. Lastly, there are some men of the highest +strength who, as soon as they have returned home, must finally and +necessarily work out in their lives and productions all the things seen +that they have experienced and incorporated in themselves.—Like these five +species of travellers, all mankind goes through the whole pilgrimage of +life, the lowest as purely passive, the highest as those who act and live +out their lives without keeping back any residue of inner experiences. + + + + +229. + + +IN CLIMBING HIGHER.—So soon as we climb higher than those who hitherto +admired us, we appear to them as sunken and fallen. For they imagined that +under all circumstances they were on the heights in our company (maybe +also through our agency). + + + + +230. + + +MEASURE AND MODERATION.—Of two quite lofty things, measure and moderation, +it is best never to speak. A few know their force and significance, from +the mysterious paths of inner experiences and conversions: they honour in +them something quite godlike, and are afraid to speak aloud. All the rest +hardly listen when they are spoken about, and think the subjects under +discussion are tedium and mediocrity. We must perhaps except those who +have once heard a warning note from that realm but have stopped their ears +against the sound. The recollection of it makes them angry and +exasperated. + + + + +231. + + +HUMANITY OF FRIENDSHIP AND COMRADESHIP.—“If thou wilt take the left hand, +then I will go to the right,”(16) that feeling is the hall-mark of +humanity in intimate intercourse, and without that feeling every +friendship, every band of apostles or disciples, sooner or later becomes a +fraud. + + + + +232. + + +THE PROFOUND.—Men of profound thought appear to themselves in intercourse +with others like comedians, for in order to be understood they must always +simulate superficiality. + + + + +233. + + +FOR THE SCORNERS OF “HERD-HUMANITY.”—He who regards human beings as a +herd, and flies from them as fast as he can, will certainly be caught up +by them and gored upon their horns. + + + + +234. + + +THE MAIN TRANSGRESSION AGAINST THE VAIN.—In society, he who gives another +an opportunity of favourably setting forth his knowledge, sentiments, and +experience sets himself above him. Unless he is felt by the other to be a +superior being without limitation, he is guilty of an attack upon his +vanity, while what he aimed at was the gratification of the other man’s +vanity. + + + + +235. + + +DISAPPOINTMENT.—When a long life of action distinguished by speeches and +writings gives publicity to a man’s personality, personal intercourse with +him is generally disappointing on two grounds. Firstly, one expects too +much from a brief period of intercourse (namely, all that the thousand and +one opportunities of life can alone bring out). Secondly, no recognised +person gives himself the trouble to woo recognition in individual cases. +He is too careless, and we are at too high a tension. + + + + +236. + + +TWO SOURCES OF KINDNESS.—To treat all men with equal good-humour, and to +be kind without distinction of persons, may arise as much from a profound +contempt for mankind as from an ingrained love of humanity. + + + + +237. + + +THE WANDERER IN THE MOUNTAINS TO HIMSELF.—There are certain signs that you +have gone farther and higher. There is a freer, wider prospect before you, +the air blows cooler yet milder in your face (you have unlearned the folly +of confounding mildness with warmth), your gait is more firm and vigorous, +courage and discretion have waxed together. On all these grounds your +journey may now be more lonely and in any case more perilous than +heretofore, if indeed not to the extent believed by those who from the +misty valley see you, the roamer, striding on the mountains. + + + + +238. + + +WITH THE EXCEPTION OF OUR NEIGHBOUR.—I admit that my head is set wrong on +my neck only, for every other man, as is well known, knows better than I +what I should do or leave alone. The only one who cannot help me is +myself, poor beggar! Are we not all like statues on which false heads have +been placed? Eh, dear neighbour?—Ah no; you, just you, are the exception! + + + + +239. + + +CAUTION.—We must either not go about at all with people who are lacking in +the reverence for personalities, or inexorably fetter them beforehand with +the manacles of convention. + + + + +240. + + +THE WISH TO APPEAR VAIN.—In conversation with strangers or little-known +acquaintances, to express only selected thoughts, to speak of one’s famous +acquaintances, and important experiences and travels, is a sign that one +is not proud, or at least would not like to appear proud. Vanity is the +polite mask of pride. + + + + +241. + + +GOOD FRIENDSHIP.—A good friendship arises when the one man deeply respects +the other, more even than himself; loves him also, though not so much as +himself; and finally, to facilitate intercourse, knows how to add the +delicate bloom and veneer of intimacy, but at the same time wisely +refrains from a true, real intimacy, from the confounding of _meum_ and +_tuum_. + + + + +242. + + +FRIENDS AS GHOSTS.—If we change ourselves vitally, our friends, who have +not changed, become ghosts of our own past: their voice sounds shadowy and +dreadful to us, as if we heard our own voice speaking, but younger, +harder, less mellow. + + + + +243. + + +ONE EYE AND TWO GLANCES.—The same people whose eyes naturally plead for +favours and indulgences are accustomed, from their frequent humiliations +and cravings for revenge, to assume a shameless glance as well. + + + + +244. + + +THE HAZE OF DISTANCE.—A child throughout life—that sounds very touching, +but is only the verdict from the distance. Seen and known close at hand, +he is always called “puerile throughout life.” + + + + +245. + + +ADVANTAGE AND DISADVANTAGE IN THE SAME MISUNDERSTANDING.—The mute +perplexity of the subtle brain is usually understood by the non-subtle as +a silent superiority, and is much dreaded whereas the perception of +perplexity would produce good will. + + + + +246. + + +THE SAGE GIVING HIMSELF OUT TO BE A FOOL.—The philanthropy of the sage +sometimes makes him decide to pretend to be excited, enraged, or +delighted, so that he may not hurt his surroundings by the coldness and +rationality of his true nature. + + + + +247. + + +FORCING ONESELF TO ATTENTION.—So soon as we note that any one in +intercourse and conversation with us has to force himself to attention, we +have adequate evidence that he loves us not, or loves us no longer. + + + + +248. + + +THE WAY TO A CHRISTIAN VIRTUE.—Learning from one’s enemies is the best way +to love them, for it inspires us with a grateful mood towards them. + + + + +249. + + +STRATAGEM OF THE IMPORTUNATE.—The importunate man gives us gold coins as +change for our convention coins, and thereby tries to force us afterwards +to treat our convention as an oversight and him as an exception. + + + + +250. + + +REASON FOR DISLIKE.—We become hostile to many an artist or writer, not +because we notice in the end that he has duped us, but because he did not +find more subtle means necessary to entrap us. + + + + +251. + + +IN PARTING.—Not by the way one soul approaches another, but by the way it +separates, do I recognise its relationship and homogeneity with the other. + + + + +252. + + +SILENTIUM.—We must not speak about our friends, or we renounce the +sentiment of friendship. + + + + +253. + + +IMPOLITENESS.—Impoliteness is often the sign of a clumsy modesty, which +when taken by surprise loses its head and would fain hide the fact by +means of rudeness. + + + + +254. + + +HONESTY’S MISCALCULATION.—Our newest acquaintances are sometimes the first +to learn what we have hitherto kept dark. We have the foolish notion that +our proof of confidence is the strongest fetter wherewith to hold them +fast. But _they_ do not know enough about us to feel so strongly the +sacrifice involved in our speaking out, and betray our secrets to others +without any idea of betrayal. Hereby we possibly lose our old friends. + + + + +255. + + +IN THE ANTE-CHAMBER OF FAVOUR.—All men whom we let stand long in the +ante-chamber of our favour get into a state of fermentation or become +bitter. + + + + +256. + + +WARNING TO THE DESPISED.—When we have sunk unmistakably in the estimation +of mankind we should cling tooth and nail to modesty in intercourse, or we +shall betray to others that we have sunk in our own estimation as well. +Cynicism in intercourse is a sign that a man, when alone, treats himself +too as a dog. + + + + +257. + + +IGNORANCE OFTEN ENNOBLES.—With regard to the respect of those who pay +respect, it is an advantage ostensibly not to understand certain things. +Ignorance, too, confers privileges. + + + + +258. + + +THE OPPONENT OF GRACE.—The impatient and arrogant man does not care for +grace, feeling it to be a corporeal, visible reproach against himself. For +grace is heartfelt toleration in movement and gesture. + + + + +259. + + +ON SEEING AGAIN.—When old friends see each other again after a long +separation, it often happens that they affect an interest in matters to +which they have long since become indifferent. Sometimes both remark this, +but dare not raise the veil—from a mournful doubt. Hence arise +conversations as in the realm of the dead. + + + + +260. + + +MAKING FRIENDS ONLY WITH THE INDUSTRIOUS.—The man of leisure is dangerous +to his friends, for, having nothing to do, he talks of what his friends +are doing or not doing, interferes, and finally makes himself a nuisance. +The clever man will only make friends with the industrious. + + + + +261. + + +ONE WEAPON TWICE AS MUCH AS TWO.—It is an unequal combat when one man +defends his cause with head and heart, the other with head alone. The +first has sun and wind against him, as it were, and his two weapons +interfere with each other: he loses the prize—in the eyes of truth. True, +the victory of the second, with his one weapon, is seldom a victory after +the hearts of all the other spectators, and makes him unpopular. + + + + +262. + + +DEPTH AND TROUBLED WATERS.—The public easily confounds him who fishes in +troubled waters with him who pumps up from the depths. + + + + +263. + + +DEMONSTRATING ONE’S VANITY TO FRIEND AND FOE.—Many a man, from vanity, +maltreats even his friends, when in the presence of witnesses to whom he +wishes to make his own preponderance clear. Others exaggerate the merits +of their enemies, in order to point proudly to the fact that they are +worthy of such foes. + + + + +264. + + +COOLING OFF.—The over-heating of the heart is generally allied with +illness of the head and judgment. He who is concerned for a time with the +health of his head must know what he has to cool, careless of the future +of his heart. For if we are capable at all of giving warmth, we are sure +to become warm again and then have our summer. + + + + +265. + + +MINGLED FEELINGS.—Towards science women and self-seeking artists entertain +a feeling that is composed of envy and sentimentality. + + + + +266. + + +WHERE DANGER IS GREATEST.—We seldom break our leg so long as life +continues a toilsome upward climb. The danger comes when we begin to take +things easily and choose the convenient paths. + + + + +267. + + +NOT TOO EARLY.—We must beware of becoming sharp too early, or we shall +also become thin too early. + + + + +268. + + +JOY IN REFRACTORINESS.—The good teacher knows cases where he is proud that +his pupil remains true to himself in opposition to him—at times when the +youth must not understand the man or would be harmed by understanding him. + + + + +269. + + +THE EXPERIMENT OF HONESTY.—Young men, who wish to be more honest than they +have been, seek as victim some one acknowledged to be honest, attacking +him first with an attempt to reach his height by abuse—with the underlying +notion that this first experiment at any rate is void of danger. For just +such a one has no right to chastise the impudence of the honest man. + + + + +270. + + +THE ETERNAL CHILD.—We think, short-sighted that we are, that fairy-tales +and games belong to childhood. As if at any age we should care to live +without fairy-tales and games! Our words and sentiments are indeed +different, but the essential fact remains the same, as is proved by the +child himself looking on games as his work and fairy-tales as his truth. +The shortness of life ought to preserve us from a pedantic distinction +between the different ages—as if every age brought something new—and a +poet ought one day to portray a man of two hundred, who really lives +without fairy-tales and games. + + + + +271. + + +EVERY PHILOSOPHY IS THE PHILOSOPHY OF A PERIOD OF LIFE.—The period of life +in which a philosopher finds his teaching is manifested by his teaching; +he cannot avoid that, however elevated above time and hour he may feel +himself. Thus, Schopenhauer’s philosophy remains a mirror of his hot and +melancholy youth—it is no mode of thought for older men. Plato’s +philosophy reminds one of the middle thirties, when a warm and a cold +current generally rush together, so that spray and delicate clouds and, +under favourable circumstances and glimpses of sunshine, enchanting +rainbow-pictures result. + + + + +272. + + +OF THE INTELLECT OF WOMEN.—The intellectual strength of a woman is best +proved by the fact that she offers her own intellect as a sacrifice out of +love for a man and his intellect, and that nevertheless in the new domain, +which was previously foreign to her nature, a second intellect at once +arises as an aftergrowth, to which the man’s mind impels her. + + + + +273. + + +RAISING AND LOWERING IN THE SEXUAL DOMAIN.—The storm of desire will +sometimes carry a man up to a height where all desire is silenced, where +he really loves and lives in a better state of being rather than in a +better state of choice. On the other hand, a good woman, from true love, +often climbs down to desire, and lowers herself in her own eyes. The +latter action in particular is one of the most pathetic sensations which +the idea of a good marriage can involve. + + + + +274. + + +MAN PROMISES, WOMAN FULFILS.—By woman Nature shows how far she has +hitherto achieved her task of fashioning humanity, by man she shows what +she has had to overcome and what she still proposes to do for +humanity.—The most perfect woman of every age is the holiday-task of the +Creator on every seventh day of culture, the recreation of the artist from +his work. + + + + +275. + + +TRANSPLANTING.—If we have spent our intellect in order to gain mastery +over the intemperance of the passions, the sad result often follows that +we transfer the intemperance to the intellect, and from that time forth +are extravagant in thought and desire of knowledge. + + + + +276. + + +LAUGHTER AS TREACHERY.—How and when a woman laughs is a sign of her +culture, but in the ring of laughter her nature reveals itself, and in +highly cultured women perhaps even the last insoluble residue of their +nature. Hence the psychologist will say with Horace, though from different +reasons: “Ridete puellae.” + + + + +277. + + +FROM THE YOUTHFUL SOUL.—Youths varyingly show devotion and impudence +towards the same person, because at bottom they only despise or admire +themselves in that other person, and between the two feelings but stagger +to and fro in themselves, so long as they have not found in experience the +measure of their will and ability. + + + + +278. + + +FOR THE AMELIORATION OF THE WORLD.—If we forbade the discontented, the +sullen, and the atrabilious to propagate, we might transform the world +into a garden of happiness.—This aphorism belongs to a practical +philosophy for the female sex. + + + + +279. + + +NOT TO DISTRUST YOUR EMOTIONS.—The feminine phrase “Do not distrust your +emotions” does not mean much more than “Eat what tastes good to you.” This +may also, especially for moderate natures, be a good everyday rule. But +other natures must live according to another maxim: “You must eat not only +with your mouth but also with your brain, in order that the greediness of +your mouth may not prove your undoing.” + + + + +280. + + +A CRUEL FANCY OF LOVE.—Every great love involves the cruel thought of +killing the object of love, so that it may be removed once for all from +the mischievous play of change. For love is more afraid of change than of +destruction. + + + + +281. + + +DOORS.—In everything that is learnt or experienced, the child, just like +the man, sees doors; but for the former they are places to go _to_, for +the latter to go _through_. + + + + +282. + + +SYMPATHETIC WOMEN.—The sympathy of women, which is talkative, takes the +sick-bed to market. + + + + +283. + + +EARLY MERIT.—He who acquires merit early in life tends to forget all +reverence for age and old people, and accordingly, greatly to his +disadvantage, excludes himself from the society of the mature, those who +confer maturity. Thus in spite of his early merit he remains green, +importunate, and boyish longer than others. + + + + +284. + + +SOULS ALL OF A PIECE.—Women and artists think that where we do not +contradict them we cannot. Reverence on ten counts and silent disapproval +on ten others appears to them an impossible combination, because their +souls are all of a piece. + + + + +285. + + +YOUNG TALENTS.—With respect to young talents we must strictly follow +Goethe’s maxim, that we should often avoid harming error in order to avoid +harming truth. Their condition is like the diseases of pregnancy, and +involves strange appetites. These appetites should be satisfied and +humoured as far as possible, for the sake of the fruit they may be +expected to produce. It is true that, as nurse of these remarkable +invalids, one must learn the difficult art of voluntary self-abasement. + + + + +286. + + +DISGUST WITH TRUTH.—Women are so constituted that all truth (in relation +to men, love, children, society, aim of life) disgusts them—and that they +try to be revenged on every one who opens their eyes. + + + + +287. + + +THE SOURCE OF GREAT LOVE.—Whence arises the sudden passion of a man for a +woman, a passion so deep, so vital? Least of all from sensuality only: but +when a man finds weakness, need of help, and high spirits united in the +same creature, he suffers a sort of overflowing of soul, and is touched +and offended at the same moment. At this point arises the source of great +love. + + + + +288. + + +CLEANLINESS.—In the child, the sense for cleanliness should be fanned into +a passion, and then later on he will raise himself, in ever new phases, to +almost every virtue, and will finally appear, in compensation for all +talent, as a shining cloud of purity, temperance, gentleness, and +character, happy in himself and spreading happiness around. + + + + +289. + + +OF VAIN OLD MEN.—Profundity of thought belongs to youth, clarity of +thought to old age. When, in spite of this, old men sometimes speak and +write in the manner of the profound, they do so from vanity, imagining +that they thereby assume the charm of juvenility, enthusiasm, growth, +apprehensiveness, hopefulness. + + + + +290. + + +ENJOYMENT OF NOVELTY.—Men use a new lesson or experience later on as a +ploughshare or perhaps also as a weapon, women at once make it into an +ornament. + + + + +291. + + +HOW BOTH SEXES BEHAVE WHEN IN THE RIGHT.—If it is conceded to a woman that +she is right, she cannot deny herself the triumph of setting her heel on +the neck of the vanquished; she must taste her victory to the full. On the +other hand, man towards man in such a case is ashamed of being right. But +then man is accustomed to victory; with woman it is an exception. + + + + +292. + + +ABNEGATION IN THE WILL TO BEAUTY.—In order to become beautiful, a woman +must not desire to be considered pretty. That is to say, in ninety-nine +out of a hundred cases where she could please she must scorn and put aside +all thoughts of pleasing. Only then can she ever reap the delight of him +whose soul’s portal is wide enough to admit the great. + + + + +293. + + +UNINTELLIGIBLE, UNENDURABLE.—A youth cannot understand that an old man has +also had his delights, his dawns of feeling, his changings and soarings of +thought. It offends him to think that such things have existed before. But +it makes him very bitter to hear that, to become fruitful, he must lose +those buds and dispense with their fragrance. + + + + +294. + + +THE PARTY WITH THE AIR OF MARTYRDOM.—Every party that can assume an air of +martyrdom wins good-natured souls over to its side and thereby itself +acquires an air of good nature—greatly to its advantage. + + + + +295. + + +ASSERTIONS SURER THAN ARGUMENTS.—An assertion has, with the majority of +men at any rate, more effect than an argument, for arguments provoke +mistrust. Hence demagogues seek to strengthen the arguments of their party +by assertions. + + + + +296. + + +THE BEST CONCEALERS.—All regularly successful men are profoundly cunning +in making their faults and weaknesses look like manifestations of +strength. This proves that they must know their defects uncommonly well. + + + + +297. + + +FROM TIME TO TIME.—He sat in the city gateway and said to one who passed +through that this was the city gate. The latter replied that this was +true, but that one must not be too much in the right if one expected to be +thanked for it. “Oh,” answered the other, “I don’t want thanks, but from +time to time it is very pleasant not merely to be in the right but to +remain in the right.” + + + + +298. + + +VIRTUE WAS NOT INVENTED BY THE GERMANS.—Goethe’s nobleness and freedom +from envy, Beethoven’s fine hermitical resignation, Mozart’s cheerfulness +and grace of heart, Handel’s unbending manliness and freedom under the +law, Bach’s confident and luminous inner life, such as does not even need +to renounce glamour and success—are these qualities peculiarly German?—If +they are not, they at least prove to what goal Germans should strive and +to what they can attain. + + + + +299. + + +_PIA FRAUS_ OR SOMETHING ELSE.—I hope I am mistaken, but I think that in +Germany of to-day a twofold sort of hypocrisy is set up as the duty of the +moment for every one. From imperial-political misgivings Germanism is +demanded, and from social apprehensions Christianity—but both only in +words and gestures, and particularly in ability to keep silent. It is the +veneer that nowadays costs so much and is paid for so highly; and for the +benefit of the spectators the face of the nation assumes German and +Christian wrinkles. + + + + +300. + + +HOW FAR EVEN IN THE GOOD THE HALF MAY BE MORE THAN THE WHOLE.—In all +things that are constructed to last and demand the service of many hands, +much that is less good must be made a rule, although the organiser knows +what is better and harder very well. He will calculate that there will +never be a lack of persons who _can_ correspond to the rule, and he knows +that the middling good is the rule.—The youth seldom sees this point, and +as an innovator thinks how marvellously he is in the right and how strange +is the blindness of others. + + + + +301. + + +THE PARTISAN.—The true partisan learns nothing more, he only experiences +and judges. It is significant that Solon, who was never a partisan but +pursued his aims above and apart from parties or even against them, was +the father of that simple phrase wherein lies the secret of the health and +vitality of Athens: “I grow old, but I am always learning.” + + + + +302. + + +WHAT IS GERMAN ACCORDING TO GOETHE.—They are really intolerable people of +whom one cannot even accept the good, who have freedom of disposition but +do not remark that they are lacking in freedom of taste and spirit. Yet +just this, according to Goethe’s well-weighed judgment, is German.—His +voice and his example indicate that the German should be more than a +German if he wishes to be useful or even endurable to other nations—and +which direction his striving should take, in order that he may rise above +and beyond himself. + + + + +303. + + +WHEN IT IS NECESSARY TO REMAIN STATIONARY.—When the masses begin to rage, +and reason is under a cloud, it is a good thing, if the health of one’s +soul is not quite assured, to go under a doorway and look out to see what +the weather is like. + + + + +304. + + +THE REVOLUTION-SPIRIT AND THE POSSESSION-SPIRIT.—The only remedy against +Socialism that still lies in your power is to avoid provoking Socialism—in +other words, to live in moderation and contentment, to prevent as far as +possible all lavish display, and to aid the State as far as possible in +its taxing of all superfluities and luxuries. You do not like this remedy? +Then, you rich bourgeois who call yourselves “Liberals,” confess that it +is your own inclination that you find so terrible and menacing in +Socialists, but allow to prevail in yourselves as unavoidable, as if with +you it were something different. As you are constituted, if you had not +your fortune and the cares of maintaining it, this bent of yours would +make Socialists of you. Possession alone differentiates you from them. If +you wish to conquer the assailants of your prosperity, you must first +conquer yourselves.—And if that prosperity only meant well-being, it would +not be so external and provocative of envy; it would be more generous, +more benevolent, more compensatory, more helpful. But the spurious, +histrionic element in your pleasures, which lie more in the feeling of +contrast (because others have them not, and feel envious) than in feelings +of realised and heightened power—your houses, dresses, carriages, shops, +the demands of your palates and your tables, your noisy operatic and +musical enthusiasm; lastly your women, formed and fashioned but of base +metal, gilded but without the ring of gold, chosen by you for show and +considering themselves meant for show—these are the things that spread the +poison of that national disease, which seizes the masses ever more and +more as a Socialistic heart-itch, but has its origin and breeding-place in +you. Who shall now arrest this epidemic? + + + + +305. + + +PARTY TACTICS.—When a party observes that a previous member has changed +from an unqualified to a qualified adherent, it endures it so ill that it +irritates and mortifies him in every possible way with the object of +forcing him to a decisive break and making him an opponent. For the party +suspects that the intention of finding a relative value in its faith, a +value which admits of pro and con, of weighing and discarding, is more +dangerous than downright opposition. + + + + +306. + + +FOR THE STRENGTHENING OF PARTIES.—Whoever wishes to strengthen a party +internally should give it an opportunity of being forcibly treated with +obvious injustice. The party thus acquires a capital of good conscience, +which hitherto it perhaps lacked. + + + + +307. + + +TO PROVIDE FOR ONE’S PAST.—As men after all only respect the +old-established and slowly developed, he who would survive after his death +must not only provide for posterity but still more for the past. Hence +tyrants of every sort (including tyrannical artists and politicians) like +to do violence to history, so that history may seem a preparation and a +ladder up to them. + + + + +308. + + +PARTY WRITERS.—The beating of drums, which delights young writers who +serve a party, sounds to him who does not belong to the party like a +rattling of chains, and excites sympathy rather than admiration. + + + + +309. + + +TAKING SIDES AGAINST OURSELVES.—Our followers never forgive us for taking +sides against ourselves, for we seem in their eyes not only to be spurning +their love but to be exposing them to the charge of lack of intelligence. + + + + +310. + + +DANGER IN WEALTH.—Only a man of intellect should hold property: otherwise +property is dangerous to the community. For the owner, not knowing how to +make use of the leisure which his possessions might secure to him, will +continue to strive after more property. This strife will be his +occupation, his strategy in the war with ennui. So in the end real wealth +is produced from the moderate property that would be enough for an +intellectual man. Such wealth, then, is the glittering outcrop of +intellectual dependence and poverty, but it looks quite different from +what its humble origin might lead one to expect, because it can mask +itself with culture and art—it can, in fact, purchase the mask. Hence it +excites envy in the poor and uncultured—who at bottom always envy culture +and see no mask in the mask—and gradually paves the way for a social +revolution. For a gilded coarseness and a histrionic blowing of trumpets +in the pretended enjoyment of culture inspires that class with the +thought, “It is only a matter of money,” whereas it is indeed to some +extent a matter of money, but far more of intellect. + + + + +311. + + +JOY IN COMMANDING AND OBEYING.—Commanding is a joy, like obeying; the +former when it has not yet become a habit, the latter just when it has +become a habit. Old servants under new masters advance each other mutually +in giving pleasure. + + + + +312. + + +AMBITION FOR A FORLORN HOPE.—There is an ambition for a forlorn hope which +forces a party to place itself at the post of extreme danger. + + + + +313. + + +WHEN ASSES ARE NEEDED.—We shall not move the crowd to cry “Hosanna!” until +we have ridden into the city upon an ass. + + + + +314. + + +PARTY USAGE.—Every party attempts to represent the important elements that +have sprung up outside it as unimportant, and if it does not succeed, it +attacks those elements the more bitterly, the more excellent they are. + + + + +315. + + +BECOMING EMPTY.—Of him who abandons himself to the course of events, a +smaller and smaller residue is continually left. Great politicians may +therefore become quite empty men, although they were once full and rich. + + + + +316. + + +WELCOME ENEMIES.—The Socialistic movements are nowadays becoming more and +more agreeable rather than terrifying to the dynastic governments, because +by these movements they are provided with a right and a weapon for making +exceptional rules, and can thus attack their real bogies, democrats and +anti-dynasts.—Towards all that such governments professedly detest they +feel a secret cordiality and inclination. But they are compelled to draw +the veil over their soul. + + + + +317. + + +POSSESSION POSSESSES.—Only up to a certain point does possession make men +feel freer and more independent; one step farther, and possession becomes +lord, the possessor a slave. The latter must sacrifice his time, his +thoughts to the former, and feels himself compelled to an intercourse, +nailed to a spot, incorporated with the State—perhaps quite in conflict +with his real and essential needs. + + + + +318. + + +OF THE MASTERY OF THEM THAT KNOW.—It is easy, ridiculously easy, to set up +a model for the choice of a legislative body. First of all the honest and +reliable men of the nation, who at the same time are masters and experts +in some one branch, have to become prominent by mutual scenting-out and +recognition. From these, by a narrower process of selection, the learned +and expert of the first rank in each individual branch must again be +chosen, also by mutual recognition and guarantee. If the legislative body +be composed of these, it will finally be necessary, in each individual +case, that only the voices and judgments of the most specialised experts +should decide; the honesty of all the rest should have become so great +that it is simply a matter of decency to leave the voting also in the +hands of these men. The result would be that the law, in the strictest +sense, would emanate from the intelligence of the most intelligent.—As +things now are, voting is done by parties, and at every division there +must be hundreds of uneasy consciences among the ill-taught, the incapable +of judgment, among those who merely repeat, imitate, and go with the tide. +Nothing lowers the dignity of a new law so much as this inherent +shamefaced feeling of insincerity that necessarily results at every party +division. But, as has been said, it is easy, ridiculously easy, to set up +such a model: no power on earth is at present strong enough to realise +such an ideal—unless the belief in the highest utility of knowledge, and +of those that know, at last dawns even upon the most hostile minds and is +preferred to the prevalent belief in majorities. In the sense of such a +future may our watchword be: “More reverence for them that know, and down +with all parties!” + + + + +319. + + +OF THE “NATION OF THINKERS” (OR OF BAD THINKING).—The vague, vacillating, +premonitory, elementary, intuitive elements—to choose obscure names for +obscure things—that are attributed to the German nature would be, if they +really still existed, a proof that our culture has remained several stages +behind and is still surrounded by the spell and atmosphere of the Middle +Ages.—It is true that in this backwardness there are certain advantages: +by these qualities the Germans (if, as has been said before, they still +possess them) would possess the capacity, which other nations have now +lost, for doing certain things and particularly for understanding certain +things. Much undoubtedly is lost if the lack of sense—which is just the +common factor in all those qualities—is lost. Here too, however, there are +no losses without the highest compensatory gains, so that no reason is +left for lamenting, granting that we do not, like children, and gourmands, +wish to enjoy at once the fruits of all seasons of the year. + + + + +320. + + +CARRYING COALS TO NEWCASTLE.—The governments of the great States have two +instruments for keeping the people dependent, in fear and obedience: a +coarser, the army, and a more refined, the school. With the aid of the +former they win over to their side the ambition of the higher strata and +the strength of the lower, so far as both are characteristic of active and +energetic men of moderate or inferior gifts. With the aid of the latter +they win over gifted poverty, especially the intellectually pretentious +semi-poverty of the middle classes. Above all, they make teachers of all +grades into an intellectual court looking unconsciously “towards the +heights.” By putting obstacle after obstacle in the way of private schools +and the wholly distasteful individual tuition they secure the disposal of +a considerable number of educational posts, towards which numerous hungry +and submissive eyes are turned to an extent five times as great as can +ever be satisfied. These posts, however, must support the holder but +meagrely, so that he maintains a feverish thirst for promotion and becomes +still more closely attached to the views of the government. For it is +always more advantageous to foster moderate discontent than contentment, +the mother of courage, the grandmother of free thought and exuberance. By +means of this physically and mentally bridled body of teachers, the youth +of the country is as far as possible raised to a certain level of culture +that is useful to the State and arranged on a suitable sliding-scale. +Above all, the immature and ambitious minds of all classes are almost +imperceptibly imbued with the idea that only a career which is recognised +and hall-marked by the State can lead immediately to social distinction. +The effect of this belief in government examinations and titles goes so +far that even men who have remained independent and have risen by trade or +handicraft still feel a pang of discontent in their hearts until their +position too is marked and acknowledged by a gracious bestowal of rank and +orders from above—until one becomes a “somebody.” Finally the State +connects all these hundreds of offices and posts in its hands with the +obligation of being trained and hallmarked in these State schools if one +ever wishes to enter this charmed circle. Honour in society, daily bread, +the possibility of a family, protection from above, the feeling of +community in a common culture—all this forms a network of hopes into which +every young man walks: how should he feel the slightest breath of +mistrust? In the end, perhaps, the obligation of being a soldier for one +year has become with every one, after the lapse of a few generations, an +unreflecting habit, an understood thing, with an eye to which we construct +the plan of our lives quite early. Then the State can venture on the +master-stroke of weaving together school and army, talent, ambition and +strength by means of common advantages—that is, by attracting the more +highly gifted on favourable terms to the army and inspiring them with the +military spirit of joyful obedience; so that finally, perhaps, they become +attached permanently to the flag and endow it by their talents with an +ever new and more brilliant lustre. Then nothing more is wanted but an +opportunity for great wars. These are provided from professional reasons +(and so in all innocence) by diplomats, aided by newspapers and Stock +Exchanges. For “the nation,” as a nation of soldiers, need never be +supplied with a good conscience in war—it has one already. + + + + +321. + + +THE PRESS.—If we consider how even to-day all great political transactions +glide upon the stage secretly and stealthily; how they are hidden by +unimportant events, and seem small when close at hand; how they only show +their far-reaching effect, and leave the soil still quaking, long after +they have taken place;—what significance can we attach to the Press in its +present position, with its daily expenditure of lung-power in order to +bawl, to deafen, to excite, to terrify? Is it anything more than an +everlasting false alarm, which tries to lead our ears and our wits into a +false direction? + + + + +322. + + +AFTER A GREAT EVENT.—A nation and a man whose soul has come to light +through some great event generally feel the immediate need of some act of +childishness or coarseness, as much from shame as for purposes of +recreation. + + + + +323. + + +TO BE A GOOD GERMAN MEANS TO DE-GERMANISE ONESELF.—National differences +consist, far more than has hitherto been observed, only in the differences +of various grades of culture, and are only to a very small extent +permanent (nor even that in a strict sense). For this reason all arguments +based on national character are so little binding on one who aims at the +alteration of convictions—in other words, at culture. If, for instance, we +consider all that has already been German, we shall improve upon the +hypothetical question, “What is German?” by the counter-question, “What is +_now_ German?” and every good German will answer it practically, by +overcoming his German characteristics. For when a nation advances and +grows, it bursts the girdle previously given to it by its national +outlook. When it remains stationary or declines, its soul is surrounded by +a fresh girdle, and the crust, as it becomes harder and harder, builds a +prison around, with walls growing ever higher. Hence if a nation has much +that is firmly established, this is a sign that it wishes to petrify and +would like to become nothing but a monument. This happened, from a +definite date, in the case of Egypt. So he who is well-disposed towards +the Germans may for his part consider how he may more and more grow out of +what is German. The tendency to be un-German has therefore always been a +mark of efficient members of our nation. + + + + +324. + + +FOREIGNISMS.—A foreigner who travelled in Germany found favour or the +reverse by certain assertions of his, according to the districts in which +he stayed. All intelligent Suabians, he used to say, are coquettish.—The +other Suabians still believed that Uhland was a poet and Goethe +immoral.—The best about German novels now in vogue was that one need not +read them, for one knew already what they contained.—The native of Berlin +seemed more good-humoured than the South German, for he was all too fond +of mocking, and so could endure mockery himself, which the South German +could not.—The intellect of the Germans was kept down by their beer and +their newspapers: he recommended them tea and pamphlets, of course as a +cure.—He advised us to contemplate the different nations of worn-out +Europe and see how well each displayed some particular quality of old age, +to the delight of those who sit before the great spectacle: how the French +successfully represent the cleverness and amiability of old age, the +English the experience and reserve, the Italians the innocence and +candour. Can the other masks of old age be wanting? Where is the proud old +man, the domineering old man, the covetous old man?—The most dangerous +region in Germany was Saxony and Thuringia: nowhere else was there more +mental nimbleness, more knowledge of men, side by side with freedom of +thought; and all this was so modestly veiled by the ugly dialect and the +zealous officiousness of the inhabitants that one hardly noticed that one +here had to deal with the intellectual drill-sergeants of Germany, her +teachers for good or evil.—The arrogance of the North Germans was kept in +check by their tendency to obey, that of the South Germans by their +tendency—to make themselves comfortable.—It appeared to him that in their +women German men possessed awkward but self-opinionated housewives, who +belauded themselves so perseveringly that they had almost persuaded the +world, and at any rate their husbands, of their peculiarly German +housewifely virtue.—When the conversation turned on Germany’s home and +foreign policy, he used to say (he called it “betray the secret”) that +Germany’s greatest statesman did not believe in great statesmen.—The +future of Germany he found menaced and menacing, for Germans had forgotten +how to enjoy themselves (an art that the Italians understood so well), +but, by the great games of chance called wars and dynastic revolutions, +had accustomed themselves to emotionalism, and consequently would one day +have an _émeute_. For that is the strongest emotion that a nation can +procure for itself.—The German Socialist was all the more dangerous +because impelled by no definite necessity: his trouble lay in not knowing +what he wanted; so, even if he attained many of his objects, he would +still pine away from desire in the midst of delights, just like Faust, but +presumably like a very vulgar Faust. “For the Faust-Devil,” he finally +exclaimed, “by whom cultured Germans were so much plagued, was exorcised +by Bismarck; but now the Devil has entered into the swine,(17) and is +worse than ever!” + + + + +325. + + +OPINIONS.—Most men are nothing and count for nothing until they have +arrayed themselves in universal convictions and public opinions. This is +in accordance with the tailors’ philosophy, “The apparel makes the man.” +Of exceptional men, however, it must be said, “The wearer primarily makes +the apparel.” Here opinions cease to be public, and become something else +than masks, ornament, and disguise. + + + + +326. + + +TWO KINDS OF SOBRIETY.—In order not to confound the sobriety arising from +mental exhaustion with that arising from moderation, one must remark that +the former is peevish, the latter cheerful. + + + + +327. + + +DEBASEMENT OF JOY.—To call a thing good not a day longer than it appears +to us good, and above all not a day earlier—that is the only way to keep +joy pure. Otherwise, joy all too easily becomes insipid and rotten to the +taste, and counts, for whole strata of the people, among the adulterated +foodstuffs. + + + + +328. + + +THE SCAPEGOAT OF VIRTUE.—When a man does his very best, those who mean +well towards him, but are not capable of appreciating him, speedily seek a +scapegoat to immolate, thinking it is the scapegoat of sin—but it is the +scapegoat of virtue. + + + + +329. + + +SOVEREIGNTY.—To honour and acknowledge even the bad, when it _pleases_ +one, and to have no conception of how one could be ashamed of being +pleased thereat, is the mark of sovereignty in things great and small. + + + + +330. + + +INFLUENCE A PHANTOM, NOT A REALITY.—The man of mark gradually learns that +so far as he has influence he is a phantom in other brains, and perhaps he +falls into a state of subtle vexation of soul, in which he asks himself +whether he must not maintain this phantom of himself for the benefit of +his fellow-men. + + + + +331. + + +GIVING AND TAKING.—When one takes away (or anticipates) the smallest thing +that another possesses, the latter is blind to the fact that he has been +given something greater, nay, even the greatest thing. + + + + +332. + + +GOOD PLOUGHLAND.—All rejection and negation betoken a deficiency in +fertility. If we were good ploughland, we should allow nothing to be +unused or lost, and in every thing, event, or person we should welcome +manure, rain, or sunshine. + + + + +333. + + +INTERCOURSE AS AN ENJOYMENT.—If a man renounces the world and +intentionally lives in solitude, he may come to regard intercourse with +others, which he enjoys but seldom, as a special delicacy. + + + + +334. + + +TO KNOW HOW TO SUFFER IN PUBLIC.—We must advertise our misfortunes and +from time to time heave audible sighs and show visible marks of +impatience. For if we could let others see how assured and happy we are in +spite of pain and privation, how envious and ill-tempered they would +become at the sight!—But we must take care not to corrupt our fellow-men; +besides, if they knew the truth, they would levy a heavy toll upon us. At +any rate our public misfortune is our private advantage. + + + + +335. + + +WARMTH ON THE HEIGHTS.—On the heights it is warmer than people in the +valleys suppose, especially in winter. The thinker recognises the full +import of this simile. + + + + +336. + + +TO WILL THE GOOD AND BE CAPABLE OF THE BEAUTIFUL.—It is not enough to +practise the good one must have willed it, and, as the poet says, include +the Godhead in our will. But the beautiful we must not will, we must be +capable of it, in innocence and blindness, without any psychical +curiosity. He that lights his lantern to find perfect men should remember +the token by which to know them. They are the men who always act for the +sake of the good and in so doing always attain to the beautiful without +thinking of the beautiful. Many better and nobler men, from impotence or +from want of beauty in their souls, remain unrefreshing and ugly to +behold, with all their good will and good works. They rebuff and injure +even virtue through the repulsive garb in which their bad taste arrays +her. + + + + +337. + + +DANGER OF RENUNCIATION.—We must beware of basing our lives on too narrow a +foundation of appetite. For if we renounce all the joys involved in +positions, honours, associations, revels, creature comforts, and arts, a +day may come when we perceive that this repudiation has led us not to +wisdom but to satiety of life. + + + + +338. + + +FINAL OPINION ON OPINIONS.—Either we should hide our opinions or hide +ourselves behind our opinions. Whoever does otherwise, does not know the +way of the world, or belongs to the order of pious fire-eaters. + + + + +339. + + +“_GAUDEAMUS IGITUR._”—Joy must contain edifying and healing forces for the +moral nature of man. Otherwise, how comes it that our soul, as soon as it +basks in the sunshine of joy, unconsciously vows to itself, “I will be +good!” “I will become perfect!” and is at once seized by a premonition of +perfection that is like a shudder of religious awe? + + + + +340. + + +TO ONE WHO IS PRAISED.—So long as you are praised, believe that you are +not yet on your own course but on that of another. + + + + +341. + + +LOVING THE MASTER.—The apprentice and the master love the master in +different ways. + + + + +342. + + +ALL-TOO-BEAUTIFUL AND HUMAN.—“Nature is too beautiful for thee, poor +mortal,” one often feels. But now and then, at a profound contemplation of +all that is human, in its fulness, vigour, tenderness, and complexity, I +have felt as if I must say, in all humility, “Man also is too beautiful +for the contemplation of man!” Nor did I mean the moral man alone, but +every one. + + + + +343. + + +REAL AND PERSONAL ESTATE.—When life has treated us in true robber fashion, +and has taken away all that it could of honour, joys, connections, health, +and property of every kind, we perhaps discover in the end, after the +first shock, that we are richer than before. For now we know for the first +time what is so peculiarly ours that no robber hand can touch it, and +perhaps, after all the plunder and devastation, we come forward with the +airs of a mighty real estate owner. + + + + +344. + + +INVOLUNTARILY IDEALISED.—The most painful feeling that exists is finding +out that we are always taken for something higher than we really are. For +we must thereby confess to ourselves, “There is in you some element of +fraud—your speech, your expression, your bearing, your eye, your dealings; +and this deceitful something is as necessary as your usual honesty, but +constantly destroys its effect and its value.” + + + + +345. + + +IDEALIST AND LIAR.—We must not let ourselves be tyrannised even by that +finest faculty of idealising things: otherwise, truth will one day part +company from us with the insulting remark: “Thou arch-liar, what have I to +do with thee?” + + + + +346. + + +BEING MISUNDERSTOOD.—When one is misunderstood generally, it is impossible +to remove a particular misunderstanding. This point must be recognised, to +save superfluous expenditure of energy in self-defence. + + + + +347. + + +THE WATER-DRINKER SPEAKS.—Go on drinking your wine, which has refreshed +you all your life—what affair is it of yours if I have to be a +water-drinker? Are not wine and water peaceable, brotherly elements, that +can live side by side without mutual recriminations? + + + + +348. + + +FROM CANNIBAL COUNTRY.—In solitude the lonely man is eaten up by himself, +among crowds by the many. Choose which you prefer. + + + + +349. + + +THE FREEZING-POINT OF THE WILL.—“Some time the hour will come at last, the +hour that will envelop you in the golden cloud of painlessness; when the +soul enjoys its own weariness and, happy in patient playing with patience, +resembles the waves of a lake, which on a quiet summer day, in the +reflection of a many-hued evening sky, sip and sip at the shore and again +are hushed—without end, without purpose, without satiety, without need—all +calm rejoicing in change, all ebb and flow of Nature’s pulse.” Such is the +feeling and talk of all invalids, but if they attain that hour, a brief +period of enjoyment is followed by ennui. But this is the thawing-wind of +the frozen will, which awakes, stirs, and once more begets desire upon +desire.—Desire is a sign of convalescence or recovery. + + + + +350. + + +THE DISCLAIMED IDEAL.—It happens sometimes by an exception that a man only +reaches the highest when he disclaims his ideal. For this ideal previously +drove him onward too violently, so that in the middle of the track he +regularly got out of breath and had to rest. + + + + +351. + + +A TREACHEROUS INCLINATION.—It should be regarded as a sign of an envious +but aspiring man, when he feels himself attracted by the thought that with +regard to the eminent there is but one salvation—love. + + + + +352. + + +STAIRCASE HAPPINESS.—Just as the wit of many men does not keep pace with +opportunity (so that opportunity has already passed through the door while +wit still waits on the staircase outside), so others have a kind of +staircase happiness, which walks too slowly to keep pace with swift-footed +Time. The best that it can enjoy of an experience, of a whole span of +life, falls to its share long afterwards, often only as a weak, spicy +fragrance, giving rise to longing and sadness—as if “it might have been +possible”—some time or other—to drink one’s fill of this element: but now +it is too late. + + + + +353. + + +WORMS.—The fact that an intellect contains a few worms does not detract +from its ripeness. + + + + +354. + + +THE SEAT OF VICTORY.—A good seat on horseback robs an opponent of his +courage, the spectator of his heart—why attack such a man? Sit like one +who has been victorious! + + + + +355. + + +DANGER IN ADMIRATION.—From excessive admiration for the virtues of others +one can lose the sense of one’s own, and finally, through lack of +practice, lose these virtues themselves, without retaining the alien +virtues as compensation. + + + + +356. + + +USES OF SICKLINESS.—He who is often ill not only has a far greater +pleasure in health, on account of his so often getting well, but acquires +a very keen sense of what is healthy or sickly in actions and +achievements, both his own and others’. Thus, for example, it is just the +writers of uncertain health—among whom, unfortunately, nearly all great +writers must be classed—who are wont to have a far more even and assured +tone of health in their writings, because they are better versed than are +the physically robust in the philosophy of psychical health and +convalescence and in their teachers—morning, sunshine, forest, and +fountain. + + + + +357. + + +DISLOYALTY A CONDITION OF MASTERY.—It cannot be helped—every master has +but one pupil, and _he_ becomes disloyal to him, for he also is destined +for mastery. + + + + +358. + + +NEVER IN VAIN.—In the mountains of truth you never climb in vain. Either +you already reach a higher point to-day, or you exercise your strength in +order to be able to climb higher to-morrow. + + + + +359. + + +THROUGH GREY WINDOW-PANES.—Is what you see through this window of the +world so beautiful that you do not wish to look through any other +window—ay, and even try to prevent others from so doing? + + + + +360. + + +A SIGN OF RADICAL CHANGES.—When we dream of persons long forgotten or +dead, it is a sign that we have suffered radical changes, and that the +soil on which we live has been completely undermined. The dead rise again, +and our antiquity becomes modernity. + + + + +361. + + +MEDICINE OF THE SOUL.—To lie still and think little is the cheapest +medicine for all diseases of the soul, and, with the aid of good-will, +becomes pleasanter every hour that it is used. + + + + +362. + + +INTELLECTUAL ORDER OF PRECEDENCE.—You rank far below others when you try +to establish the exception and they the rule. + + + + +363. + + +THE FATALIST.—You must believe in fate—science can compel you thereto. All +that develops in you out of that belief—cowardice, devotion or loftiness, +and uprightness—bears witness to the soil in which the grain was sown, but +not to the grain itself, for from that seed anything and everything can +grow. + + + + +364. + + +THE REASON FOR MUCH FRETFULNESS.—He that prefers the beautiful to the +useful in life will undoubtedly, like children who prefer sweetmeats to +bread, destroy his digestion and acquire a very fretful outlook on the +world. + + + + +365. + + +EXCESS AS A REMEDY.—We can make our own talent once more acceptable to +ourselves by honouring and enjoying the opposite talent for some time to +excess.—Using excess as a remedy is one of the more refined devices in the +art of life. + + + + +366. + + +“WILL A SELF.”—Active, successful natures act, not according to the maxim, +“Know thyself,” but as if always confronted with the command, “Will a +self, so you will become a self.”—Fate seems always to have left them a +choice. Inactive, contemplative natures, on the other hand, reflect on how +they have chosen their self “once for all” at their entry into life. + + + + +367. + + +TO LIVE AS FAR AS POSSIBLE WITHOUT A FOLLOWING.—How small is the +importance of followers we first grasp when we have ceased to be the +followers of our followers. + + + + +368. + + +OBSCURING ONESELF.—We must understand how to obscure ourselves in order to +get rid of the gnat-swarms of pestering admirers. + + + + +369. + + +ENNUI.—There is an ennui of the most subtle and cultured brains, to which +the best that the world can offer has become stale. Accustomed to eat ever +more and more recherché fare and to feel disgust at coarser diet, they are +in danger of dying of hunger. For the very best exists but in small +quantities, and has sometimes become inaccessible or hard as stone, so +that even good teeth can no longer bite it. + + + + +370. + + +THE DANGER IN ADMIRATION.—The admiration of a quality or of an art may be +so strong as to deter us from aspiring to possess that quality or art. + + + + +371. + + +WHAT IS REQUIRED OF ART.—One man wants to enjoy himself by means of art, +another for a time to get out of or above himself.—To meet both +requirements there exists a twofold species of artists. + + + + +372. + + +SECESSIONS.—Whoever secedes from us offends not us, perhaps, but certainly +our adherents. + + + + +373. + + +AFTER DEATH.—It is only long after the death of a man that we find it +inconceivable that he should be missed—in the case of really great men, +only after decades. Those who are honest usually think when any one dies +that he is not much missed, and that the pompous funeral oration is a +piece of hypocrisy. Necessity first teaches the necessariness of an +individual, and the proper epitaph is a belated sigh. + + + + +374. + + +LEAVING IN HADES.—We must leave many things in the Hades of half-conscious +feeling, and not try to release them from their shadow-existence, or else +they will become, as thoughts and words, our demoniacal tyrants, with +cruel lust after our blood. + + + + +375. + + +NEAR TO BEGGARY.—Even the richest intellect sometimes mislays the key to +the room in which his hoarded treasures repose. He is then like the +poorest of the poor, who must beg to get a living. + + + + +376. + + +CHAIN-THINKERS.—To him who has thought a great deal, every new thought +that he hears or reads at once assumes the form of a chain. + + + + +377. + + +PITY.—In the gilded sheath of pity is sometimes hidden the dagger of envy. + + + + +378. + + +WHAT IS GENIUS?—To aspire to a lofty aim and to will the means to that +aim. + + + + +379. + + +VANITY OF COMBATANTS.—He who has no hope of victory in a combat, or who is +obviously worsted, is all the more desirous that his style of fighting +should be admired. + + + + +380. + + +THE PHILOSOPHIC LIFE MISINTERPRETED.—At the moment when one is beginning +to take philosophy seriously, the whole world fancies that one is doing +the reverse. + + + + +381. + + +IMITATION.—By imitation, the bad gains, the good loses credit—especially +in art. + + + + +382. + + +FINAL TEACHING OF HISTORY.—“Oh that I had but lived in those times!” is +the exclamation of foolish and frivolous men. At every period of history +that we seriously review, even if it be the most belauded era of the past, +we shall rather cry out at the end, “Anything but a return to that! The +spirit of that age would oppress you with the weight of a hundred +atmospheres, the good and beautiful in it you would not enjoy, its evil +you could not digest.” Depend upon it, posterity will pass the same +verdict on our own epoch, and say that it was unbearable, that life under +such conditions was intolerable. “And yet every one can endure his own +times?” Yes, because the spirit of his age not only lies _upon_ him but is +_in_ him. The spirit of the age offers resistance to itself and can bear +itself. + + + + +383. + + +GREATNESS AS A MASK.—By greatness in our comportment we embitter our foes; +by envy that we do not conceal we almost reconcile them to us. For envy +levels and makes equal; it is an unconscious, plaintive variety of +modesty.—It may be indeed that here and there, for the sake of the +above-named advantage, envy has been assumed as a mask by those who are +not envious. Certainly, however, greatness in comportment is often used as +the mask of envy by ambitious men who would rather suffer drawbacks and +embitter their foes than let it be seen that they place them on an equal +footing with themselves. + + + + +384. + + +UNPARDONABLE.—You gave him an opportunity of displaying the greatness of +his character, and he did not make use of the opportunity. He will never +forgive you for that. + + + + +385. + + +CONTRASTS.—The most senile thought ever conceived about men lies in the +famous saying, “The ego is always hateful,” the most childish in the still +more famous saying, “Love thy neighbour as thyself.”—With the one +knowledge of men has ceased, with the other it has not yet begun. + + + + +386. + + +A DEFECTIVE EAR.—“We still belong to the mob so long as we always shift +the blame on to others; we are on the track of wisdom when we always make +ourselves alone responsible; but the wise man finds no one to blame, +neither himself nor others.”—Who said that? Epictetus, eighteen hundred +years ago.—The world has heard but forgotten the saying.—No, the world has +not heard and not forgotten it: everything is not forgotten. But we had +not the necessary ear, the ear of Epictetus.—So he whispered it into his +own ear?—Even so: wisdom is the whispering of the sage to himself in the +crowded market-place. + + + + +387. + + +A DEFECT OF STANDPOINT, NOT OF VISION.—We always stand a few paces too +near ourselves and a few paces too far from our neighbour. Hence we judge +him too much in the lump, and ourselves too much by individual, +occasional, insignificant features and circumstances. + + + + +388. + + +IGNORANCE ABOUT WEAPONS.—How little we care whether another knows a +subject or not!—whereas he perhaps sweats blood at the bare idea that he +may be considered ignorant on the point. Yes, there are exquisite fools, +who always go about with a quiverful of mighty, excommunicatory +utterances, ready to shoot down any one who shows freely that there are +matters in which their judgment is not taken into account. + + + + +389. + + +AT THE DRINKING-TABLE OF EXPERIENCE.—People whose innate moderation leads +them to drink but the half of every glass, will not admit that everything +in the world has its lees and sediment. + + + + +390. + + +SINGING-BIRDS.—The followers of a great man often put their own eyes out, +so that they may be the better able to sing his praise. + + + + +391. + + +BEYOND OUR KEN.—The good generally displeases us when it is beyond our +ken. + + + + +392. + + +RULE AS MOTHER OR AS CHILD.—There is one condition that gives birth to +rules, another to which rules give birth. + + + + +393. + + +COMEDY.—We sometimes earn honour or love for actions and achievements +which we have long since sloughed as the snake sloughs his skin. We are +hereby easily seduced into becoming the comic actors of our own past, and +into throwing the old skin once more about our shoulders—and that not +merely from vanity, but from good-will towards our admirers. + + + + +394. + + +A MISTAKE OF BIOGRAPHERS.—The small force that is required to launch a +boat into the stream must not be confounded with the force of the stream +that carries the boat along. Yet this mistake is made in nearly all +biographies. + + + + +395. + + +NOT BUYING TOO DEAR.—The things that we buy too dear we generally turn to +bad use, because we have no love for them but only a painful recollection. +Thus they involve a twofold drawback. + + + + +396. + + +THE PHILOSOPHY THAT SOCIETY ALWAYS NEEDS.—The pillars of the social +structure rest upon the fundamental fact that every one cheerfully +contemplates all that he is, does, and attempts, his sickness or health, +his poverty or affluence, his honour or insignificance, and says to +himself, “After all, I would not change places with any one!”—Whoever +wishes to add a stone to the social structure should always try to implant +in mankind this cheerful philosophy of contentment and refusal to change +places. + + + + +397. + + +THE MARK OF A NOBLE SOUL.—A noble soul is not that which is capable of the +highest flights, but that which rises little and falls little, living +always in a free and bright atmosphere and altitude. + + + + +398. + + +GREATNESS AND ITS CONTEMPLATOR.—The noblest effect of greatness is that it +gives the contemplator a power of vision that magnifies and embellishes. + + + + +399. + + +BEING SATISFIED.—We show that we have attained maturity of understanding +when we no longer go where rare flowers lurk under the thorniest hedges of +knowledge, but are satisfied with gardens, forests, meadows, and +ploughlands, remembering that life is too short for the rare and uncommon. + + + + +400. + + +ADVANTAGE IN PRIVATION.—He who always lives in the warmth and fulness of +the heart, and, as it were, in the summer air of the soul, cannot form an +idea of that fearful delight which seizes more wintry natures, who for +once in a way are kissed by the rays of love and the milder breath of a +sunny February day. + + + + +401. + + +RECIPE FOR THE SUFFERER.—You find the burden of life too heavy? Then you +must increase the burden of your life. When the sufferer finally thirsts +after and seeks the river of Lethe, then he must become a _hero_ to be +certain of finding it. + + + + +402. + + +THE JUDGE.—He who has seen another’s ideal becomes his inexorable judge, +and as it were his evil conscience. + + + + +403. + + +THE UTILITY OF GREAT RENUNCIATION.—The useful thing about great +renunciation is that it invests us with that youthful pride through which +we can thenceforth easily demand of ourselves small renunciations. + + + + +404. + + +HOW DUTY ACQUIRES A GLAMOUR.—You can change a brazen duty into gold in the +eyes of all by always performing something more than you have promised. + + + + +405. + + +PRAYER TO MANKIND.—“Forgive us our virtues”—so should we pray to mankind. + + + + +406. + + +THEY THAT CREATE AND THEY THAT ENJOY.—Every one who enjoys thinks that the +principal thing to the tree is the fruit, but in point of fact the +principal thing to it is the seed.—Herein lies the difference between them +that create and them that enjoy. + + + + +407. + + +THE GLORY OF ALL GREAT MEN.—What is the use of genius if it does not +invest him who contemplates and reveres it with such freedom and loftiness +of feeling that he no longer has need of genius?—To make themselves +superfluous is the glory of all great men. + + + + +408. + + +THE JOURNEY TO HADES.—I too have been in the underworld, even as Odysseus, +and I shall often be there again. Not sheep alone have I sacrificed, that +I might be able to converse with a few dead souls, but not even my own +blood have I spared. There were four pairs who responded to me in my +sacrifice: Epicurus and Montaigne, Goethe and Spinoza, Plato and Rousseau, +Pascal and Schopenhauer. With them I have to come to terms. When I have +long wandered alone, I will let them prove me right or wrong; to them will +I listen, if they prove each other right or wrong. In all that I say, +conclude, or think out for myself and others, I fasten my eyes on those +eight and see their eyes fastened on mine.—May the living forgive me if I +look upon them at times as shadows, so pale and fretful, so restless and, +alas! so eager for life. Those eight, on the other hand, seem to me so +living that I feel as if even now, after their death, they could never +become weary of life. But eternal vigour of life is the important point: +what matters “eternal life,” or indeed life at all? + + + + + +PART II. THE WANDERER AND HIS SHADOW. + + +_The Shadow_: It is so long since I heard you speak that I should like to +give you an opportunity of talking. + +_The Wanderer_: I hear a voice—where? whose? I almost fancied that I heard +myself speaking, but with a voice yet weaker than my own. + +_The Shadow_ (after a pause): Are you not glad to have an opportunity of +speaking? + +_The Wanderer_: By God and everything else in which I disbelieve, it is my +shadow that speaks. I hear it, but I do not believe it. + +_The Shadow_: Let us assume that it exists, and think no more about it. In +another hour all will be over. + +_The Wanderer_: That is just what I thought when in a forest near Pisa I +saw first two and then five camels. + +_The Shadow_: It is all the better if we are both equally forbearing +towards each other when for once our reason is silent. Thus we shall avoid +losing our tempers in conversation, and shall not at once apply mutual +thumb-screws in the event of any word sounding for once unintelligible to +us. If one does not know exactly how to answer, it is enough to say +_something_. Those are the reasonable terms on which I hold conversation +with any person. During a long talk the wisest of men becomes a fool once +and a simpleton thrice. + +_The Wanderer_: Your moderation is not flattering to those to whom you +confess it. + +_The Shadow_: Am I, then, to flatter? + +_The Wanderer_: I thought a man’s shadow was his vanity. Surely vanity +would never say, “Am I, then, to flatter?” + +_The Shadow_: Nor does human vanity, so far as I am acquainted with it, +ask, as I have done twice, whether it may speak. It simply speaks. + +_The Wanderer_: Now I see for the first time how rude I am to you, my +beloved shadow. I have not said a word of my supreme _delight_ in hearing +and not merely seeing you. You must know that I love shadows even as I +love light. For the existence of beauty of face, clearness of speech, +kindliness and firmness of character, the shadow is as necessary as the +light. They are not opponents—rather do they hold each other’s hands like +good friends; and when the light vanishes, the shadow glides after it. + +_The Shadow_: Yes, and I hate the same thing that you hate—night. I love +men because they are votaries of life. I rejoice in the gleam of their +eyes when they recognise and discover, they who never weary of recognising +and discovering. That shadow which all things cast when the sunshine of +knowledge falls upon them—that shadow too am I. + +_The Wanderer_: I think I understand you, although you have expressed +yourself in somewhat shadowy terms. You are right. Good friends give to +each other here and there, as a sign of mutual understanding, an obscure +phrase which to any third party is meant to be a riddle. And we are good +friends, you and I. So enough of preambles! Some few hundred questions +oppress my soul, and the time for you to answer them is perchance but +short. Let us see how we may come to an understanding as quickly and +peaceably as possible. + +_The Shadow_: But shadows are more shy than men. You will not reveal to +any man the manner of our conversation? + +_The Wanderer_: _The manner_ of our conversation? Heaven preserve me from +wire-drawn, literary dialogues! If Plato had found less pleasure in +spinning them out, his readers would have found more pleasure in Plato. A +dialogue that in real life is a source of delight, when turned into +writing and read, is a picture with nothing but false perspectives. +Everything is too long or too short.—Yet perhaps I may reveal the _points +on which_ we have come to an understanding? + +_The Shadow_: With that I am content. For every one will only recognise +your views once more, and no one will think of the shadow. + +_The Wanderer_: Perhaps you are wrong, my friend! Hitherto they have +observed in my views more of the shadow than of me. + +_The Shadow_: More of the shadow than of the light? Is that possible? + +_The Wanderer_: Be serious, dear fool! My very first question demands +seriousness. + + + + +1. + + +OF THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE.—Probability, but no truth; the semblance of +freedom, but no freedom—these are the two fruits by virtue of which the +tree of knowledge cannot be confounded with the tree of life. + + + + +2. + + +THE WORLD’S REASON.—That the world is _not_ the abstract essence of an +eternal reasonableness is sufficiently proved by the fact that that _bit +of the world_ which we know—I mean our human reason—is none too +reasonable. And if _this_ is not eternally and wholly wise and reasonable, +the rest of the world will not be so either. Here the conclusion _a minori +ad majus, a parte ad totum_ holds good, and that with decisive force. + + + + +3. + + +“IN THE BEGINNING WAS.”—To glorify the origin—that is the metaphysical +after-shoot which sprouts again at the contemplation of history, and +absolutely makes us imagine that _in the beginning_ of things lies all +that is most valuable and essential. + + + + +4. + + +STANDARD FOR THE VALUE OF TRUTH.—The difficulty of climbing mountains is +no gauge of their height. Yet in the case of science it is different!—we +are told by certain persons who wish to be considered “the initiated,”—the +difficulty in finding truth is to determine the value of truth! This +insane morality originates in the idea that “truths” are really nothing +more than gymnastic appliances, with which we have to exercise ourselves +until we are thoroughly tired. It is a morality for the athletes and +gymnasts of the intellect. + + + + +5. + + +USE OF WORDS AND REALITY.—There exists a simulated contempt for all the +things that mankind actually holds most important, for all everyday +matters. For instance, we say “we only eat to live”—an abominable _lie_, +like that which speaks of the procreation of children as the real purpose +of all sexual pleasure. Conversely, the reverence for “the most important +things” is hardly ever quite genuine. The priests and metaphysicians have +indeed accustomed us to a hypocritically exaggerated _use of words_ +regarding these matters, but they have not altered the feeling that these +most important things are not so important as those despised “everyday +matters.” A fatal consequence of this twofold hypocrisy is that we never +make these everyday matters (such as eating, housing, clothes, and +intercourse) the object of a constant unprejudiced and _universal_ +reflection and revision, but, as such a process appears degrading, we +divert from them our serious intellectual and artistic side. Hence in such +matters habit and frivolity win an easy victory over the thoughtless, +especially over inexperienced youth. On the other hand, our continual +transgressions of the simplest laws of body and mind reduce us all, young +and old, to a disgraceful state of dependence and servitude—I mean to that +fundamentally superfluous dependence upon physicians, teachers and +clergymen, whose dead-weight still lies heavy upon the whole of society. + + + + +6. + + +EARTHLY INFIRMITIES AND THEIR MAIN CAUSE.—If we look about us, we are +always coming across men who have eaten eggs all their lives without +observing that the oblong-shaped taste the best; who do not know that a +thunder-storm is beneficial to the stomach; that perfumes are most +fragrant in cold, clear air; that our sense of taste varies in different +parts of our mouths; that every meal at which we talk well or listen well +does harm to the digestion. If we are not satisfied with these examples of +defective powers of observation, we shall concede all the more readily +that the everyday matters are very imperfectly seen and rarely observed by +the majority. Is this a matter of indifference?—Let us remember, after +all, that from this defect are derived _nearly all the bodily and +spiritual infirmities_ of the individual. Ignorance of what is good and +bad for us, in the arrangement of our mode of life, the division of our +day, the selection of our friends and the time we devote to them, in +business and leisure, commanding and obeying, our feeling for nature and +for art, our eating, sleeping, and meditation; ignorance and lack of keen +perceptions _in the smallest and most ordinary details_—this it is that +makes the world “a vale of tears” for so many. Let us not say that here as +everywhere the fault lies with human _unreason_. Of reason there is enough +and to spare, but it is _wrongly directed_ and _artificially diverted_ +from these little intimate things. Priests and teachers, and the sublime +ambition of all idealists, coarser and subtler, din it even into the +child’s ears that the means of serving mankind at large depend upon +altogether different _things_—upon the salvation of the soul, the service +of the State, the advancement of science, or even upon social position and +property; whereas the needs of the individual, his requirements great and +small during the twenty-four hours of the day, are quite paltry or +indifferent.—Even Socrates attacked with all his might this arrogant +neglect of the human for the benefit of humanity, and loved to indicate by +a quotation from Homer the true sphere and conception of all anxiety and +reflection: “All that really matters,” he said, “is the good and evil hap +I find at home.” + + + + +7. + + +TWO MEANS OF CONSOLATION.—Epicurus, the soul-comforter of later antiquity, +said, with that marvellous insight which to this very day is so rarely to +be found, that for the calming of the spirit the solution of the final and +ultimate theoretical problems is by no means necessary. Hence, instead of +raising a barren and remote discussion of the final question, whether the +Gods existed, it sufficed him to say to those who were tormented by “fear +of the Gods”: “If there are Gods, they do not concern themselves with us.” +The latter position is far stronger and more favourable, for, by conceding +a few points to the other, one makes him readier to listen and to take to +heart. But as soon as he sets about proving the opposite (that the Gods do +concern themselves with us), into what thorny jungles of error must the +poor man fall, quite of his own accord, and without any cunning on the +part of his interlocutor! The latter must only have enough subtlety and +humanity to conceal his sympathy with this tragedy. Finally, the other +comes to feel disgust—the strongest argument against any +proposition—disgust with his own hypothesis. He becomes cold, and goes +away in the same frame of mind as the pure atheist who says, “What do the +Gods matter to me? The devil take them!”—In other cases, especially when a +half-physical, half-moral assumption had cast a gloom over his spirit, +Epicurus did not refute the assumption. He agreed that it might be true, +but that there was _a second assumption_ to explain the same phenomenon, +and that it could perhaps be maintained in other ways. The plurality of +hypotheses (for example, that concerning the origin of conscientious +scruples) suffices even in our time to remove from the soul the shadows +that arise so easily from pondering over a hypothesis which is isolated, +merely visible, and hence overvalued a hundredfold.—Thus whoever wishes to +console the unfortunate, the criminal, the hypochondriac, the dying, may +call to mind the two soothing suggestions of Epicurus, which can be +applied to a great number of problems. In their simplest form they would +run: firstly, granted the thing is so, it does not concern us; secondly, +the thing may be so, but it may also be otherwise. + + + + +8. + + +IN THE NIGHT.—So soon as night begins to fall our sensations concerning +everyday matters are altered. There is the wind, prowling as if on +forbidden paths, whispering as if in search of something, fretting because +he cannot find it. There is the lamplight, with its dim red glow, its +weary look, unwillingly fighting against night, a sullen slave to wakeful +man. There are the breathings of the sleeper, with their terrible rhythm, +to which an ever-recurring care seems to blow the trumpet-melody—we do not +hear it, but when the sleeper’s bosom heaves we feel our heart-strings +tighten; and when the breath sinks and almost dies away into a deathly +stillness, we say to ourselves, “Rest awhile, poor troubled spirit!” All +living creatures bear so great a burden that we wish them an eternal rest; +night invites to death.—If human beings were deprived of the sun and +resisted night by means of moonlight and oil-lamps, what a philosophy +would cast its veil over them! We already see only too plainly how a +shadow is thrown over the spiritual and intellectual nature of man by that +moiety of darkness and sunlessness that envelops life. + + + + +9. + + +ORIGIN OF THE DOCTRINE OF FREE WILL.—Necessity sways one man in the shape +of his passions, another as a habit of hearing and obeying, a third as a +logical conscience, a fourth as a caprice and a mischievous delight in +evasions. These four, however, seek the freedom of their will at the very +point where they are most securely fettered. It is as if the silkworm +sought freedom of will in spinning. What is the reason? Clearly this, that +every one thinks himself most free where his vitality is strongest; hence, +as I have said, now in passion, now in duty, now in knowledge, now in +caprice. A man unconsciously imagines that where he is strong, where he +feels most thoroughly alive, the element of his freedom must lie. He +thinks of dependence and apathy, independence and vivacity as forming +inevitable pairs.—Thus an experience that a man has undergone in the +social and political sphere is wrongly transferred to the ultimate +metaphysical sphere. There the strong man is also the free man, there the +vivid feeling of joy and sorrow, the high hopes, the keen desires, the +powerful hates are the attributes of the ruling, independent natures, +while the thrall and the slave live in a state of dazed oppression.—The +doctrine of free will is an invention of the ruling classes. + + + + +10. + + +ABSENCE OF FEELING OF NEW CHAINS.—So long as we do not feel that we are in +some way dependent, we consider ourselves independent—a false conclusion +that shows how proud man is, how eager for dominion. For he hereby assumes +that he would always be sure to observe and recognise dependence so soon +as he suffered it, the preliminary hypothesis being that he generally +lives in independence, and that, should he lose that independence for once +in a way, he would immediately detect a contrary sensation.—Suppose, +however, the reverse to be true—that he is always living in a complex +state of dependence, but thinks himself free where, through long habit, he +no longer feels the weight of the chain? He only suffers from new chains, +and “free will” really means nothing more than an absence of feeling of +new chains. + + + + +11. + + +FREEDOM OF THE WILL AND THE ISOLATION OF FACTS.—Our ordinary inaccurate +observation takes a group of phenomena as one and calls them a fact. +Between this fact and another we imagine a vacuum, we isolate each fact. +In reality, however, the sum of our actions and cognitions is no series of +facts and intervening vacua, but a continuous stream. Now the belief in +free will is incompatible with the idea of a continuous, uniform, +undivided, indivisible flow. This belief presupposes that every single +action is isolated and indivisible; it is an atomic theory as regards +volition and cognition.—We misunderstand facts as we misunderstand +characters, speaking of similar characters and similar facts, whereas both +are non-existent. Further, we bestow praise and blame only on this false +hypothesis, that there are similar facts, that a graduated order of +species of facts exists, corresponding to a graduated order of values. +Thus we isolate not only the single fact, but the groups of apparently +equal facts (good, evil, compassionate, envious actions, and so forth). In +both cases we are wrong.—The word and the concept are the most obvious +reason for our belief in this isolation of groups of actions. We do not +merely thereby designate the things; the thought at the back of our minds +is that by the word and the concept we can grasp the essence of the +actions. We are still constantly led astray by words and actions, and are +induced to think of things as simpler than they are, as separate, +indivisible, existing in the absolute. Language contains a hidden +philosophical mythology, which, however careful we may be, breaks out +afresh at every moment. The belief in free will—that is to say, in similar +facts and isolated facts—finds in language its continual apostle and +advocate. + + + + +12. + + +THE FUNDAMENTAL ERRORS.—A man cannot feel any psychical pleasure or pain +unless he is swayed by one of two illusions. Either he believes in the +identity of certain facts, certain sensations, and in that case finds +spiritual pleasure and pain in comparing present with past conditions and +in noting their similarity or difference (as is invariably the case with +recollection); or he believes in the freedom of the will, perhaps when he +reflects, “I ought not to have done this,” “This might have turned out +differently,” and from these reflections likewise he derives pleasure and +pain. Without the errors that are rife in every psychical pain and +pleasure, humanity would never have developed. For the root idea of +humanity is that man is free in a world of bondage—man, the eternal +wonder-worker, whether his deeds be good or evil—man, the amazing +exception, the super-beast, the quasi-God, the mind of creation, the +indispensable, the key-word to the cosmic riddle, the mighty lord of +nature and despiser of nature, the creature that calls _its_ history “the +history of the world”! _Vanitas vanitatum homo._ + + + + +13. + + +REPETITION.—It is an excellent thing to express a thing consecutively in +two ways, and thus provide it with a right and a left foot. Truth can +stand indeed on one leg, but with two she will walk and complete her +journey. + + + + +14. + + +MAN AS THE COMIC ACTOR OF THE WORLD.—It would require beings more +intellectual than men to relish to the full the humorous side of man’s +view of himself as the goal of all existence and of his serious +pronouncement that he is satisfied only with the prospect of fulfilling a +world-mission. If a God created the world, he created man to be his ape, +as a perpetual source of amusement in the midst of his rather tedious +eternities. The music of the spheres surrounding the world would then +presumably be the mocking laughter of all the other creatures around +mankind. God in his boredom uses pain for the tickling of his favourite +animal, in order to enjoy his proudly tragic gestures and expressions of +suffering, and, in general, the intellectual inventiveness of the vainest +of his creatures—as inventor of this inventor. For he who invented man as +a joke had more intellect and more joy in intellect than has man.—Even +here, where our human nature is willing to humble itself, our vanity again +plays us a trick, in that we men should like in this vanity at least to be +quite marvellous and incomparable. Our uniqueness in the world! Oh, what +an improbable thing it is! Astronomers, who occasionally acquire a horizon +outside our world, give us to understand that the drop of life on the +earth is without significance for the total character of the mighty ocean +of birth and decay; that countless stars present conditions for the +generation of life similar to those of the earth—and yet these are but a +handful in comparison with the endless number that have never known, or +have long been cured, of the eruption of life; that life on each of these +stars, measured by the period of its existence, has been but an instant, a +flicker, with long, long intervals afterwards—and thus in no way the aim +and final purpose of their existence. Possibly the ant in the forest is +quite as firmly convinced that it is the aim and purpose of the existence +of the forest, as we are convinced in our imaginations (almost +unconsciously) that the destruction of mankind involves the destruction of +the world. It is even modesty on our part to go no farther than this, and +not to arrange a universal twilight of the world and the Gods as the +funeral ceremony of the last man. Even to the eye of the most unbiassed +astronomer a lifeless world can scarcely appear otherwise than as a +shining and swinging star wherein man lies buried. + + + + +15. + + +THE MODESTY OF MAN.—How little pleasure is enough for the majority to make +them feel that life is good! How modest is man! + + + + +16. + + +WHERE INDIFFERENCE IS NECESSARY.—Nothing would be more perverse than to +wait for the truths that science will finally establish concerning the +first and last things, and until then to think (and especially to believe) +in the traditional way, as one is so often advised to do. The impulse that +bids us seek nothing but _certainties_ in this domain is a religious +offshoot, nothing better—a hidden and only apparently sceptical variety of +the “metaphysical need,” the underlying idea being that for a long time no +view of these ultimate certainties will be obtainable, and that until then +the “believer” has the right not to trouble himself about the whole +subject. We have no need of these certainties about the farthermost +horizons in order to live a full and efficient human life, any more than +the ant needs them in order to be a good ant. Rather must we ascertain the +origin of that troublesome significance that we have attached to these +things for so long. For this we require the history of ethical and +religious sentiments, since it is only under the influence of such +sentiments that these most acute problems of knowledge have become so +weighty and terrifying. Into the outermost regions to which the mental eye +can penetrate (without ever penetrating _into_ them), we have smuggled +such concepts as guilt and punishment (everlasting punishment, too!). The +darker those regions, the more careless we have been. For ages men have +let their imaginations run riot where they could establish nothing, and +have induced posterity to accept these fantasies as something serious and +true, with this abominable lie as their final trump-card: that faith is +worth more than knowledge. What we need now in regard to these ultimate +things is not knowledge as against faith, but indifference as against +faith and pretended knowledge in these matters!—Everything must lie nearer +to us than what has hitherto been preached to us as the most important +thing, I mean the questions: “What end does man serve?” “What is his fate +after death?” “How does he make his peace with God?” and all the rest of +that bag of tricks. The problems of the dogmatic philosophers, be they +idealists, materialists, or realists, concern us as little as do these +religious questions. They all have the same object in view—to force us to +a decision in matters where neither faith nor knowledge is needed. It is +better even for the most ardent lover of knowledge that the territory open +to investigation and to reason should be encircled by a belt of fog-laden, +treacherous marshland, a strip of ever watery, impenetrable, and +indeterminable country. It is just by the comparison with the realm of +darkness on the edge of the world of knowledge that the bright, accessible +region of that world rises in value.—We must once more become good friends +of the “everyday matters,” and not, as hitherto, despise them and look +beyond them at clouds and monsters of the night. In forests and caverns, +in marshy tracts and under dull skies, on the lowest rungs of the ladder +of culture, man has lived for æons, and lived in poverty. There he has +learnt to despise the present, his neighbours, his life, and himself, and +we, the inhabitants of the brighter fields of Nature and mind, still +inherit in our blood some taint of this contempt for everyday matters. + + + + +17. + + +PROFOUND INTERPRETATIONS.—He who has interpreted a passage in an author +“more profoundly” than was intended, has not interpreted the author but +has obscured him. Our metaphysicians are in the same relation, or even in +a worse relation, to the text of Nature. For, to apply their profound +interpretations, they often alter the text to suit their purpose—or, in +other words, corrupt the text. A curious example of the corruption and +obscuration of an author’s text is furnished by the ideas of Schopenhauer +on the pregnancy of women. “The sign of a continuous will to life in +time,” he says, “is copulation; the sign of the light of knowledge which +is associated anew with this will and holds the possibility of a +deliverance, and that too in the highest degree of clearness, is the +renewed incarnation of the will to life. This incarnation is betokened by +pregnancy, which is therefore frank and open, and even proud, whereas +copulation hides itself like a criminal.” He declares that every woman, if +surprised in the sexual act, would be likely to die of shame, but +“displays her pregnancy without a trace of shame, nay even with a sort of +pride.” Now, firstly, this condition cannot easily be displayed more +aggressively than it displays itself, and when Schopenhauer gives +prominence only to the intentional character of the display, he is +fashioning his text to suit the interpretation. Moreover, his statement of +the universality of the phenomenon is not true. He speaks of “every +woman.” Many women, especially the younger, often appear painfully ashamed +of their condition, even in the presence of their nearest kinsfolk. And +when women of riper years, especially in the humbler classes, do actually +appear proud of their condition, it is because they would give us to +understand that they are still desirable to their husbands. That a +neighbour on seeing them or a passing stranger should say or think “Can it +be possible?”—that is an alms always acceptable to the vanity of women of +low mental capacity. In the reverse instance, to conclude from +Schopenhauer’s proposition, the cleverest and most intelligent women would +tend more than any to exult openly in their condition. For they have the +best prospect of giving birth to an intellectual prodigy, in whom “the +will” can once more “negative” itself for the universal good. Stupid +women, on the other hand, would have every reason to hide their pregnancy +more modestly than anything they hide.—It cannot be said that this view +corresponds to reality. Granted, however, that Schopenhauer was right on +the general principle that women show more self-satisfaction when pregnant +than at any other time, a better explanation than this lies to hand. One +might imagine the clucking of a hen even before she lays an egg, saying, +“Look! look! I shall lay an egg! I shall lay an egg!” + + + + +18. + + +THE MODERN DIOGENES.—Before we look for man, we must have found the +lantern.—Will it have to be the Cynic’s lantern? + + + + +19. + + +IMMORALISTS.—Moralists must now put up with being rated as immoralists, +because they dissect morals. He, however, who would dissect must kill, but +only in order that we may know more, judge better, live better, not in +order that all the world may dissect. Unfortunately, men still think that +every moralist in his every action must be a pattern for others to +imitate. They confound him with the preacher of morality. The older +moralists did not dissect enough and preached too often, whence that +confusion and the unpleasant consequences for our latter-day moralists are +derived. + + + + +20. + + +A CAUTION AGAINST CONFUSION.—There are moralists who treat the strong, +noble, self-denying attitude of such beings as the heroes of Plutarch, or +the pure, enlightened, warmth-giving state of soul peculiar to truly good +men and women, as difficult scientific problems. They investigate the +origin of such phenomena, indicating the complex element in the apparent +simplicity, and directing their gaze to the tangled skein of motives, the +delicate web of conceptual illusions, and the sentiments of individuals or +of groups, that are a legacy of ancient days gradually increased. Such +moralists are very different from those with whom they are most commonly +confounded, from those petty minds that do not believe at all in these +modes of thought and states of soul, and imagine their own poverty to be +hidden somewhere behind the glamour of greatness and purity. The moralists +say, “Here are problems,” and these pitiable creatures say, “Here are +impostors and deceptions.” Thus the latter deny the existence of the very +things which the former are at pains to explain. + + + + +21. + + +_Man as the Measurer._—Perhaps all human morality had its origin in the +tremendous excitement that seized primitive man when he discovered measure +and measuring, scales and weighing (for the word _Mensch_ [man] means “the +measurer”—he wished to _name_ himself after his greatest discovery!). With +these ideas they mounted into regions that are quite beyond all measuring +and weighing, but did not appear to be so in the beginning. + + + + +22. + + +_The Principle of Equilibrium._—The robber and the man of power who +promises to protect a community from robbers are perhaps at bottom beings +of the same mould, save that the latter attains his ends by other means +than the former—that is to say, through regular imposts paid to him by the +community, and no longer through forced contributions. (The same relation +exists between merchant and pirate, who for a long period are one and the +same person: where the one function appears to them inadvisable, they +exercise the other. Even to-day mercantile morality is really nothing but +a refinement on piratical morality—buying in the cheapest market, at prime +cost if possible, and selling in the dearest.) The essential point is that +the man of power promises to maintain the equilibrium against the robber, +and herein the weak find a possibility of living. For either they must +group themselves into an equivalent power, or they must subject themselves +to some one of equivalent power (_i.e._ render service in return for his +efforts). The latter course is generally preferred, because it really +keeps two dangerous beings in check—the robber through the man of power, +and the man of power through the standpoint of advantage; for the latter +profits by treating his subjects with graciousness and tolerance, in order +that they may support not only themselves but their ruler. As a matter of +fact, conditions may still be hard and cruel enough, yet in comparison +with the complete annihilation that was formerly always a possibility, men +breathe freely.—The community is at first the organisation of the weak to +counterbalance menacing forces. An organisation to outweigh those forces +would be more advisable, if its members grew strong enough to destroy the +adverse power: and when it is a question of one mighty oppressor, the +_attempt will_ certainly be made. But if the one man is the head of a +clan, or if he has a large following, a rapid and decisive annihilation is +improbable, and a long or permanent feud is only to be expected. This +feud, however, involves the least desirable condition for the community, +for it thereby loses the time to provide for its means of subsistence with +the necessary regularity, and sees the product of all work hourly +threatened. Hence the community prefers to raise its power of attack and +defence to the exact plane on which the power of its dangerous neighbour +stands, and to give him to understand that an equal weight now lies in its +own side of the scales—so why not be good friends?—Thus equilibrium is a +most important conception for the understanding of the ancient doctrines +of law and morals. Equilibrium is, in fact, the basis of justice. When +justice in ruder ages says, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” it +presupposes the attainment of this equilibrium and tries to maintain it by +means of this compensation; so that, when crime is committed, the injured +party will not take the revenge of blind anger. By means of the _jus +talionis_ the equilibrium of the disturbed relations of power is restored, +for in such primitive times an eye or an arm more means a bit more power, +more weight.—In a community where all consider themselves equal, disgrace +and punishment await crime—that is, violations of the principle of +equilibrium. Disgrace is thrown into the scale as a counter-weight against +the encroaching individual, who has gained profit by his encroachment, and +now suffers losses (through disgrace) which annul and outweigh the +previous profits. Punishment, in the same way, sets up a far greater +counter-weight against the preponderance which every criminal hopes to +obtain—imprisonment as against a deed of violence, restitution and fines +as against theft. Thus the sinner is reminded that his action has excluded +him from the community and from its moral advantages, since the community +treats him as an inferior, a weaker brother, an outsider. For this reason +punishment is not merely retaliation, but has something more, something of +the cruelty of the state of nature, and of this it would serve as a +reminder. + + + + +23. + + +WHETHER THE ADHERENTS OF THE DOCTRINE OF FREE WILL HAVE A RIGHT TO +PUNISH?—Men whose vocation it is to judge and punish try to establish in +every case whether an evil-doer is really responsible for his act, whether +he was able to apply his reasoning powers, whether he acted with motives +and not unconsciously or under constraint. If he is punished, it is +because he preferred the worse to the better motives, which he must +consequently have known. Where this knowledge is wanting, man is, +according to the prevailing view, not responsible—unless his ignorance, +_e.g._ his _ignorantia legis_, be the consequence of an intentional +neglect to learn what he ought: in that case he already preferred the +worse to the better motives at the time when he refused to learn, and must +now pay the penalty of his unwise choice. If, on the other hand, perhaps +through stupidity or shortsightedness, he has never seen the better +motives, he is generally not punished, for people say that he made a wrong +choice, he acted like a brute beast. The intentional rejection of the +better reason is now needed before we treat the offender as fit to be +punished. But how can any one be intentionally more unreasonable than he +ought to be? Whence comes the decision, if the scales are loaded with good +and bad motives? So the origin is not error or blindness, not an internal +or external constraint? (It should furthermore be remembered that every +so-called “external constraint” is nothing more than the internal +constraint of fear and pain.) Whence? is the repeated question. So reason +is not to be the cause of action, because reason cannot decide against the +better motives? Thus we call “free will” to our aid. Absolute discretion +is to decide, and a moment is to intervene when no motive exercises an +influence, when the deed is done as a miracle, resulting from nothing. +This assumed discretion is punished in a case where no discretion should +rule. Reason, which knows law, prohibition, and command, should have left +no choice, they say, and should have acted as a constraint and a higher +power. Hence the offender is punished because he makes use of “free +will”—in other words, has acted without motive where he should have been +guided by motives. But why did he do it? This question must not even be +asked; the deed was done without a “Why?” without motive, without origin, +being a thing purposeless, unreasoned.—However, according to the +above-named preliminary condition of punishability, such a deed should not +be punished at all! Moreover, even this reason for punishing should not +hold good, that in this case something had _not_ been done, had been +omitted, that reason had not been used at all: for at any rate the +omission was unintentional, and only intentional omission is considered +punishable. The offender has indeed preferred the worse to the better +motives, but without motive and purpose: he has indeed failed to apply his +reason, but not exactly with the object of not applying it. The very +assumption made in the case of punishable crime, that the criminal +intentionally renounced his reason, is removed by the hypothesis of “free +will.” According to your own principles, you must not punish, you +adherents of the doctrine of free will!—These principles are, however, +nothing but a very marvellous conceptual mythology, and the hen that +hatched them has brooded on her eggs far away from all reality. + + + + +24. + + +JUDGING THE CRIMINAL AND HIS JUDGE.—The criminal, who knows the whole +concatenation of circumstances, does not consider his act so far beyond +the bounds of order and comprehension as does his judge. His punishment, +however, is measured by the degree of astonishment that seizes the judge +when he finds the crime incomprehensible.—If the defending counsel’s +knowledge of the case and its previous history extends far enough, the +so-called extenuating circumstances which he duly pleads must end by +absolving his client from all guilt. Or, to put it more plainly, the +advocate will, step by step, tone down and finally remove the astonishment +of the judge, by forcing every honest listener to the tacit avowal, “He +was bound to act as he did, and if we punished, we should be punishing +eternal Necessity.”—Measuring the punishment by the degree of knowledge we +possess or can obtain of the previous history of the crime—is that not in +conflict with all equity? + + + + +25. + + +EXCHANGE AND EQUITY.—In an exchange, the only just and honest course would +be for either party to demand only so much as he considers his commodity +to be worth, allowance being made for trouble in acquisition, scarcity, +time spent and so forth, besides the subjective value. As soon as you make +your price bear a relation to the other’s need, you become a refined sort +of robber and extortioner.—If money is the sole medium of exchange, we +must remember that a shilling is by no means the same thing in the hands +of a rich heir, a farm labourer, a merchant, and a university student. It +would be equitable for every one to receive much or little for his money, +according as he has done much or little to earn it. In practice, as we all +know, the reverse is the case. In the world of high finance the shilling +of the idle rich man can buy more than that of the poor, industrious man. + + + + +26. + + +LEGAL CONDITIONS AS MEANS.—Law, where it rests upon contracts between +equals, holds good so long as the power of the parties to the contract +remains equal or similar. Wisdom created law to end all feuds and useless +expenditure among men on an equal footing. Quite as definite an end is put +to this waste, however, when one party has become decidedly weaker than +the other. Subjection enters and law ceases, but the result is the same as +that attained by law. For now it is the wisdom of the superior which +advises to spare the inferior and not uselessly to squander his strength. +Thus the position of the inferior is often more favourable than that of +the equal.—Hence legal conditions are temporary _means_ counselled by +wisdom, and not ends. + + + + +27. + + +EXPLANATION OF MALICIOUS JOY.—Malicious joy arises when a man consciously +finds himself in evil plight and feels anxiety or remorse or pain. The +misfortune that overtakes B. makes him equal to A., and A. is reconciled +and no longer envious.—If A. is prosperous, he still hoards up in his +memory B.’s misfortune as a capital, so as to throw it in the scale as a +counter-weight when he himself suffers adversity. In this case too he +feels “malicious joy” (_Schadenfreude_). The sentiment of equality thus +applies its standard to the domain of luck and chance. Malicious joy is +the commonest expression of victory and restoration of equality, even in a +higher state of civilisation. This emotion has only been in existence +since the time when man learnt to look upon another as his equal—in other +words, since the foundation of society. + + + + +28. + + +THE ARBITRARY ELEMENT IN THE AWARD OF PUNISHMENT.—To most criminals +punishment comes just as illegitimate children come to women. They have +done the same thing a hundred times without any bad consequences. Suddenly +comes discovery, and with discovery punishment. Yet habit should make the +deed for which the criminal is punished appear more excusable, for he has +developed a propensity that is hard to resist. Instead of this, the +criminal is punished more severely if the suspicion of habitual crime +rests on him, and habit is made a valid reason against all extenuation. On +the other hand, a model life, wherein crime shows up in more terrible +contrast, should make the guilt appear more heavy! But here the custom is +to soften the punishment. Everything is measured not from the standpoint +of the criminal but from that of society and its losses and dangers. The +previous utility of an individual is weighed against his one nefarious +action, his previous criminality is added to that recently discovered, and +punishment is thus meted out as highly as possible. But if we thus punish +or reward a man’s past (for in the former case the diminution of +punishment is a reward) we ought to go farther back and punish and reward +the cause of his past—I mean parents, teachers, society. In many instances +we shall then find the _judges_ somehow or other sharing in the guilt. It +is arbitrary to stop at the criminal himself when we punish his past: if +we will not grant the absolute excusability of every crime, we should stop +at each individual case and probe no farther into the past—in other words, +isolate guilt and not connect it with previous actions. Otherwise we sin +against logic. The teachers of free will should draw the inevitable +conclusion from their doctrine of “free will” and boldly decree: “No +action has a past.” + + + + +29. + + +ENVY AND HER NOBLER SISTER.—Where equality is really recognised and +permanently established, we see the rise of that propensity that is +generally considered immoral, and would scarcely be conceivable in a state +of nature—envy. The envious man is susceptible to every sign of individual +superiority to the common herd, and wishes to depress every one once more +to the level—or raise himself to the superior plane. Hence arise two +different modes of action, which Hesiod designated good and bad Eris. In +the same way, in a condition of equality there arises indignation if A. is +prosperous above and B. unfortunate beneath their deserts and equality. +These latter, however, are emotions of nobler natures. They feel the want +of justice and equity in things that are independent of the arbitrary +choice of men—or, in other words, they desire the equality recognised by +man to be recognised as well by Nature and chance. They are angry that men +of equal merits should not have equal fortune. + + + + +30. + + +THE ENVY OF THE GODS.—“The envy of the Gods” arises when a despised person +sets himself on an equality with his superior (like Ajax), or is made +equal with him by the favour of fortune (like Niobe, the too favoured +mother). In the social class system this envy demands that no one shall +have merits above his station, that his prosperity shall be on a level +with his position, and especially that his self-consciousness shall not +outgrow the limits of his rank. Often the victorious general, or the pupil +who achieves a masterpiece, has experienced “the envy of the gods.” + + + + +31. + + +VANITY AS AN ANTI-SOCIAL AFTERGROWTH.—As men, for the sake of security, +have made themselves equal in order to found communities, but as also this +conception is imposed by a sort of constraint and is entirely opposed to +the instincts of the individual, so, the more universal security is +guaranteed, the more do new offshoots of the old instinct for predominance +appear. Such offshoots appear in the setting-up of class distinctions, in +the demand for professional dignities and privileges, and, generally +speaking, in vanity (manners, dress, speech, and so forth). So soon as +danger to the community is apparent, the majority, who were unable to +assert their preponderance in a time of universal peace, once more bring +about the condition of equality, and for the time being the absurd +privileges and vanities disappear. If the community, however, collapses +utterly and anarchy reigns supreme, there arises the state of nature: an +absolutely ruthless inequality as recounted by Thucydides in the case of +Corcyra. Neither a natural justice nor a natural injustice exists. + + + + +32. + + +EQUITY.—Equity is a development of justice, and arises among such as do +not come into conflict with the communal equality. This more subtle +recognition of the principle of equilibrium is applied to cases where +nothing is prescribed by law. Equity looks forwards and backwards, its +maxim being, “Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you.” +_Aequum_ means: “This principle is conformable to our equality; it tones +down even our small differences to an appearance of equality, and expects +us to be indulgent in cases where we are not compelled to pardon.” + + + + +33. + + +ELEMENTS OF REVENGE.—The word “revenge” is spoken so quickly that it +almost seems as if it could not contain more than one conceptual and +emotional root. Hence we are still at pains to find this root. Our +economists, in the same way, have never wearied of scenting a similar +unity in the word “value,” and of hunting after the primitive root idea of +value. As if all words were not pockets, into which this or that or +several things have been stuffed at once! So “revenge” is now one thing, +now another, and sometimes more composite. Let us first distinguish that +defensive counter-blow, which we strike, almost unconsciously, even at +inanimate objects (such as machinery in motion) that have hurt us. The +notion is to set a check to the object that has hurt us, by bringing the +machine to a stop. Sometimes the force of this counter-blow, in order to +attain its object, will have to be strong enough to shatter the machine. +If the machine be too strong to be disorganised by one man, the latter +will all the same strike the most violent blow he can—as a sort of last +attempt. We behave similarly towards persons who hurt us, at the immediate +sensation of the hurt. If we like to call this an act of revenge, well and +good: but we must remember that here self-preservation alone has set its +cog-wheels of reason in motion, and that after all we do not think of the +doer of the injury but only of ourselves. We act without any idea of doing +injury in return, only with a view to getting away safe and sound.—It +needs time to pass in thought from oneself to one’s adversary and ask +oneself at what point he is most vulnerable. This is done in the second +variety of revenge, the preliminary idea of which is to consider the +vulnerability and susceptibility of the other. The intention then is to +give pain. On the other hand, the idea of securing himself against further +injury is in this case so entirely outside the avenger’s horizon, that he +almost regularly brings about his own further injury and often foresees it +in cold blood. If in the first sort of revenge it was the fear of a second +blow that made the counter-blow as strong as possible, in this case there +is an almost complete indifference to what one’s adversary will do: the +strength of the counter-blow is only determined by what he has _already_ +done to us. Then what has he done? What profit is it to us if he is now +suffering, after we have suffered through him? This is a case of +readjustment, whereas the first act of revenge only serves the purpose of +self-preservation. It may be that through our adversary we have lost +property, rank, friends, children—these losses are not recovered by +revenge, the readjustment only concerns a subsidiary loss which is added +to all the other losses. The revenge of readjustment does not preserve one +from further injury, it does not make good the injury already +suffered—except in one case. If our honour has suffered through our +adversary, revenge can restore it. But in any case honour _has_ suffered +an injury if intentional harm has been done us, because our adversary +proved thereby that he was not afraid of us. By revenge we prove that we +are not afraid of him either, and herein lies the settlement, the +readjustment. (The intention of showing their complete lack of fear goes +so far in some people that the dangers of revenge—loss of health or life +or other losses—are in their eyes an indispensable condition of every +vengeful act. Hence they practise the duel, although the law also offers +them aid in obtaining satisfaction for what they have suffered. They are +not satisfied with a safe means of recovering their honour, because this +would not prove their fearlessness.)—In the first-named variety of revenge +it is just fear that strikes the counter-blow; in the second case it is +the absence of fear, which, as has been said, wishes to manifest itself in +the counter-blow.—Thus nothing appears more different than the motives of +the two courses of action which are designated by the one word “revenge.” +Yet it often happens that the avenger is not precisely certain as to what +really prompted his deed: perhaps he struck the counterblow from fear and +the instinct of self-preservation, but in the background, when he has time +to reflect upon the standpoint of wounded honour, he imagines that he has +avenged himself for the sake of his honour—this motive is in any case more +_reputable_ than the other. An essential point is whether he sees his +honour injured in the eyes of others (the world) or only in the eyes of +his offenders: in the latter case he will prefer secret, in the former +open revenge. Accordingly, as he enters strongly or feebly into the soul +of the doer and the spectator, his revenge will be more bitter or more +tame. If he is entirely lacking in this sort of imagination, he will not +think at all of revenge, as the feeling of “honour” is not present in him, +and accordingly cannot be wounded. In the same way, he will not think of +revenge if he despises the offender and the spectator; because as objects +of his contempt they cannot give him honour, and accordingly cannot rob +him of honour. Finally, he will forego revenge in the not uncommon case of +his loving the offender. It is true that he then suffers loss of honour in +the other’s eyes, and will perhaps become less worthy of having his love +returned. But even to renounce all requital of love is a sacrifice that +love is ready to make when its only object is to avoid hurting the beloved +object: this would mean hurting oneself more than one is hurt by the +sacrifice.—Accordingly, every one will avenge himself, unless he be bereft +of honour or inspired by contempt or by love for the offender. Even if he +turns to the law-courts, he desires revenge as a private individual; but +also, as a thoughtful, prudent man of society, he desires the revenge of +society upon one who does not respect it. Thus by legal punishment private +honour as well as that of society is restored—that is to say, punishment +is revenge. Punishment undoubtedly contains the first-mentioned element of +revenge, in as far as by its means society helps to preserve itself, and +strikes a counter-blow in self-defence. Punishment desires to prevent +further injury, to scare other offenders. In this way the two elements of +revenge, different as they are, are united in punishment, and this may +perhaps tend most of all to maintain the above-mentioned confusion of +ideas, thanks to which the individual avenger generally does not know what +he really wants. + + + + +34. + + +THE VIRTUES THAT DAMAGE US.—As members of communities we think we have no +right to exercise certain virtues which afford us great honour and some +pleasure as private individuals (for example, indulgence and favour +towards miscreants of all kinds)—in short, every mode of action whereby +the advantage of society would suffer through our virtue. No bench of +judges, face to face with its conscience, may permit itself to be +gracious. This privilege is reserved for the king as an individual, and we +are glad when he makes use of it, proving that we should like to be +gracious individually, but not collectively. Society recognises only the +virtues profitable to her, or at least not injurious to her—virtues like +justice, which are exercised without loss, or, in fact, at compound +interest. The virtues that damage us cannot have originated in society, +because even now opposition to them arises in every small society that is +in the making. Such virtues are therefore those of men of unequal +standing, invented by the superior individuals; they are the virtues of +rulers, and the idea underlying them is: “I am mighty enough to put up +with an obvious loss; that is a proof of my power.” Thus they are virtues +closely akin to pride. + + + + +35. + + +THE CASUISTRY OF ADVANTAGE.—There would be no moral casuistry if there +were no casuistry of advantage. The most free and refined intelligence is +often incapable of choosing between two alternatives in such a way that +his choice necessarily involves the greater advantage. In such cases we +choose because we must, and afterwards often feel a kind of emotional +sea-sickness. + + + + +36. + + +TURNING HYPOCRITE.—Every beggar turns hypocrite, like every one who makes +his living out of indigence, be it personal or public.—The beggar does not +feel want nearly so keenly as he must make others feel it, if he wishes to +make a living by mendicancy. + + + + +37. + + +A SORT OF CULT OF THE PASSIONS.—You hypochondriacs, you philosophic +blind-worms talk of the formidable nature of human passions, in order to +inveigh against the dreadsomeness of the whole world-structure. As if the +passions were always and everywhere formidable! As if this sort of terror +must always exist in the world!—Through a carelessness in small matters, +through a deficiency in observation of self and of the rising generation, +you have yourselves allowed your passions to develop into such unruly +monsters that you are frightened now at the mere mention of the word +“passion”! It rests with you and it rests with us to divest the passions +of their formidable features and so to dam them that they do not become +devastating floods.—We must not exalt our errors into eternal fatalities. +Rather shall we honestly endeavour to convert all the passions of humanity +into sources of joy.(18) + + + + +38. + + +THE STING OF CONSCIENCE.—The sting of conscience, like the gnawing of a +dog at a stone, is mere foolishness. + + + + +39. + + +ORIGIN OF RIGHTS.—Rights may be traced to traditions, traditions to +momentary agreements. At some time or other men were mutually content with +the consequences of making an agreement, and, again, too indolent formally +to renew it. Thus they went on living as if it had constantly been +renewed, and gradually, when oblivion cast its veil over the origin, they +thought they possessed a sacred, unalterable foundation on which every +generation would be compelled to build. Tradition was now a constraint, +even if it no more involved the profit originally derived from making the +agreement.—Here the weak have always found their strong fortress. They are +inclined to immortalise the momentary agreement, the single act of favour +shown towards them. + + + + +40. + + +THE SIGNIFICANCE OF OBLIVION IN MORAL SENTIMENT.—The same actions that in +primitive society first aimed at the common advantage were later on +performed from other motives: from fear or reverence of those who demanded +and recommended them; or from habit, because men had seen them done about +them from childhood upwards; or from kindness, because the practising of +them caused delight and approving looks on all sides; or from vanity, +because they were praised. Such actions, in which the fundamental motive, +that of utility, has been _forgotten_, are then called moral; not, indeed, +because they are done from those other motives, but because they are not +done with a conscious purpose of utility.—Whence the hatred of utility +that suddenly manifests itself here, and by which all praiseworthy actions +formally exclude all actions for the sake of utility?—Clearly society, the +rallying-point of all morality and of all maxims in praise of moral +action, has had to battle too long and too fiercely with the selfishness +and obstinacy of the individual not to rate every motive morally higher +than utility. Hence it looks as if morals had not sprung from utility, +whereas in fact morals are originally the public utility, which had great +difficulty in prevailing over the interests of the unit and securing a +loftier reputation. + + + + +41. + + +THE HEIRS TO THE WEALTH OF MORALITY.—Even in the domain of morals there is +an inherited wealth, which is owned by the gentle, the good-tempered, the +compassionate, the indulgent. They have inherited from their forefathers +their gentle mode of action, but not common sense (the source of that mode +of action). The pleasant thing about this wealth is that one must always +bestow and communicate a portion of it, if its presence is to be felt at +all. Thus this wealth unconsciously aims at bridging the gulf between the +morally rich and the morally poor, and, what is its best and most +remarkable feature, not for the sake of a future mean between rich and +poor, but for the sake of a universal prosperity and superfluity.—Such may +be the prevailing view of inherited moral wealth, but it seems to me that +this view is maintained more _in majorem gloriam_ of morality than in +honour of truth. Experience at least establishes a maxim which must serve, +if not as a refutation, at any rate as an important check upon that +generalisation. Without the most exquisite intelligence, says experience, +without the most refined capacity for choice and a strong propensity to +observe the mean, the morally rich will become spendthrifts of morality. +For by abandoning themselves without restraint to their compassionate, +gentle, conciliatory, harmonising instincts, they make all about them more +careless, more covetous, and more sentimental. The children of these +highly moral spendthrifts easily and (sad to relate) at best become +pleasant but futile wasters. + + + + +42. + + +THE JUDGE AND EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCES.—“One should behave as a man of +honour even towards the devil and pay his debts,” said an old soldier, +when the story of Faust had been related to him in rather fuller detail. +“Hell is the right place for Faust!” “You are terrible, you men!” cried +his wife; “how can that be? After all, his only fault was having no ink in +his ink-stand! It is indeed a sin to write with blood, but surely for that +such a handsome man ought not to burn in Hell-fire?” + + + + +43. + + +PROBLEM OF THE DUTY OF TRUTH.—Duty is an imperious sentiment that forces +us to action. We call it good, and consider it outside the pale of +discussion. The origin, limits, and justification of duty we will not +debate or allow to be debated. But the thinker considers everything an +evolution and every evolution a subject for discussion, and is accordingly +without duty so long as he is merely a thinker. As such, he would not +recognise the duty of seeing and speaking the truth; he would not _feel_ +the sentiment at all. He asks, whence comes it and whither will it go? But +even this questioning appears to him questionable. Surely, however, the +consequence would be that the thinker’s machinery would no longer work +properly if he could really feel himself unencumbered by duty in the +search for knowledge? It would appear, then, that for fuel the same +element is necessary as must be investigated by means of the +machine.—Perhaps the formula will be: granted there were a duty of +recognising truth, what is then the truth in regard to every other kind of +duty?—But is not a hypothetical sense of duty a contradiction in terms? + + + + +44. + + +GRADES OF MORALS.—Morality is primarily a means of preserving the +community and saving it from destruction. Next it is a means of +maintaining the community on a certain plane and in a certain degree of +benevolence. Its motives are fear and hope, and these in a more coarse, +rough, and powerful form, the more the propensity towards the perverse, +one-sided, and personal still persists. The most terrible means of +intimidation must be brought into play so long as milder forms have no +effect and that twofold species of preservation cannot be attained. (The +strongest intimidation, by the way, is the invention of a hereafter with a +hell everlasting.) For this purpose we must have racks and torturers of +the soul. Further grades of morality, and accordingly means to the end +referred to, are the commandments of a God (as in the Mosaic law). Still +further and higher are the commandments of an absolute sense of duty with +a “Thou shalt”—all rather roughly hewn yet _broad_ steps, because on the +finer, narrower steps men cannot yet set their feet. Then comes a morality +of inclination, of taste, finally of insight—which is beyond all the +illusory motives of morality, but has convinced itself that humanity for +long periods could be allowed no other. + + + + +45. + + +THE MORALITY OF PITY IN THE MOUTHS OF THE INTEMPERATE.—All those who are +not sufficiently masters of themselves and do not know morality as a +self-control and self-conquest continuously exercised in things great and +small, unconsciously come to glorify the good, compassionate, benevolent +impulses of that instinctive morality which has no head, but seems merely +to consist of a heart and helpful hands. It is to their interest even to +cast suspicion upon a morality of reason and to set up the other as the +sole morality. + + + + +46. + + +SEWERS OF THE SOUL.—Even the soul must have its definite sewers, through +which it can allow its filth to flow off: for this purpose it may use +persons, relations, social classes, its native country, or the world, or +finally—for the wholly arrogant (I mean our modern “pessimists”)—_le bon +Dieu_. + + + + +47. + + +A KIND OF REST AND CONTEMPLATION.—Beware lest your rest and contemplation +resemble that of a dog before a butcher’s stall, prevented by fear from +advancing and by greed from retiring, and opening its eyes wide as though +they were mouths. + + + + +48. + + +PROHIBITIONS WITHOUT REASONS.—A prohibition, the reason of which we do not +understand or admit, is almost a command, not only for the stiff-necked +but for the thirster after knowledge. We at once make an experiment in +order to learn _why_ the prohibition was made. Moral prohibitions, like +those of the Decalogue, are only suited to ages when reason lies +vanquished. Nowadays a prohibition like “Thou shalt not kill,” “Thou shalt +not commit adultery,” laid down without reasons, would have an injurious +rather than a beneficial effect. + + + + +49. + + +CHARACTER PORTRAIT.—What sort of a man is it that can say of himself: “I +despise very easily, but never hate. I at once find out in every man +something which can be honoured and for which I honour him: the so-called +amiable qualities attract me but little”? + + + + +50. + + +PITY AND CONTEMPT.—The expression of pity is regarded as a sign of +contempt, because one has clearly ceased to be an object of _fear_ as soon +as one becomes an object of pity. One has sunk below the level of the +equilibrium. For this equilibrium does not satisfy human vanity, which is +only satisfied by the feeling that one is imposing respect and awe. Hence +it is difficult to explain why pity is so highly prized, just as we need +to explain why the unselfish man, who is originally despised or feared as +being artful, is praised. + + + + +51. + + +THE CAPACITY OF BEING SMALL.—We must be as near to flowers, grasses, and +butterflies as a child, that is, not much bigger than they. We adults have +grown up beyond them and have to stoop to them. I think the grasses hate +us when we confess our love for them.—He who would have a share in all +good things must understand at times how to be small. + + + + +52. + + +THE SUM-TOTAL OF CONSCIENCE.—The sum-total of our conscience is all that +has regularly been demanded of us, without reason, in the days of our +childhood, by people whom we respected or feared. From conscience comes +that feeling of obligation (“This I must do, this omit”) which does not +ask, Why must I?—In all cases where a thing is done with “because” and +“why,” man acts without conscience, but not necessarily on that account +_against_ conscience.—The belief in authority is the source of conscience; +which is therefore not the voice of God in the heart of man, but the voice +of some men in man. + + + + +53. + + +CONQUEST OF THE PASSIONS.—The man who has overcome his passions has +entered into possession of the most fruitful soil, like the colonist who +has become lord over bogs and forests. To sow the seed of spiritual good +works on the soil of the vanquished passions is the next and most urgent +task. The conquest itself is a means, not an end: if it be not so +regarded, all kind of weeds and devil’s crop quickly spring up upon the +fertile soil that has been cleared, and soon the growth is all wilder and +more luxuriant than before. + + + + +54. + + +SKILL IN SERVICE.—All so-called practical men have skill in service, +whether it be serving others or themselves; this is what makes them +practical. Robinson owned a servant even better than Friday—his name was +Crusoe. + + + + +55. + + +DANGER IN SPEECH TO INTELLECTUAL FREEDOM.—Every word is a preconceived +judgment. + + + + +56. + + +INTELLECT AND BOREDOM.—The proverb, “The Hungarian is far too lazy to feel +bored,” gives food for thought. Only the highest and most active animals +are capable of being bored.—The boredom of God on the seventh day of +Creation would be a subject for a great poet. + + + + +57. + + +INTERCOURSE WITH ANIMALS.—The origin of our morality may still be observed +in our relations with animals. Where advantage or the reverse do not come +into play, we have a feeling of complete irresponsibility. For example, we +kill or wound insects or let them live, and as a rule think no more about +it. We are so clumsy that even our gracious acts towards flowers and small +animals are almost always murderous: this does not in the least detract +from our pleasure in them.—To-day is the festival of the small animals, +the most sultry day of the year. There is a swarming and crawling around +us, and we, without intention, but also without reflection, crush here and +there a little fly or winged beetle.—If animals do us harm, we strive to +_annihilate_ them in every possible way. The means are often cruel enough, +even without our really intending them to be so—it is the cruelty of +thoughtlessness. If they are useful, we turn them to advantage, until a +more refined wisdom teaches us that certain animals amply reward a +different mode of treatment, that of tending and breeding. Here +responsibility first arises. Torturing is avoided in the case of the +domestic animal. One man is indignant if another is cruel to his cow, +quite in accordance with the primitive communal morality, which sees the +commonwealth in danger whenever an individual does wrong. He who perceives +any transgression in the community fears indirect harm to himself. Thus we +fear in this case for the quality of meat, agriculture, and means of +communication if we see the domestic animals ill-treated. Moreover, he who +is harsh to animals awakens a suspicion that he is also harsh to men who +are weak, inferior, and incapable of revenge. He is held to be ignoble and +deficient in the finer form of pride. Thus arises a foundation of moral +judgments and sentiments, but the greatest contribution is made by +superstition. Many animals incite men by glances, tones, and gestures to +transfer themselves into them in imagination, and some religions teach us, +under certain circumstances, to see in animals the dwelling-place of human +and divine souls: whence they recommend a nobler caution or even a +reverential awe in intercourse with animals. Even after the disappearance +of this superstition the sentiments awakened by it continue to exercise +their influence, to ripen and to blossom.—Christianity, as is well known, +has shown itself in this respect a poor and retrograde religion. + + + + +58. + + +NEW ACTORS.—Among human beings there is no greater banality than death. +Second in order, because it is possible to die without being born, comes +birth, and next comes marriage. But these hackneyed little tragi-comedies +are always presented, at each of their unnumbered and innumerable +performances, by new actors, and accordingly do not cease to find +interested spectators: whereas we might well believe that the whole +audience of the world-theatre had long since hanged themselves to every +tree from sheer boredom at these performances. So much depends on new +actors, so little on the piece. + + + + +59. + + +WHAT IS “BEING OBSTINATE”?—The shortest way is not the straightest +possible, but that wherein favourable winds swell our sails. So says the +wisdom of seamen. Not to follow his course is obstinate, firmness of +character being then adulterated by stupidity. + + + + +60. + + +THE WORD “VANITY.”—It is annoying that certain words, with which we +moralists positively cannot dispense, involve in themselves a kind of +censorship of morals, dating from the times when the most ordinary and +natural impulses were denounced. Thus that fundamental conviction that on +the waves of society we either find navigable waters or suffer shipwreck +far more through what we appear than through what we are (a conviction +that must act as guiding principle of all action in relation to society) +is branded with the general word “vanity.” In other words, one of the most +weighty and significant of qualities is branded with an expression which +denotes it as essentially empty and negative: a great thing is designated +by a diminutive, ay, even slandered by the strokes of caricature. There is +no help for it; we must use such words, but then we must shut our ears to +the insinuations of ancient habits. + + + + +61. + + +THE FATALISM OF THE TURK.—The fatalism of the Turk has this fundamental +defect, that it contrasts man and fate as two distinct things. Man, says +this doctrine, may struggle against fate and try to baffle it, but in the +end fate will always gain the victory. Hence the most rational course is +to resign oneself or to live as one pleases. As a matter of fact, every +man is himself a piece of fate. When he thinks that he is struggling +against fate in this way, fate is accomplishing its ends even in that +struggle. The combat is a fantasy, but so is the resignation in fate—all +these fantasies are included in fate.—The fear felt by most people of the +doctrine that denies the freedom of the will is a fear of the fatalism of +the Turk. They imagine that man will become weakly resigned and will stand +before the future with folded hands, because he cannot alter anything of +the future. Or that he will give a free rein to his caprices, because the +predestined cannot be made worse by that course. The follies of men are as +much a piece of fate as are his wise actions, and even that fear of belief +in fate is a fatality. You yourself, you poor timid creature, are that +indomitable _Moira_, which rules even the Gods; whatever may happen, you +are a curse or a blessing, and in any case the fetters wherein the +strongest lies bound: in you the whole future of the human world is +predestined, and it is no use for you to be frightened of yourself. + + + + +62. + + +THE ADVOCATE OF THE DEVIL.—“Only by our own suffering do we become wise, +only by others’ suffering do we become good”—so runs that strange +philosophy which derives all morality from pity and all intellectuality +from the isolation of the individual. Herein this philosophy is the +unconscious pleader for all human deterioration. For pity needs suffering, +and isolation contempt of others. + + + + +63. + + +THE MORAL CHARACTER-MASKS.—In ages when the character-masks of different +classes are definitely fixed, like the classes themselves, moralists will +be seduced into holding the moral character-masks, too, as absolute, and +in delineating them accordingly. Thus Molière is intelligible as the +contemporary of the society of Louis XIV.: in our society of transitions +and intermediate stages he would seem an inspired pedant. + + + + +64. + + +THE MOST NOBLE VIRTUE.—In the first era of the higher humanity courage is +accounted the most noble virtue, in the next justice, in the third +temperance, in the fourth wisdom. In which era do _we_ live? In which do +_you_ live? + + + + +65. + + +A NECESSARY PRELIMINARY.—A man who will not become master of his +irritability, his venomous and vengeful feelings, and his lust, and +attempts to become master in anything else, is as stupid as the farmer who +lays out his field beside a torrent without guarding against that torrent. + + + + +66. + + +WHAT IS TRUTH?—_Schwarzert_ (Melanchthon): We often preach our faith when +we have lost it, and leave not a stone unturned to find it—and then we +often do not preach worst! + +_Luther_: Brother, you are really speaking like an angel to-day. + +_Schwarzert_: But that is the idea of your enemies, and they apply it to +you. + +_Luther_: Then it would be a lie from the devil’s hind-quarters. + + + + +67. + + +THE HABIT OF CONTRASTS.—Superficial, inexact observation sees contrasts +everywhere in nature (for instance, “hot and cold”), where there are no +contrasts, only differences of degree. This bad habit has induced us to +try to understand and interpret even the inner nature, the intellectual +and moral world, in accordance with such contrasts. An infinite amount of +cruelty, arrogance, harshness, estrangement, and coldness has entered into +human emotion, because men imagined they saw contrasts where there were +only transitions. + + + + +68. + + +CAN WE FORGIVE?—How can we forgive them at all, if they know not what they +do? We have nothing to forgive. But does a man ever fully know what he is +doing? And if this point at least remains always debatable, men never have +anything to forgive each other, and indulgence is for the reasonable man +an impossible thing. Finally, if the evil-doers had really known what they +did, we should still only have a right to forgive if we had a right to +accuse and to punish. But we have not that right. + + + + +69. + + +HABITUAL SHAME.—Why do we feel shame when some virtue or merit is +attributed to us which, as the saying goes, “we have not deserved”? +Because we appear to have intruded upon a territory to which we do not +belong, from which we should be excluded, as from a holy place or holy of +holies, which ought not to be trodden by our foot. Through the errors of +others we have, nevertheless, penetrated to it, and we are now swayed +partly by fear, partly by reverence, partly by surprise; we do not know +whether we ought to fly or to enjoy the blissful moment with all its +gracious advantages. In all shame there is a mystery, which seems +desecrated or in danger of desecration through us. All _favour_ begets +shame.—But if it be remembered that we have never really “deserved” +anything, this feeling of shame, provided that we surrender ourselves to +this point of view in a spirit of Christian contemplation, becomes +habitual, because upon such a one God seems continually to be conferring +his blessing and his favours. Apart from this Christian interpretation, +the state of habitual shame will be possible even to the entirely godless +sage, who clings firmly to the basic non-responsibility and +non-meritoriousness of all action and being. If he be treated as if he had +deserved this or that, he will seem to have won his way into a higher +order of beings, who do actually deserve something, who are free and can +really bear the burden of responsibility for their own volition and +capacity. Whoever says to him, “You have deserved it,” appears to cry out +to him, “You are not a human being, but a God.” + + + + +70. + + +THE MOST UNSKILFUL TEACHER.—In one man all his real virtues are implanted +on the soil of his spirit of contradiction, in another on his incapacity +to say “no”—in other words, on his spirit of acquiescence. A third has +made all his morality grow out of his pride as a solitary, a fourth from +his strong social instinct. Now, supposing that the seeds of the virtues +in these four cases, owing to mischance or unskilful teachers, were not +sown on the soil of their nature, which provides them with the richest and +most abundant mould, they would become weak, unsatisfactory men (devoid of +morality). And who would have been the most unskilful of teachers, the +evil genius of these men? The moral fanatic, who thinks that the good can +only grow out of the good and on the soil of the good. + + + + +71. + + +THE CAUTIOUS STYLE.—_A._ But if this were known to _all_, it would be +injurious to the _majority_. You yourself call your opinions dangerous to +those in danger, and yet you make them public? + +_B._ I write so that neither the mob, nor the _populi_, nor the parties of +all kinds can read me. So my opinions will never be “public opinions.” + +_A._ How do you write, then? + +_B._ Neither usefully nor pleasantly—for the three classes I have +mentioned. + + + + +72. + + +DIVINE MISSIONARIES.—Even Socrates feels himself to be a divine +missionary, but I am not sure whether we should not here detect a tincture +of that Attic irony and fondness for jesting whereby this odious, arrogant +conception would be toned down. He talks of the fact without unction—his +images of the gadfly and the horse are simple and not sacerdotal. The real +religious task which he has set himself—to _test_ God in a hundred ways +and see whether he spoke the truth—betrays a bold and free attitude, in +which the missionary walked by the side of his God. This testing of God is +one of the most subtle compromises between piety and free-thinking that +has ever been devised.—Nowadays we do not even need this compromise any +longer. + + + + +73. + + +HONESTY IN PAINTING.—Raphael, who cared a great deal for the Church (so +far as she could pay him), but, like the best men of his time, cared +little for the objects of the Church’s belief, did not advance one step to +meet the exacting, ecstatic piety of many of his patrons. He remained +honest even in that exceptional picture which was originally intended for +a banner in a procession—the Sistine Madonna. Here for once he wished to +paint a vision, but such a vision as even noble youths without “faith” may +and will have—the vision of the future wife, a wise, high-souled, silent, +and very beautiful woman, carrying her first-born in her arms. Let men of +an older generation, accustomed to prayer and devotion, find here, like +the worthy elder on the left, something superhuman to revere. We younger +men (so Raphael seems to call to us) are occupied with the beautiful +maiden on the right, who says to the spectator of the picture, with her +challenging and by no means devout look, “The mother and her child—is not +that a pleasant, inviting sight?” The face and the look are reflected in +the joy in the faces of the beholders. The artist who devised all this +enjoys himself in this way, and adds his own delight to the delight of the +art-lover. As regards the “messianic” expression in the face of the child, +Raphael, honest man, who would not paint any state of soul in which he did +not believe, has amiably cheated his religious admirers. He painted that +freak of nature which is very often found, the man’s eye in the child’s +face, and that, too, the eye of a brave, helpful man who sees distress. +This eye should be accompanied by a beard. The fact that a beard is +wanting, and that two different ages are seen in one countenance, is the +pleasing paradox which believers have interpreted in accordance with their +faith in miracles. The artist could only expect as much from their art of +exposition and interpretation. + + + + +74. + + +PRAYER.—On two hypotheses alone is there any sense in prayer, that not +quite extinct custom of olden times. It would have to be possible either +to fix or alter the will of the godhead, and the devotee would have to +know best himself what he needs and should really desire. Both hypotheses, +axiomatic and traditional in all other religions, are denied by +Christianity. If Christianity nevertheless maintained prayer side by side +with its belief in the all-wise and all-provident divine reason (a belief +that makes prayer really senseless and even blasphemous), it showed here +once more its admirable “wisdom of the serpent.” For an outspoken command, +“Thou shalt not pray,” would have led Christians by way of boredom to the +denial of Christianity. In the Christian _ora et labora ora_ plays the +rôle of pleasure. Without _ora_ what could those unlucky saints who +renounced _labora_ have done? But to have a chat with God, to ask him for +all kinds of pleasant things, to feel a slight amusement at one’s own +folly in still having any wishes at all, in spite of so excellent a +father—all that was an admirable invention for saints. + + + + +75. + + +A HOLY LIE.—The lie that was on Arria’s lips when she died (_Paete, non +dolet_(19)) obscures all the truths that have ever been uttered by the +dying. It is the only holy _lie_ that has become famous, whereas elsewhere +the odour of sanctity has clung only to _errors_. + + + + +76. + + +THE MOST NECESSARY APOSTLE.—Among twelve apostles one must always be hard +as stone, in order that upon him the new church may be built. + + + + +77. + + +WHICH IS MORE TRANSITORY, THE BODY OR THE SPIRIT?—In legal, moral, and +religious institutions the external and concrete elements—in other words, +rites, gestures, and ceremonies—are the most permanent. They are the body +to which a new spirit is constantly being superadded. The cult, like an +unchangeable text, is ever interpreted anew. Concepts and emotions are +fluid, customs are solid. + + + + +78. + + +THE BELIEF IN DISEASE _QUA_ DISEASE.—Christianity first painted the devil +on the wall of the world. Christianity first brought the idea of sin into +the world. The belief in the remedies, which is offered as an antidote, +has gradually been shaken to its very foundations. But the belief in the +disease, which Christianity has taught and propagated, still exists. + + + + +79. + + +SPEECH AND WRITINGS OF RELIGIOUS MEN.—If the priest’s style and general +expression, both in speaking and writing, do not clearly betray the +religious man, we need no longer take his views upon religion and his +pleading for religion seriously. These opinions have become powerless for +him if, judging by his style, he has at command irony, arrogance, malice, +hatred, and all the changing eddies of mood, just like the most +irreligious of men—how far more powerless will they be for his hearers and +readers! In short, he will serve to make the latter still more +irreligious. + + + + +80. + + +THE DANGER IN PERSONALITY.—The more God has been regarded as a personality +in himself, the less loyal have we been to him. Men are far more attached +to their thought-images than to their best beloved. That is why they +sacrifice themselves for State, Church, and even for God—so far as he +remains _their_ creation, their thought, and is not too much looked upon +as a personality. In the latter case they almost always quarrel with him. +After all, it was the most pious of men who let slip that bitter cry: “My +God, why hast thou forsaken me?” + + + + +81. + + +WORLDLY JUSTICE.—It is possible to unhinge worldly justice with the +doctrine of the complete non-responsibility and innocence of every man. An +attempt has been made in the same direction on the basis of the opposite +doctrine of the full responsibility and guilt of every man. It was the +founder of Christianity who wished to abolish worldly justice and banish +judgment and punishment from the world. For he understood all guilt as +“sin”—that is, an outrage against God and not against the world. On the +other hand, he considered every man in a broad sense, and almost in every +sense, a sinner. The guilty, however, are not to be the judges of their +peers—so his rules of equity decided. Thus all dispensers of worldly +justice were in his eyes as culpable as those they condemned, and their +air of guiltlessness appeared to him hypocritical and pharisaical. +Moreover, he looked to the motives and not to the results of actions, and +thought that only one was keen-sighted enough to give a verdict on +motives—himself or, as he expressed it, God. + + + + +82. + + +AN AFFECTATION IN PARTING.—He who wishes to sever his connection with a +party or a creed thinks it necessary for him to refute it. This is a most +arrogant notion. The only thing necessary is that he should clearly see +what tentacles hitherto held him to this party or creed and no longer hold +him, what views impelled him to it and now impel him in some other +directions. We have not joined the party or creed on strict grounds of +knowledge. We should not affect this attitude on parting from it either. + + + + +83. + + +SAVIOUR AND PHYSICIAN.—In his knowledge of the human soul the founder of +Christianity was, as is natural, not without many great deficiencies and +prejudices, and, as physician of the soul, was addicted to that +disreputable, laical belief in a universal medicine. In his methods he +sometimes resembles that dentist who wishes to heal all pain by extracting +the tooth. Thus, for example, he assails sensuality with the advice: “If +thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.”—Yet there still remains the +distinction that the dentist at least attains his object—painlessness for +the patient—although in so clumsy a fashion that he becomes ridiculous; +whereas the Christian who follows that advice and thinks he has killed his +sensuality, is wrong, for his sensuality still lives in an uncanny, +vampire form, and torments him in hideous disguises. + + + + +84. + + +PRISONERS.—One morning the prisoners entered the yard for work, but the +warder was not there. Some, as their manner was, set to work at once; +others stood idle and gazed defiantly around. Then one of them strode +forward and cried, “Work as much as you will or do nothing, it all comes +to the same. Your secret machinations have come to light; the warder has +been keeping his eye on you of late, and will cause a terrible judgment to +be passed upon you in a few days’ time. You know him—he is of a cruel and +resentful disposition. But now, listen: you have mistaken me hitherto. I +am not what I seem, but far more—I am the son of the warder, and can get +anything I like out of him. I can save you—nay, I will save you. But +remember this: I will only save those of you who _believe_ that I am the +son of the prison warder. The rest may reap the fruits of their unbelief.” +“Well,” said an old prisoner after an interval of silence, “what can it +matter to you whether we believe you or not? If you are really the son, +and can do what you say, then put in a good word for us all. That would be +a real kindness on your part. But have done with all talk of belief and +unbelief!” “What is more,” cried a younger man, “I don’t believe him: he +has only got a bee in his bonnet. I’ll wager that in a week’s time we +shall find ourselves in the same place as we are to-day, and the warder +will know nothing.” “And if the warder ever knew anything, he knows it no +longer,” said the last of the prisoners, coming down into the yard at that +moment, “for he has just died suddenly.” “Ah ha!” cried several in +confusion, “ah ha! Sir Son, Sir Son, how stands it now with your title? +Are we by any chance _your_ prisoners now?” “I told you,” answered the man +gently, “I will set free all who believe in me, as surely as my father +still lives.”—The prisoners did not laugh, but shrugged their shoulders +and left him to himself. + + + + +85. + + +THE PERSECUTORS OF GOD.—Paul conceived and Calvin followed up the idea +that countless creatures have been predestined to damnation from time +immemorial, and that this fair world was made in order that the glory of +God might be manifested therein. So heaven and hell and mankind merely +exist to satisfy the vanity of God! What a cruel, insatiable vanity must +have smouldered in the soul of the first or second thinker of such a +thought!—Paul, then, after all, remained Saul—the persecutor of God. + + + + +86. + + +SOCRATES.—If all goes well, the time will come when, in order to advance +themselves on the path of moral reason, men will rather take up the +_Memorabilia_ of Socrates than the Bible, and when Montaigne and Horace +will be used as pioneers and guides for the understanding of Socrates, the +simplest and most enduring of interpretative sages. In him converge the +roads of the most different philosophic modes of life, which are in truth +the modes of the different temperaments, crystallised by reason and habit +and all ultimately directed towards the delight in life and in self. The +apparent conclusion is that the most peculiar thing about Socrates was his +share in all the temperaments. Socrates excels the founder of Christianity +by virtue of his merry style of seriousness and by that wisdom of sheer +roguish pranks which constitutes the best state of soul in a man. +Moreover, he had a superior intelligence. + + + + +87. + + +LEARNING TO WRITE WELL.—The age of good speaking is over, because the age +of city-state culture is over. The limit allowed by Aristotle to the great +city—in which the town-crier must be able to make himself heard by the +whole assembled community—troubles us as little as do any +city-communities, us who even wish to be understood beyond the boundaries +of nations. Therefore every one who is of a good European turn of mind +must learn to _write_ well, and to write better and better. He cannot help +himself, he must learn that: even if he was born in Germany, where bad +writing is looked upon as a national privilege. Better writing means +better thinking; always to discover matter more worthy of communication; +to be able to communicate it properly; to be translateable into the +tongues of neighbouring nations; to make oneself comprehensible to +foreigners who learn our language; to work with the view of making all +that is good common property, and of giving free access everywhere to the +free; finally, to pave the way for that still remote state of things, when +the great task shall come for good Europeans—guidance and guardianship of +the universal world-culture.—Whoever preaches the opposite doctrine of not +troubling about good writing and good reading (both virtues grow together +and decline together) is really showing the peoples a way of becoming more +and more _national_. He is intensifying the malady of this century, and is +a foe to good Europeans, a foe to free spirits. + + + + +88. + + +THE THEORY OF THE BEST STYLE.—The theory of the best style may at one time +be the theory of finding the expression by which we transfer every mood of +ours to the reader and the listener. At another, it may be the theory of +finding expressions for the more desirable human moods, the communication +and transference of which one desires most—for the mood of a man moved +from the depth of his heart, intellectually cheerful, bright, and sincere, +who has conquered his passions. This will be the theory of the best style, +a theory that corresponds to the good man. + + + + +89. + + +PAYING ATTENTION TO MOVEMENT.—The movement of the sentences shows whether +the author be tired. Individual expressions may nevertheless be still +strong and good, because they were invented earlier and for their own +sake, when the thought first flashed across the author’s mind. This is +frequently the case with Goethe, who too often dictated when he was tired. + + + + +90. + + +“ALREADY” AND “STILL.”—_A._ German prose is still very young. Goethe +declares that Wieland is its father. + +_B._ So young and already so ugly! + +_C._ But, so far as I am aware, Bishop Ulfilas already wrote German prose, +which must therefore be fifteen hundred years old. + +_B._ So old and still so ugly! + + + + +91. + + +ORIGINAL GERMAN.—German prose, which is really not fashioned on any +pattern and must be considered an original creation of German taste, +should give the eager advocate of a future original German culture an +indication of how real German dress, German society, German furniture, +German meals would look without the imitation of models.—Some one who had +long reflected on these vistas finally cried in great horror, “But, Heaven +help us, perhaps we already have that original culture—only we don’t like +to talk about it!” + + + + +92. + + +FORBIDDEN BOOKS.—One should never read anything written by those arrogant +wiseacres and puzzle-brains who have the detestable vice of logical +paradox. They apply _logical_ formulæ just where everything is really +improvised at random and built in the air. (“Therefore” with them means, +“You idiot of a reader, this ‘therefore’ does not exist for you, but only +for me.” The answer to this is: “You idiot of a writer, then why do you +write?”) + + + + +93. + + +DISPLAYING ONE’S WIT.—Every one who wishes to display his wit thereby +proclaims that he has also a plentiful lack of wit. That vice which clever +Frenchmen have of adding a touch of _dédain_ to their best ideas arises +from a desire to be considered richer than they really are. They wish to +be carelessly generous, as if weary of continual spending from overfull +treasuries. + + + + +94. + + +FRENCH AND GERMAN LITERATURE.—The misfortune of the French and German +literature of the last hundred years is that the Germans ran away too +early from the French school, and the French, later on, went too early to +the German school. + + + + +95. + + +OUR PROSE.—None of the present-day cultured nations has so bad a prose as +the German. When clever, _blasé_ Frenchmen say, “There is no German +prose,” we ought really not to be angry, for this criticism is more polite +than we deserve. If we look for reasons, we come at last to the strange +phenomenon that the German knows only improvised prose and has no +conception of any other. He simply cannot understand the Italian, who says +that prose is as much harder than poetry as the representation of naked +beauty is harder to the sculptor than that of draped beauty. Verse, +images, rhythm, and rhyme need honest effort—that even the German +realises, and he is not inclined to set a very high value on extempore +poetry. But the notion of working at a page of prose as at a statue sounds +to him like a tale from fairyland. + + + + +96. + + +THE GRAND STYLE.—The grand style comes into being when the beautiful wins +a victory over the monstrous. + + + + +97. + + +DODGING.—We do not realise, in the case of distinguished minds, wherein +lies the excellence of their expression, their turn of phrase, until we +can say what word every mediocre writer would inevitably have hit upon in +expressing the same idea. All great artists, in steering their car, show +themselves prone to dodge and leave the track, but never to fall over. + + + + +98. + + +SOMETHING LIKE BREAD.—Bread neutralises and takes out the taste of other +food, and is therefore necessary to every long meal. In all works of art +there must be something like bread, in order that they may produce divers +effects. If these effects followed one another without occasional pauses +and intervals, they would soon make us weary and provoke disgust—in fact, +a long meal of art would then be impossible. + + + + +99. + + +JEAN PAUL.—Jean Paul knew a great deal, but had no science; understood all +manner of tricks of art, but had no art; found almost everything +enjoyable, but had no taste; possessed feeling and seriousness, but in +dispensing them poured over them a nauseous sauce of tears; had even wit, +but, unfortunately for his ardent desire for it, far too little—whence he +drives the reader to despair by his very lack of wit. In short, he was the +bright, rank-smelling weed that shot up overnight in the fair pleasaunces +of Schiller and Goethe. He was a good, comfortable man, and yet a destiny, +a destiny in a dressing-gown.(20) + + + + +100. + + +PALATE FOR OPPOSITES.—In order to enjoy a work of the past as its +contemporaries enjoyed it, one must have a palate for the prevailing taste +of the age which it attacked. + + + + +101. + + +SPIRITS-OF-WINE AUTHORS.—Many writers are neither spirit nor wine, but +spirits of wine. They can flare up, and then they give warmth. + + + + +102. + + +THE INTERPRETATIVE SENSE.—The sense of taste, as the true interpretative +sense, often talks the other senses over to its point of view and imposes +upon them its laws and customs. At table one can receive disclosures about +the most subtle secrets of the arts; it suffices to observe what tastes +good and when and after what and how long it tastes good. + + + + +103. + + +LESSING.—Lessing had a genuine French talent, and, as writer, went most +assiduously to the French school. He knows well how to arrange and display +his wares in his shop-window. Without this true art his thoughts, like the +objects of them, would have remained rather in the dark, nor would the +general loss be great. His art, however, has taught many (especially the +last generation of German scholars) and has given enjoyment to a countless +number. It is true his disciples had no need to learn from him, as they +often did, his unpleasant tone with its mingling of petulance and +candour.—Opinion is now unanimous on Lessing as “lyric poet,” and will +some day be unanimous on Lessing as “dramatic poet.” + + + + +104. + + +UNDESIRABLE READERS.—How an author is vexed by those stolid, awkward +readers who always fall at every place where they stumble, and always hurt +themselves when they fall! + + + + +105. + + +POETS’ THOUGHTS.—Real thoughts of real poets always go about with a veil +on, like Egyptian women; only the deep _eye_ of thought looks out freely +through the veil.—Poets’ thoughts are as a rule not of such value as is +supposed. We have to pay for the veil and for our own curiosity into the +bargain. + + + + +106. + + +WRITE SIMPLY AND USEFULLY.—Transitions, details, colour in depicting the +passions—we make a present of all these to the author because we bring +them with us and set them down to the credit of his book, provided he +makes us some compensation. + + + + +107. + + +WIELAND.—Wieland wrote German better than any one else, and had the +genuine adequacies and inadequacies of the master. His translations of the +letters of Cicero and Lucian are the best in the language. His ideas, +however, add nothing to our store of thought. We can endure his cheerful +moralities as little as his cheerful immoralities, for both are very +closely connected. The men who enjoyed them were at bottom better men than +we are, but also a good deal heavier. They _needed_ an author of this +sort. The Germans did not need Goethe, and therefore cannot make proper +use of him. We have only to consider the best of our statesmen and artists +in this light. None of them had or _could_ have had Goethe as their +teacher. + + + + +108. + + +RARE FESTIVALS.—Pithy conciseness, repose, and maturity—where you find +these qualities in an author, cry halt and celebrate a great festival in +the desert. It will be long before you have such a treat again. + + + + +109. + + +THE TREASURE OF GERMAN PROSE.—Apart from Goethe’s writings and especially +Goethe’s conversations with Eckermann (the best German book in existence), +what German prose literature remains that is worth reading over and over +again? Lichtenberg’s _Aphorisms_, the first book of Jung-Stilling’s _Story +of My Life_, Adalbert Stifter’s _St. Martin’s Summer_ and Gottfried +Keller’s _People of Seldwyla_—and there, for the time being, it comes to +an end. + + + + +110. + + +LITERARY AND COLLOQUIAL STYLE.—The art of writing demands, first and +foremost, substitutions for the means of expression which speech alone +possesses—in other words, for gestures, accent, intonation, and look. +Hence literary style is quite different from colloquial style, and far +more difficult, because it has to make itself as intelligible as the +latter with fewer accessaries. Demosthenes delivered his speeches +differently from what we read; he worked them up for reading +purposes.—Cicero’s speeches ought to be “demosthenised” with the same +object, for at present they contain more of the Roman Forum than we can +endure. + + + + +111. + + +CAUTION IN QUOTATION.—Young authors do not know that a good expression or +idea only looks well among its peers; that an excellent quotation may +spoil whole pages, nay the whole book; for it seems to cry warningly to +the reader, “Mark you, I am the precious stone, and round about me is +lead—pale, worthless lead!” Every word, every idea only desires to live in +its own company—that is the moral of a choice style. + + + + +112. + + +HOW SHOULD ERRORS BE ENUNCIATED?—We may dispute whether it be more +injurious for errors to be enunciated badly or as well as the best truths. +It is certain that in the former case they are doubly harmful to the brain +and are less easily removed from it. But, on the other hand, they are not +so certain of effect as in the latter case. They are, in fact, less +contagious. + + + + +113. + + +LIMITING AND WIDENING.—Homer limited and diminished the horizon of his +subject, but allowed individual scenes to expand and blossom out. Later, +the tragedians are constantly renewing this process. Each takes his +material in ever smaller and smaller fragments than his predecessor did, +but each attains a greater wealth of blooms within the narrow hedges of +these sequestered garden enclosures. + + + + +114. + + +LITERATURE AND MORALITY MUTUALLY EXPLANATORY.—We can show from Greek +literature by what forces the Greek spirit developed, how it entered upon +different channels, and where it became enfeebled. All this also depicts +to us how Greek morality proceeded, and how all morality will proceed: how +it was at first a constraint and displayed cruelty, then became gradually +milder; how a pleasure in certain actions, in certain forms and +conventions arose, and from this again a propensity for solitary exercise, +for solitary possession; how the track becomes crowded and overcrowded +with competitors; how satiety enters in, new objects of struggle and +ambition are sought, and forgotten aims are awakened to life; how the +drama is repeated, and the spectators become altogether weary of looking +on, because the whole gamut seems to have been run through—and then comes +a stoppage, an expiration, and the rivulets are lost in the sand. The end, +or at any rate _an_ end, has come. + + + + +115. + + +WHAT LANDSCAPES GIVE PERMANENT DELIGHT.—Such and such a landscape has +features eminently suited for painting, but I cannot find the formula for +it; it remains beyond my grasp as a whole. I notice that all landscapes +which please me permanently have a simple geometrical scheme of lines +underneath all their complexity. Without such a mathematical substratum no +scenery becomes artistically pleasing. Perhaps this rule may be applied +symbolically to human beings. + + + + +116. + + +READING ALOUD.—The ability to read aloud involves of necessity the ability +to declaim. Everywhere we must apply pale tints, but we must determine the +degree of pallor in close relation to the richly and deeply coloured +background, that always hovers before our eyes and acts as our guide—in +other words, in accordance with the way in which we should _declaim_ the +same passages. That is why we must be able to declaim. + + + + +117. + + +THE DRAMATIC SENSE.—He who has not the four subtler senses of art tries to +understand everything with the fifth sense, which is the coarsest of +all—the dramatic sense. + + + + +118. + + +HERDER.—Herder fails to be all that he made people think he was and +himself wished to think he was. He was no great thinker or discoverer, no +newly fertile soil with the unexhausted strength of a virgin forest. But +he possessed in the highest degree the power of scenting the future, he +saw and picked the first-fruits of the seasons earlier than all others, +and they then believed that he had made them grow. Between darkness and +light, youth and age, his mind was like a hunter on the watch, looking +everywhere for transitions, depressions, convulsions, the outward and +visible signs of internal growth. The unrest of spring drove him to and +fro, but he was himself not the spring.—At times, indeed, he had some +inkling of this, and yet would fain not have believed it—he, the ambitious +priest, who would have so gladly been the intellectual pope of his epoch! +This is his despair. He seems to have lived long as a pretender to several +kingdoms or even to a universal monarchy. He had his following which +believed in him, among others the young Goethe. But whenever crowns were +really distributed, he was passed over. Kant, Goethe, and then the first +true German historians and scholars robbed him of what he thought he had +reserved for himself (although in silence and secret he often thought the +reverse). Just when he doubted in himself, he gladly clothed himself in +dignity and enthusiasm: these were often in him mere garments, which had +to hide a great deal and also to deceive and comfort him. He really had +fire and enthusiasm, but his ambition was far greater! It blew impatiently +at the fire, which flickered, crackled, and smoked—his _style_ flickers, +crackles, and smokes—but he yearned for the great flame which never broke +out. He did not sit at the table of the genuine creators, and his ambition +did not admit of his sitting modestly among those who simply enjoy. Thus +he was a restless spirit, the taster of all intellectual dishes, which +were collected by the Germans from every quarter and every age in the +course of half a century. Never really happy and satisfied, Herder was +also too often ill, and then at times envy sat by his bed, and hypocrisy +paid her visit as well. He always had an air of being scarred and +crippled, and he lacked simple, stalwart manliness more completely than +any of the so-called “classical writers.” + + + + +119. + + +SCENT OF WORDS.—Every word has its scent; there is a harmony and discord +of scents, and so too of words. + + + + +120. + + +THE FAR-FETCHED STYLE.—The natural style is an offence to the lover of the +far-fetched style. + + + + +121. + + +A VOW.—I will never again read an author of whom one can suspect that he +_wanted_ to make a book, but only those writers whose thoughts +unexpectedly became a book. + + + + +122. + + +THE ARTISTIC CONVENTION.—Three-fourths of Homer is convention, and the +same is the case with all the Greek artists, who had no reason for falling +into the modern craze for originality. They had no fear of convention, for +after all convention was a link between them and their public. Conventions +are the artistic means _acquired_ for the understanding of the hearer; the +common speech, learnt with much toil, whereby the artist can really +communicate his ideas. All the more when he wishes, like the Greek poets +and musicians, to conquer at once with each of his works (since he is +accustomed to compete publicly with one or two rivals), the first +condition is that he must be understood at once, and this is only possible +by means of convention. What the artist devises beyond convention he +offers of his own free will and takes a risk, his success at best +resulting in the setting-up of a new convention. As a rule originality is +marvelled at, sometimes even worshipped, but seldom understood. A stubborn +avoidance of convention means a desire not to be understood. What, then, +is the object of the modern craze for originality? + + + + +123. + + +ARTISTS’ AFFECTATION OF SCIENTIFIC METHOD.—Schiller, like other German +artists, fancied that if a man had intellect he was entitled to improvise +even with the pen on all difficult subjects. So there we see his prose +essays—in every way a model of how _not_ to attack scientific questions of +æsthetics and ethics, and a danger for young readers who, in their +admiration for Schiller the poet, have not the courage to think meanly of +Schiller the thinker and author.—The temptation to traverse for once the +forbidden paths, and to have his say in science as well, is easy and +pardonable in the artist. For even the ablest artist from time to time +finds his handicraft and his workshop unendurable. This temptation is so +strong that it makes the artist show all the world what no one wishes to +see, that his little chamber of thought is cramped and untidy. Why not, +indeed? He does not live there. He proceeds to show that the storeroom of +his knowledge is partly empty, partly filled with lumber. Why not, indeed? +This condition does not really become the artist-child badly. In +particular, the artist shows that for the very easiest exercises of +scientific method, which are accessible even to beginners, his joints are +too stiff and untrained. Even of that he need not really be ashamed! On +the other hand, he often develops no mean art in imitating all the +mistakes, vices, and base pedantries that are practised in the scientific +community, in the belief that these belong to the appearance of the thing, +if not to the thing itself. This is the very point that is so amusing in +artists’ writing, that the artist involuntarily acts as his vocation +demands: he parodies the scientific and inartistic natures. Towards +science he should show no attitude but that of parody, in so far as he is +an artist and only an artist. + + + + +124. + + +THE FAUST-IDEA.—A little sempstress is seduced and plunged into despair: a +great scholar of all the four Faculties is the evil-doer. That cannot have +happened in the ordinary course, surely? No, certainly not! Without the +aid of the devil incarnate, the great scholar would never have achieved +the deed.—Is this really destined to be the greatest German “tragic idea,” +as one hears it said among Germans?—But for Goethe even this idea was too +terrible. His kind heart could not avoid placing the little sempstress, +“the good soul that forgot itself but once,” near to the saints, after her +involuntary death. Even the great scholar, “the good man” with “the dark +impulse,” is brought into heaven in the nick of time, by a trick which is +played upon the devil at the decisive moment. In heaven the lovers find +themselves again. Goethe once said that his nature was too conciliatory +for really tragic subjects. + + + + +125. + + +ARE THERE “GERMAN CLASSICS”?—Sainte-Beuve observes somewhere that the word +“classic” does not suit the genius of certain literatures. For instance, +nobody could talk seriously of “German classics.”—What do our German +publishers, who are about to add fifty more to the fifty German classics +we are told to accept, say to that? Does it not almost seem as if one need +only have been dead for the last thirty years, and lie a lawful prey to +the public,(21) in order to hear suddenly and unexpectedly the trumpet of +resurrection as a “Classic”? And this in an age and a nation where at +least five out of the six great fathers of its literature are undoubtedly +antiquated or becoming antiquated—without there being any need for the age +or the nation to be ashamed of this. For those writers have given way +before the strength of our time—let that be considered in all +fairness!—Goethe, as I have indicated, I do not include. He belongs to a +higher species than “national literatures”: hence life, revival, and decay +do not enter into the reckoning in his relations with his countrymen. He +lived and now lives but for the few; for the majority he is nothing but a +flourish of vanity which is trumpeted from time to time across the border +into foreign ears. Goethe, not merely a great and good man, but a +_culture_, is in German history an interlude without a sequel. Who, for +instance, would be able to point to any trace of Goethe’s influence in +German politics of the last seventy years (whereas the influence, +certainly of Schiller, and perhaps of Lessing, can be traced in the +political world)? But what of those five others? Klopstock, in a most +honourable way, became out of date even in his own lifetime, and so +completely that the meditative book of his later years, _The Republic of +Learning_, has never been taken seriously from that day to this. Herder’s +misfortune was that his writings were always either new or antiquated. +Thus for stronger and more subtle minds (like Lichtenberg) even Herder’s +masterpiece, his _Ideas for the History of Mankind_, was in a way +antiquated at the very moment of its appearance. Wieland, who lived to the +full and made others live likewise, was clever enough to anticipate by +death the waning of his influence. Lessing, perhaps, still lives +to-day—but among a young and ever younger band of scholars. Schiller has +fallen from the hands of young men into those of boys, of all German boys. +It is a well-known sign of obsolescence when a book descends to people of +less and less mature age.—Well, what is it that has thrust these five into +the background, so that well-educated men of affairs no longer read them? +A better taste, a riper knowledge, a higher reverence for the real and the +true: in other words, the very virtues which these five (and ten or twenty +others of lesser repute) first re-planted in Germany, and which now, like +a mighty forest, cast over their graves not only the shadow of awe, but +something of the shadow of oblivion.—But classical writers are not +planters of intellectual and literary virtues. They bring those virtues to +perfection and are their highest luminous peaks, and being brighter, +freer, and purer than all that surrounds them, they remain shining above +the nations when the nations themselves perish. There may come an elevated +stage of humanity, in which the Europe of the peoples is a dark, forgotten +thing, but Europe lives on in thirty books, very old but never +antiquated—in the classics. + + + + +126. + + +INTERESTING, BUT NOT BEAUTIFUL.—This countryside conceals its meaning, but +it has one that we should like to guess. Everywhere that I look, I read +words and hints of words, but I do not know where begins the sentence that +solves the riddle of all these hints. So I get a stiff neck in trying to +discover whether I should start reading from this or that point. + + + + +127. + + +AGAINST INNOVATORS IN LANGUAGE.—The use of neologisms or archaisms, the +preference for the rare and the bizarre, the attempt to enrich rather than +to limit the vocabulary, are always signs either of an immature or of a +corrupted taste. A noble poverty but a masterly freedom within the limits +of that modest wealth distinguishes the Greek artists in oratory. They +wish to have less than the people has—for the people is richest in old and +new—but they wish to have that little _better_. The reckoning up of their +archaic and exotic forms is soon done, but we never cease marvelling if we +have an eye for their light and delicate manner in handling the +commonplace and apparently long outworn elements in word and phrase. + + + + +128. + + +GLOOMY AND SERIOUS AUTHORS.—He who commits his sufferings to paper becomes +a gloomy author, but he becomes a serious one if he tells us what he _has_ +suffered and why he is now enjoying a pleasurable repose. + + + + +129. + + +HEALTHINESS OF TASTE.—How is it that health is less contagious than +disease—generally, and particularly in matters of taste? Or are there +epidemics of health? + + + + +130. + + +A RESOLUTION.—Never again to read a book that is born and christened (with +ink) at the same moment. + + + + +131. + + +IMPROVING OUR IDEAS.—Improving our style means improving our ideas, and +nothing else. He who does not at once concede this can never be convinced +of the point. + + + + +132. + + +CLASSICAL BOOKS.—The weakest point in every classical book is that it is +written too much in the mother tongue of its author. + + + + +133. + + +BAD BOOKS.—The book should demand pen, ink, and desk, but usually it is +pen, ink, and desk that demand the book. That is why books are of so +little account at present. + + + + +134. + + +PRESENCE OF SENSE.—When the public reflects on paintings, it becomes a +poet; when on poems, an investigator. At the moment when the artist +summons it it is always lacking in the right sense, and accordingly in +presence of sense, not in presence of mind. + + + + +135. + + +CHOICE IDEAS.—The choice style of a momentous period does not only select +its words but its ideas—and both from the customary and prevailing usage. +Venturesome ideas, that smell too fresh, are to the maturer taste no less +repugnant than new and reckless images and phrases. Later on both choice +ideas and choice words soon smack of mediocrity, because the scent of the +choice vanishes quickly, and then nothing but the customary and +commonplace element is tasted. + + + + +136. + + +MAIN REASON FOR CORRUPTION OF STYLE.—The desire to display more sentiment +than one really feels for a thing corrupts style, in language and in all +art. All great art shows rather the opposite tendency. Like every man of +moral significance, it loves to check emotion on its way and not let it +run its course to the very end. This modesty of letting emotion but half +appear is most clearly to be observed, for example, in Sophocles. The +features of sentiment seem to become beautified when sentiment feigns to +be more shy than it really is. + + + + +137. + + +AN EXCUSE FOR THE HEAVY STYLE.—The lightly uttered phrase seldom falls on +the ear with the full weight of the subject. This is, however, due to the +bad training of the ear, which by education must pass from what has +hitherto been called music to the school of the higher harmony—in other +words, to conversation. + + + + +138. + + +BIRD’S-EYE VIEWS.—Here torrents rush from every side into a ravine: their +movement is so swift and stormy, and carries the eye along so quickly, +that the bare or wooded mountain slopes around seem not to sink down but +to fly down. We are in an agonised tension at the sight, as if behind all +this were hidden some hostile element, before which all must fly, and +against which the abyss alone gave protection. This landscape cannot be +painted, unless we hover above it like a bird in the open air. Here for +once the so-called bird’s-eye view is not an artistic caprice, but the +sole possibility. + + + + +139. + + +RASH COMPARISONS.—If rash comparisons are not proofs of the wantonness of +the writer, they are proofs of the exhaustion of his imagination. In any +case they bear witness to his bad taste. + + + + +140. + + +DANCING IN CHAINS.—In the case of every Greek artist, poet, or writer we +must ask: What is the new constraint which he imposes upon himself and +makes attractive to his contemporaries, so as to find imitators? For the +thing called “invention” (in metre, for example) is always a self-imposed +fetter of this kind. “Dancing in chains”—to make that hard for themselves +and then to spread a false notion that it is easy—that is the trick that +they wish to show us. Even in Homer we may perceive a wealth of inherited +formulæ and laws of epic narration, within the circle of which he had to +dance, and he himself created new conventions for them that came after. +This was the discipline of the Greek poets: first to impose upon +themselves a manifold constraint by means of the earlier poets; then to +invent in addition a new constraint, to impose it upon themselves and +cheerfully to overcome it, so that constraint and victory are perceived +and admired. + + + + +141. + + +AUTHORS’ COPIOUSNESS.—The last quality that a good author acquires is +copiousness: whoever has it to begin with will never become a good author. +The noblest racehorses are lean until they are permitted to rest from +their victories. + + + + +142. + + +WHEEZING HEROES.—Poets and artists who suffer from a narrow chest of the +emotions generally make their heroes wheeze. They do not know what easy +breathing means. + + + + +143. + + +THE SHORT-SIGHTED.(22)—The short-sighted are the deadly foes of all +authors who let themselves go. These authors should know the wrath with +which these people shut the book in which they observe that its creator +needs fifty pages to express five ideas. And the cause of their wrath is +that they have endangered what remains of their vision almost without +compensation. A short-sighted person said, “All authors let themselves +go.” “Even the Holy Ghost?” “Even the Holy Ghost.” But he had a right to, +for he wrote for those who had lost their sight altogether. + + + + +144. + + +THE STYLE OF IMMORTALITY.—Thucydides and Tacitus both imagined immortal +life for their works when they executed them. That might be guessed (if +not known otherwise) from their style. The one thought to give permanence +to his ideas by salting them, the other by boiling them down; and neither, +it seems, made a miscalculation. + + + + +145. + + +AGAINST IMAGES AND SIMILES.—By images and similes we convince, but we do +not prove. That is why science has such a horror of images and similes. +Science does not want to convince or make plausible, and rather seeks to +provoke cold distrust by its mode of expression, by the bareness of its +walls. For distrust is the touchstone for the gold of certainty. + + + + +146. + + +CAUTION.—In Germany, he who lacks thorough knowledge should beware of +writing. The good German does not say in that case “he is ignorant,” but +“he is of doubtful character.”—This hasty conclusion, by the way, does +great credit to the Germans. + + + + +147. + + +PAINTED SKELETONS.—Painted skeletons are those authors who try to make up +for their want of flesh by artistic colourings. + + + + +148. + + +THE GRAND STYLE AND SOMETHING BETTER.—It is easier to learn how to write +the grand style than how to write easily and simply. The reasons for this +are inextricably bound up with morality. + + + + +149. + + +SEBASTIAN BACH.—In so far as we do not hear Bach’s music as perfect and +experienced connoisseurs of counterpoint and all the varieties of the +fugal style (and accordingly must dispense with real artistic enjoyment), +we shall feel in listening to his music—in Goethe’s magnificent phrase—as +if “we were present at God’s creation of the world.” In other words, we +feel here that something great is in the making but not yet made—our +mighty modern music, which by conquering nationalities, the Church, and +counterpoint has conquered the world. In Bach there is still too much +crude Christianity, crude Germanism, crude scholasticism. He stands on the +threshold of modern European music, but turns from thence to look at the +Middle Ages. + + + + +150. + + +HÄNDEL.—Händel, who in the invention of his music was bold, original, +truthful, powerful, inclined to and akin to all the heroism of which a +_nation_ is capable, often proved stiff, cold, nay even weary of himself +in composition. He applied a few well-tried methods of execution, wrote +copiously and quickly, and was glad when he had finished—but that joy was +not the joy of God and other creators in the eventide of their working +day. + + + + +151. + + +HAYDN.—So far as genius can exist in a man who is merely _good_, Haydn had +genius. He went just as far as the limit which morality sets to intellect, +and only wrote music that has “no past.” + + + + +152. + + +BEETHOVEN AND MOZART.—Beethoven’s music often appears like a deeply +emotional meditation on unexpectedly hearing once more a piece long +thought to be forgotten, “Tonal Innocence”: it is music about music. In +the song of the beggar and child in the street, in the monotonous airs of +vagrant Italians, in the dance of the village inn or in carnival nights he +discovers his melodies. He stores them together like a bee, snatching here +and there some notes or a short phrase. To him these are hallowed memories +of “the better world,” like the ideas of Plato.—Mozart stands in quite a +different relation to his melodies. He finds his inspiration not in +hearing music but in gazing at life, at the most stirring life of southern +lands. He was always dreaming of Italy, when he was not there. + + + + +153. + + +RECITATIVE.—Formerly recitative was dry, but now we live in the age of +moist recitative. It has fallen into the water, and the waves carry it +whithersoever they list. + + + + +154. + + +“CHEERFUL” MUSIC.—If for a long time we have heard no music, it then goes +like a heavy southern wine all too quickly into the blood and leaves +behind it a soul dazed with narcotics, half-awake, longing for sleep. This +is particularly the case with cheerful music, which inspires in us +bitterness and pain, satiety and home-sickness together, and forces us to +sip again and again as at a sweetened draught of poison. The hall of gay, +noisy merriment then seems to grow narrow, the light to lose its +brightness and become browner. At last we feel as if this music were +penetrating to a prison where a poor wretch cannot sleep for +home-sickness. + + + + +155. + + +FRANZ SCHUBERT.—Franz Schubert, inferior as an artist to the other great +musicians, had nevertheless the largest share of inherited musical wealth. +He spent it with a free hand and a kind heart, so that for a few centuries +musicians will continue to _nibble_ at his ideas and inspirations. In his +works we find a store of _unused_ inventions; the greatness of others will +lie in making use of those inventions. If Beethoven may be called the +ideal listener for a troubadour, Schubert has a right to be called the +ideal troubadour. + + + + +156. + + +MODERN MUSICAL EXECUTION.—Great tragic or dramatic execution of music +acquires its character by imitating the gesture of the great sinner, such +as Christianity conceives and desires him: the slow-stepping, passionately +brooding man, distracted by the agonies of conscience, now flying in +terror, now clutching with delight, now standing still in despair—and all +the other marks of great sinfulness. Only on the Christian assumption that +all men are great sinners and do nothing but sin could we justify the +application of this style of execution to _all_ music. So far, music would +be the reflection of all the actions and impulses of man, and would +continually have to express by gestures the language of the great sinner. +At such a performance, a listener who was not enough of a Christian to +understand this logic might indeed cry out in horror, “For the love of +Heaven, how did sin find its way into music?” + + + + +157. + + +FELIX MENDELSSOHN.—Felix Mendelssohn’s music is the music of the good +taste that enjoys all the good things that have ever existed. It always +points behind. How could it have much “in front,” much of a future?—But +did he want it to have a future? He possessed a virtue rare among artists, +that of gratitude without _arrière-pensée_. This virtue, too, always +points behind. + + + + +158. + + +A MOTHER OF ARTS.—In our sceptical age, real devotion requires almost a +brutal heroism of ambition. Fanatical shutting of the eyes and bending of +the knee no longer suffice. Would it not be possible for ambition—in its +eagerness to be the last devotee of all the ages—to become the begetter of +a final church music, as it has been the begetter of the final church +architecture? (They call it the Jesuit style.) + + + + +159. + + +FREEDOM IN FETTERS—A PRINCELY FREEDOM.—Chopin, the last of the modern +musicians, who gazed at and worshipped beauty, like Leopardi; Chopin, the +Pole, the inimitable (none that came before or after him has a right to +this name)—Chopin had the same princely punctilio in convention that +Raphael shows in the use of the simplest traditional colours. The only +difference is that Chopin applies them not to colour but to melodic and +rhythmic traditions. He admitted the validity of these traditions because +he was born under the sway of etiquette. But in these fetters he plays and +dances as the freest and daintiest of spirits, and, be it observed, he +does not spurn the chain. + + + + +160. + + +CHOPIN’S BARCAROLLE.—Almost all states and modes of life have a moment of +rapture, and good artists know how to discover that moment. Such a moment +there is even in life by the seashore—that dreary, sordid, unhealthy +existence, dragged out in the neighbourhood of a noisy and covetous +rabble. This moment of rapture Chopin in his Barcarolle expressed in sound +so supremely that Gods themselves, when they heard it, might yearn to lie +long summer evenings in a boat. + + + + +161. + + +ROBERT SCHUMANN.—“The Stripling,” as the romantic songsters of Germany and +France of the first three decades of this century imagined him—this +stripling was completely translated into song and melody by Robert +Schumann, the eternal youth, so long as he felt himself in full possession +of his powers. There are indeed moments when his music reminds one of the +eternal “old maid.” + + + + +162. + + +DRAMATIC SINGERS.—“Why does this beggar sing?” “Probably he does not know +how to wail.” “Then he does right.” But our dramatic singers, who wail +because they do not know how to sing—are they also in the right? + + + + +163. + + +DRAMATIC MUSIC.—For him who does not see what is happening on the stage, +dramatic music is a monstrosity, just as the running commentary to a lost +text is a monstrosity. Such music requires us to have ears where our eyes +are. This, however, is doing violence to Euterpe, who, poor Muse, wants to +have her eyes and ears where the other Muses have theirs. + + + + +164. + + +VICTORY AND REASONABLENESS.—Unfortunately in the æsthetic wars, which +artists provoke by their works and apologias for their works, just as is +the case in real war, it is might and not reason that decides. All the +world now assumes as a historical fact that, in his dispute with Piccini, +Gluck was in the right. At any rate, he was victorious, and had might on +his side. + + + + +165. + + +OF THE PRINCIPLE OF MUSICAL EXECUTION.—Do the modern musical performers +really believe that the supreme law of their art is to give every piece as +much high-relief as is possible, and to make it speak at all costs a +dramatic language? Is not this principle, when applied for example to +Mozart, a veritable sin against the spirit—the gay, sunny, airy, delicate +spirit—of Mozart, whose seriousness was of a kindly and not awe-inspiring +order, whose pictures do not try to leap from the wall and drive away the +beholder in panic? Or do you think that all Mozart’s music is identical +with the statue-music in _Don Juan_? And not only Mozart’s, but all +music?—You reply that the advantage of your principle lies in its greater +_effect_. You would be right if there did not remain the counter-question, +“_On whom_ has the effect operated, and _on whom_ should an artist of the +first rank desire to produce his effect?” Never on the populace! Never on +the immature! Never on the morbidly sensitive! Never on the diseased! And +above all—never on the _blasé_! + + + + +166. + + +THE MUSIC OF TO-DAY.—This ultra-modern music, with its strong lungs and +weak nerves, is frightened above all things of itself. + + + + +167. + + +WHERE MUSIC IS AT HOME.—Music reaches its high-water mark only among men +who have not the ability or the right to argue. Accordingly, its chief +promoters are princes, whose aim is that there should be not much +criticism nor even much thought in their neighbourhood. Next come +societies which, under some pressure or other (political or religious), +are forced to become habituated to silence, and so feel all the greater +need of spells to charm away emotional ennui—these spells being generally +eternal love-making and eternal music. Thirdly, we must reckon whole +nations in which there is no “society,” but all the greater number of +individuals with a bent towards solitude, mystical thinking, and a +reverence for all that is inexpressible; these are the genuine “musical +souls.” The Greeks, as a nation delighting in talking and argument, +accordingly put up with music only as an _hors d’œuvre_ to those arts +which really admit of discussion and dispute. About music one can hardly +even _think_ clearly. The Pythagoreans, who in so many respects were +exceptional Greeks, are said to have been great musicians. This was the +school that invented a five-years’ silence,(23) but did not invent a +dialectic. + + + + +168. + + +SENTIMENTALITY IN MUSIC.—We may be ever so much in sympathy with serious +and profound music, yet nevertheless, or perhaps all the more for that +reason, we shall at occasional moments be overpowered, entranced, and +almost melted away by its opposite—I mean, by those simple Italian +operatic airs which, in spite of all their monotony of rhythm and +childishness of harmony, seem at times to sing to us like the very soul of +music. Admit this or not as you please, you Pharisees of good taste, it is +so, and it is my present task to propound the riddle that it is so, and to +nibble a little myself at the solution.—In childhood’s days we tasted the +honey of many things for the first time. Never was honey so good as then; +it seduced us to life, into abundant life, in the guise of the first +spring, the first flower, the first butterfly, the first friendship. +Then—perhaps in our ninth year or so—we heard our first music, and this +was the first that we understood; thus the simplest and most childish +tunes, that were not much more than a sequel to the nurse’s lullaby and +the strolling fiddler’s tune, were our first experience. (For even the +most trifling “revelations” of art need preparation and study; there is no +“immediate” effect of art, whatever charming fables the philosophers may +tell.) Our sensation on hearing these Italian airs is associated with +those first musical raptures, the strongest of our lives. The bliss of +childhood and its flight, the feeling that our most precious possession +can never be brought back, all this moves the chords of the soul more +strongly than the most serious and profound music can move them.—This +mingling of æsthetic pleasure with moral pain, which nowadays it is +customary to call (rather too haughtily, I think) “sentimentality”—it is +the mood of Faust at the end of the first scene—this “sentimentality” of +the listener is all to the advantage of Italian music. It is a feeling +which the experienced connoisseurs in art, the pure “æsthetes,” like to +ignore.—Moreover, almost all music has a magical effect only when we hear +it speak the language of our own _past_. Accordingly, it seems to the +layman that all the old music is continually growing better, and that all +the latest is of little value. For the latter arouses no “sentimentality,” +that most essential element of happiness, as aforesaid, for every man who +cannot approach this art with pure æsthetic enjoyment. + + + + +169. + + +AS FRIENDS OF MUSIC.—Ultimately we are and remain good friends with music, +as we are with the light of the moon. Neither, after all, tries to +supplant the sun: they only want to illumine our nights to the best of +their powers. Yet we may jest and laugh at them, may we not? Just a +little, at least, and from time to time? At the man in the moon, at the +woman in the music? + + + + +170. + + +ART IN AN AGE OF WORK.—We have the conscience of an industrious epoch. +This debars us from devoting our best hours and the best part of our days +to art, even though that art be the greatest and worthiest. Art is for us +a matter of leisure, of recreation, and we consecrate to it the _residue_ +of our time and strength. This is the cardinal fact that has altered the +relation of art to life. When art makes its great demands of time and +strength upon its recipients, it has to battle against the conscience of +the industrious and efficient, it is relegated to the idle and +conscienceless, who, by their very nature, are not exactly suited to great +art, and consider its claims arrogant. It might, therefore, be all over +with art, since it lacks air and the power to breathe. But perhaps the +great art attempts, by a sort of coarsening and disguising, to make itself +at home in that other atmosphere, or at least to put up with it—an +atmosphere which is really a natural element only for petty art, the art +of recreation, of pleasant distraction. This happens nowadays almost +everywhere. Even the exponents of great art promise recreation and +distraction; even they address themselves to the exhausted; even they +demand from him the evening hours of his working-day—just like the artists +of the entertaining school, who are content to smooth the furrowed brow +and brighten the lack-lustre eye. What, then, are the devices of their +mightier brethren? These have in their medicine-chests the most powerful +excitants, which might give a shock even to a man half-dead: they can +deafen you, intoxicate you, make you shudder, or bring tears to your eyes. +By this means they overpower the exhausted man and stimulate him for one +night to an over-lively condition, to an ecstasy of terror and delight. +This great art, as it now lives in opera, tragedy, and music—have we a +right to be angry with it, because of its perilous fascination, as we +should be angry with a cunning courtesan? Certainly not. It would far +rather live in the pure element of morning calm, and would far rather make +its appeal to the fresh, expectant, vigorous morning-soul of the beholder +or listener. Let us be thankful that it prefers living thus to vanishing +altogether. But let us also confess that an era that once more introduces +free and complete high-days and holidays into life will have no use for +_our_ great art. + + + + +171. + + +THE EMPLOYEES OF SCIENCE AND THE OTHERS.—Really efficient and successful +men of science might be collectively called “The Employees.” If in youth +their acumen is sufficiently practised, their memory is full, and hand and +eye have acquired sureness, they are appointed by an older +fellow-craftsman to a scientific position where their qualities may prove +useful. Later on, when they have themselves gained an eye for the gaps and +defects in their science, they place themselves in whatever position they +are needed. These persons all exist for the sake of science. But there are +rarer spirits, spirits that seldom succeed or fully mature—“for whose sake +science exists”—at least, in their view. They are often unpleasant, +conceited, or cross-grained men, but almost always prodigies to a certain +extent. They are neither employees nor employers; they make use of what +those others have worked out and established, with a certain princely +carelessness and with little and rare praise—just as if the others +belonged to a lower order of beings. Yet they possess the same qualities +as their fellow-workers, and that sometimes in a less developed form. +Moreover, they have a peculiar limitation, from which the others are free; +this makes it impossible to put them into a place and to see in them +useful tools. They can only live in their own air and on their own soil. +This limitation suggests to them what elements of a science “are +theirs”—in other words, what they can carry home into their house and +atmosphere: they think that they are always collecting their scattered +“property.” If they are prevented from building at their own nest, they +perish like shelterless birds. The loss of freedom causes them to wilt +away. If they show, like their colleagues, a fondness for certain regions +of science, it is always only regions where the fruits and seeds necessary +to them can thrive. What do they care whether science, taken as a whole, +has untilled or badly tilled regions? They lack all impersonal interest in +a scientific problem. As they are themselves personal through and through, +all their knowledge and ideas are remoulded into a person, into a living +complexity, with its parts interdependent, overlapping, jointly nurtured, +and with a peculiar atmosphere and scent as a whole.—Such natures, with +their system of personal knowledge, produce the illusion that a science +(or even the whole of philosophy) is finished and has reached its goal. +The life in their system works this magic, which at times has been fatal +to science and deceptive to the really efficient workers above described, +and at other times, when drought and exhaustion prevailed, has acted as a +kind of restorative, as if it were the air of a cool, refreshing +resting-place.—These men are usually called _philosophers_. + + + + +172. + + +RECOGNITION OF TALENT.—As I went through the village of S., a boy began to +crack his whip with all his might—he had made great progress in this art, +and he knew it. I threw him a look of recognition—in reality it hurt me +cruelly. We do the same in our recognition of many of the talents. We do +good to them when they hurt us. + + + + +173. + + +LAUGHING AND SMILING.—The more joyful and assured the mind becomes, the +more man loses the habit of loud laughter. In compensation, there is an +intellectual smile continually bubbling up in him, a sign of his +astonishment at the innumerable concealed delights of a good existence. + + + + +174. + + +THE TALK OF INVALIDS.—Just as in spiritual grief we tear our hair, strike +our foreheads, lacerate our cheeks or even (like Œdipus) gouge our eyes +out, so against violent physical pain we call to our aid a bitter, violent +emotion, through the recollection of slanderous and malignant people, +through the denigration of our future, through the sword-pricks and acts +of malice which we mentally direct against the absent. And at times it is +true that one devil drives out another—but then we have the other.—Hence a +different sort of talk, tending to alleviate pain, should be recommended +invalids: reflections upon the kindnesses and courtesies that can be +performed towards friend and foe. + + + + +175. + + +MEDIOCRITY AS A MASK.—Mediocrity is the happiest mask which the superior +mind can wear, because it does not lead the great majority—that is, the +mediocre—to think that there is any disguise. Yet the superior mind +assumes the mask just for their sake—so as not to irritate them, nay, +often from a feeling of pity and kindness. + + + + +176. + + +THE PATIENT.—The pine tree seems to listen, the fir tree to wait, and both +without impatience. They do not give a thought to the petty human being +below who is consumed by his impatience and his curiosity. + + + + +177. + + +THE BEST JOKER.—My favourite joke is the one that takes the place of a +heavy and rather hesitating idea, and that at once beckons with its finger +and winks its eye. + + + + +178. + + +THE ACCESSARIES OF ALL REVERENCE.—Wherever the past is revered, the +over-cleanly and over-tidy people should not be admitted. Piety does not +feel content without a little dust, dirt, and dross. + + + + +179. + + +THE GREAT DANGER OF SAVANTS.—It is just the most thorough and profound +savants who are in peril of seeing their life’s goal set ever lower and +lower, and, with a feeling of this in their minds, to become ever more +discouraged and more unendurable in the latter half of their lives. At +first they plunge into their science with spacious hopes and set +themselves daring tasks, the ends of which are already anticipated by +their imaginations. Then there are moments as in the lives of the great +maritime discoverers—knowledge, presentiment, and power raise each other +higher and higher, until a new shore first dawns upon the eye in the far +distance. But now the stern man recognises more and more how important it +is that the individual task of the inquirer should be limited as far as +possible, so that it may be entirely accomplished and the intolerable +waste of force from which earlier periods of science suffered may be +avoided. In those days everything was done ten times over, and then the +eleventh always had the last and best word. Yet the more the savant learns +and practises this art of solving riddles in their entirety, the more +pleasure he finds in so doing. But at the same time his demands upon what +is here called “entirety” grow more exacting. He sets aside everything +that must remain in this sense incomplete, he acquires a disgust and an +acute scent for the half-soluble—for all that can only give a kind of +certainty in a general and indefinite form. His youthful plans crumble +away before his eyes. There remains scarcely anything but a few little +knots, in untying which the master now takes his pleasure and shows his +strength. Then, in the midst of all this useful, restless activity, he, +now grown old, is suddenly then often overcome by a deep misgiving, a sort +of torment of conscience. He looks upon himself as one changed, as if he +were diminished, humbled, transformed into a dexterous _dwarf_; he grows +anxious as to whether mastery in small matters be not a convenience, an +escape from the summons to greatness in life and form. But he cannot pass +_beyond_ any longer—the time for that has gone by. + + + + +180. + + +TEACHERS IN THE AGE OF BOOKS.—Now that self-education and mutual education +are becoming more widespread, the teacher in his usual form must become +almost unnecessary. Friends eager to learn, who wish to master some branch +of knowledge together, find in our age of books a shorter and more natural +way than “school” and “teachers.” + + + + +181. + + +VANITY AS THE GREATEST UTILITY.—Originally the strong individual uses not +only Nature but even societies and weaker individuals as objects of +rapine. He exploits them, so far as he can, and then passes on. As he +lives from hand to mouth, alternating between hunger and superfluity, he +kills more animals than he can eat, and robs and maltreats men more than +is necessary. His manifestation of power is at the same time one of +revenge against his cramped and worried existence. Furthermore, he wishes +to be held more powerful than he is, and thus misuses opportunities; the +accretion of fear that he begets being an accretion of power. He soon +observes that he stands or falls not by what he _is_ but by what he is +_thought_ to be. Herein lies the origin of vanity. The man of power seeks +by every means to increase others’ faith in his power.—The thralls who +tremble before him and serve him know, for their part, that they are worth +just so much as they appear to him to be worth, and so they work with an +eye to this valuation rather than to their own self-satisfaction. We know +vanity only in its most weakened forms, in its idealisations and its small +doses, because we live in a late and very emasculated state of society. +Originally vanity is the great utility, the strongest means of +preservation. And indeed vanity will be greater, the cleverer the +individual, because an increase in the belief in power is easier than an +increase in the power itself, but only for him who has intellect or (as +must be the case under primitive conditions) who is cunning and crafty. + + + + +182. + + +WEATHER-SIGNS OF CULTURE.—There are so few decisive weather-signs of +culture that we must be glad to have at least one unfailing sign at hand +for use in house and garden. To test whether a man belongs to us (I mean +to the free spirits) or not, we must test his sentiments regarding +Christianity. If he looks upon Christianity with other than a critical +eye, we turn our backs to him, for he brings us impure air and bad +weather.—It is no longer our task to teach such men what a sirocco wind +is. They have Moses and the prophets of weather and of enlightenment.(24) +If they will not listen to these, then—— + + + + +183. + + +THERE IS A PROPER TIME FOR WRATH AND PUNISHMENT.—Wrath and punishment are +our inheritance from the animals. Man does not become of age until he has +restored to the animals this gift of the cradle.—Herein lies buried one of +the mightiest ideas that men can have, the idea of a progress of all +progresses.—Let us go forward together a few millenniums, my friends! +There is still reserved for mankind a great deal of joy, the very scent of +which has not yet been wafted to the men of our day! Indeed, we may +promise ourselves this joy, nay summon and conjure it up as a necessary +thing, so long as the development of human reason does not stand still. +Some day we shall no longer be reconciled to the logical sin that lurks in +all wrath and punishment, whether exercised by the individual or by +society—some day, when head and heart have learnt to live as near together +as they now are far apart. That they no longer stand so far apart as they +did originally is fairly palpable from a glance at the whole course of +humanity. The individual who can review a life of introspective work will +become conscious of the _rapprochement_ arrived at, with a proud delight +at the distance he has bridged, in order that he may thereupon venture +upon more ample hopes. + + + + +184. + + +ORIGIN OF PESSIMISTS.—A snack of good food often decides whether we are to +look to the future with hollow eye or in hopeful mood. The same influence +extends to the very highest and most intellectual states. Discontent and +reviling of the world are for the present generation an inheritance from +starveling ancestors. Even in our artists and poets we often notice that, +however exuberant their life, they are not of good birth, and have often, +from oppressed and ill-nourished ancestors, inherited in their blood and +brain much that comes out as the subject and even the conscious colouring +of their work. The culture of the Greeks is a culture of men of wealth, in +fact, inherited wealth. For a few centuries they lived better than we do +(better in every sense, in particular far more simply in food and drink). +Then the brain finally became so well-stored and subtle, and the blood +flowed so quickly, like a joyous, clear wine, that the best in them came +to light no longer as gloomy, distorted, and violent, but full of beauty +and sunshine. + + + + +185. + + +OF REASONABLE DEATH.—Which is more reasonable, to stop the machine when +the works have done the task demanded of them, or to let it run on until +it stands still of its own accord—in other words, is destroyed? Is not the +latter a waste of the cost of upkeep, a misuse of the strength and care of +those who serve? Are men not here throwing away that which would be sorely +needed elsewhere? Is not a kind of contempt of the machines propagated, in +that many of them are so uselessly tended and kept up?—I am speaking of +involuntary (natural) and voluntary (reasonable) death. Natural death is +independent of all reason and is really an irrational death, in which the +pitiable substance of the shell determines how long the kernel is to exist +or not; in which, accordingly, the stunted, diseased and dull-witted +jailer is lord, and indicates the moment at which his distinguished +prisoner shall die. Natural death is the suicide of nature—in other words, +the annihilation of the most rational being through the most irrational +element that is attached thereto. Only through religious illumination can +the reverse appear; for then, as is equitable, the higher reason (God) +issues its orders, which the lower reason has to obey. Outside religious +thought natural death is not worth glorifying. The wise dispensation and +disposal of death belongs to that now quite incomprehensible and +immoral-sounding morality of the future, the dawn of which it will be an +ineffable delight to behold. + + + + +186. + + +RETROGRADE INFLUENCES.—All criminals force society back to earlier stages +of culture than that in which they are placed for the time being. Their +influence is retrograde. Let us consider the tools that society must forge +and maintain for its defence: the cunning detectives, the jailers, the +hangmen. Nor should we forget the public counsel for prosecution and +defence. Finally we may ask ourselves whether the judge himself and +punishment and the whole legal procedure are not oppressive rather than +elevating in their reaction upon all who are not law-breakers. For we +shall never succeed in arraying self-defence and revenge in the garb of +innocence, and so long as men are used and sacrificed as a means to the +end of society, all loftier humanity will deplore this necessity. + + + + +187. + + +WAR AS A REMEDY.—For nations that are growing weak and contemptible war +may be prescribed as a remedy, if indeed they really want to go on living. +National consumption as well as individual admits of a brutal cure. The +eternal will to live and inability to die is, however, in itself already a +sign of senility of emotion. The more fully and thoroughly we live, the +more ready we are to sacrifice life for a single pleasurable emotion. A +people that lives and feels in this wise has no need of war. + + + + +188. + + +INTELLECTUAL AND PHYSICAL TRANSPLANTATION AS REMEDIES.—The different +cultures are so many intellectual climates, every one of which is +peculiarly harmful or beneficial to this or that organism. History as a +whole, as the knowledge of different cultures, is the science of remedies, +but not the science of the healing art itself. We still need a physician +who can make use of these remedies, in order to send every one—temporarily +or permanently—to the climate that just suits him. To live in the present, +within the limits of a single culture, is insufficient as a universal +remedy: too many highly useful kinds of men, who cannot breathe freely in +this atmosphere, would perish. With the aid of history we must give them +air and try to preserve them: even men of lower cultures have their +value.—Add to this cure of intellects that humanity, on considerations of +bodily health, must strive to discover by means of a medical geography +what kinds of degeneration and disease are caused by each region of the +earth, and conversely, what ingredients of health the earth affords: and +then, gradually, nations, families, and individuals must be transplanted +long and permanently enough for them to become masters of their inherited +physical infirmities. The whole world will finally be a series of +sanatoria. + + + + +189. + + +REASON AND THE TREE OF MANKIND.—What you all fear in your senile +short-sightedness, regarding the over-population of the world, gives the +more hopeful a mighty task. Man is some day to become a tree overshadowing +the whole earth, with millions upon millions of buds that shall all grow +to fruits side by side, and the earth itself shall be prepared for the +nourishment of this tree. That the shoot, tiny as yet, may increase in sap +and strength; that the sap may flow in countless channels for the +nutrition of the whole and the parts—from these and similar tasks we must +derive our standard for measuring whether a man of to-day is useful or +worthless. The task is unspeakably great and adventurous: let us all +contribute our share to prevent the tree from rotting before its time! The +historically trained mind will no doubt succeed in calling up the human +activities of all the ages before its eyes, as the community of ants with +its cunningly wrought mounds stands before our eyes. Superficially judged, +mankind as a whole, like ant-kind, might admit of our speaking of +“instinct.” On a closer examination we observe how whole nations, nay +whole centuries, take pains to discover and test new means of benefiting +the great mass of humanity, and thus finally the great common fruit-tree +of the world. Whatever injury the individual nations or periods may suffer +in this testing process, they have each become wise through this injury, +and from them the tide of wisdom slowly pours over the principles of whole +races and whole epochs. Ants too go astray and make blunders. Through the +folly of its remedies, mankind may well go to rack and ruin before the +proper time. There is no sure guiding instinct for the former or the +latter. Rather must we boldly face the great task of preparing the earth +for a plant of the most ample and joyous fruitfulness—a task set by reason +to reason! + + + + +190. + + +THE PRAISE OF DISINTERESTEDNESS AND ITS ORIGIN.—Between two neighbouring +chieftains there was a long-standing quarrel: they laid waste each other’s +territories, stole cattle, and burnt down houses, with an indecisive +result on the whole, because their power was fairly equal. A third, who +from the distant situation of his property was able to keep aloof from +these feuds, yet had reason to dread the day when one of the two +neighbours should gain a decisive preponderance, at last intervened +between the combatants with ceremonial goodwill. Secretly he lent a heavy +weight to his peace proposal by giving either to understand that he would +henceforth join forces with the other against the one who strove to break +the peace. They met in his presence, they hesitatingly placed into his +hand the hands that had hitherto been the tools and only too often the +causes of hatred—and then they really and seriously tried to keep the +peace. Either saw with astonishment how suddenly his prosperity and his +comfort increased; how he now had as neighbour a dealer ready to buy and +sell instead of a treacherous or openly scornful evil-doer; how even, in +unforeseen troubles, they could reciprocally save each other from +distress, instead of, as before, making capital out of this distress of +his neighbour and enhancing it to the highest degree. It even seemed as if +the human type had improved in both countries, for the eyes had become +brighter, the forehead had lost its wrinkles; all now felt confidence in +the future—and nothing is more advantageous for the souls and bodies of +men than this confidence. They saw each other every year on the +anniversary of the alliance, the chieftains as well as their retinue, and +indeed before the eyes of the mediator, whose mode of action they admired +and revered more and more, the greater the profit that they owed to him +became. Then his mode of action was called _disinterested_. They had +looked far too fixedly at the profit they had reaped themselves hitherto +to see anything more of their neighbour’s method of dealing than that his +condition in consequence of this had not altered so much as their own; he +had rather remained the same: and thus it appeared that the former had not +had his profit in view. For the first time people said to themselves that +disinterestedness was a virtue. It is true that in minor private matters +similar circumstances had arisen, but men only had eyes for this virtue +when it was depicted on the walls in a large script that was legible to +the whole community. Moral qualities are not recognised as virtues, +endowed with names, held in esteem, and recommended as worthy of +acquisition until the moment when they have _visibly_ decided the +happiness and destiny of whole societies. For then the loftiness of +sentiment and the excitation of the inner creative forces is in many so +great, that offerings are brought to this quality, offerings from the best +of what each possesses. At its feet the serious man lays his seriousness, +the dignified man his dignity, women their gentleness, the young all the +wealth of hope and futurity that in them lies; the poet lends it words and +names, sets it marching in the procession of similar beings, gives it a +pedigree, and finally, as is the way of artists, adores the picture of his +fancy as a new godhead—he even teaches others to adore. Thus in the end, +with the co-operation of universal love and gratitude, a virtue becomes, +like a statue, a repository of all that is good and honourable, a sort of +temple and divine personage combined. It appears thenceforward as an +individual virtue, as an absolute entity, which it was not before, and +exercises the power and privileges of a sanctified super-humanity.—In the +later days of Greece the cities were full of such deified human +abstractions (if one may so call them). The nation, in its own fashion, +had set up a Platonic “Heaven of Ideas” on earth, and I do not think that +its inhabitants were felt to be less alive than any of the old Homeric +divinities. + + + + +191. + + +DAYS OF DARKNESS.—“Days of Darkness” is the name given in Norway to the +period when the sun remains below the horizon the whole day long. The +temperature then falls slowly but continually.—A fine simile for all +thinkers for whom the sun of the human future is temporarily eclipsed. + + + + +192. + + +THE PHILOSOPHY OF LUXURY.—A garden, figs, a little cheese, and three or +four good friends—that was the luxury of Epicurus. + + + + +193. + + +THE EPOCHS OF LIFE.—The real epochs of life are those brief periods of +cessation midway between the rise and decline of a dominating idea or +emotion. Here once again there is satisfaction: all the rest is hunger and +thirst—or satiety. + + + + +194. + + +DREAMS.—Our dreams, if for once in a way they succeed and are +complete—generally a dream is a bungled piece of work—are symbolic +concatenations of scenes and images in place of a narrative poetical +language. They paraphrase our experiences or expectations or relations +with poetic boldness and definiteness, so that in the morning we are +always astonished at ourselves when we remember the nature of our dream. +In dreams we use up too much artistry—and hence are often too poor in +artistry in the daytime. + + + + +195. + + +NATURE AND SCIENCE.—As in nature, so in science the worse and less fertile +soils are first cultivated—because the means that science in its early +stages has at command are fairly sufficient for this purpose. The working +of the most fertile soils requires an enormous, carefully developed, +persevering method, tangible individual results, and an organised body of +well-trained workers. All these are found together only at a late +stage.—Impatience and ambition often grasp too early at these most fertile +soils, but the results are then from the first null and void. In nature +such losses would usually be avenged by the starvation of the settlers. + + + + +196. + + +THE SIMPLE LIFE.—A simple mode of life is nowadays difficult, requiring as +it does far more reflection and gift for invention than even very clever +people possess. The most honourable will perhaps still say, “I have not +the time for such lengthy reflection. The simple life is for me too lofty +a goal: I will wait till those wiser than I have discovered it.” + + + + +197. + + +PEAKS AND NEEDLE-POINTS.—The poor fertility, the frequent celibacy, and in +general the sexual coldness of the highest and most cultivated spirits, as +that of the classes to which they belong, is essential in human economy. +Intelligence recognises and makes use of the fact that at an acme of +intellectual development the danger of a neurotic offspring is very great. +Such men are the peaks of mankind—they ought no longer to run out into +needle-points. + + + + +198. + + +_NATURA NON FACIT SALTUM._—However strongly man may develop upwards and +seem to leap from one contradiction to another, a close observation will +reveal the dovetails where the new building grows out of the old. This is +the biographer’s task: he must reflect upon his subject on the principle +that nature takes no jumps. + + + + +199. + + +CLEAN, BUT—He who clothes himself with rags washed clean dresses cleanly, +to be sure, but is still ragged. + + + + +200. + + +THE SOLITARY SPEAKS.—In compensation for much disgust, disheartenment, +boredom—such as a lonely life without friends, books, duties, and passions +must involve—we enjoy those short spans of deep communion with ourselves +and with Nature. He who fortifies himself completely against boredom +fortifies himself against himself too. He will never drink the most +powerful elixir from his own innermost spring. + + + + +201. + + +FALSE RENOWN.—I hate those so-called natural beauties which really have +significance only through science, especially geographical science, but +are insignificant in an æsthetic sense: for example, the view of Mont +Blanc from Geneva. This is an insignificant thing without the auxiliary +mental joy of science: the nearer mountains are all more beautiful and +fuller of expression, but “not nearly so high,” adds that absurd +depreciatory science. The eye here contradicts science: how can it truly +rejoice in the contradiction? + + + + +202. + + +THOSE THAT TRAVEL FOR PLEASURE.—Like animals, stupid and perspiring, they +climb mountains: people forgot to tell them that there were fine views on +the way. + + + + +203. + + +TOO MUCH AND TOO LITTLE.—Men nowadays live too much and think too little. +They have hunger and dyspepsia together, and become thinner and thinner, +however much they eat. He who now says “Nothing has happened to me” is a +blockhead. + + + + +204. + + +END AND GOAL.—Not every end is the goal. The end of a melody is not its +goal, and yet if a melody has not reached its end, it has also not reached +its goal. A parable. + + + + +205. + + +NEUTRALITY OF NATURE ON A GRAND SCALE.—The neutrality of Nature on a grand +scale (in mountain, sea, forest, and desert) is pleasing, but only for a +brief space. Afterwards we become impatient. “Have they all nothing to say +to _us_? Do _we_ not exist so far as they are concerned?” There arises a +feeling that a _lèse-majesté_ is committed against humanity. + + + + +206. + + +FORGETTING OUR PURPOSE.—In a journey we commonly forget its goal. Almost +every vocation is chosen and entered upon as means to an end, but is +continued as the ultimate end. Forgetting our purpose is the most frequent +form of folly. + + + + +207. + + +SOLAR ORBIT OF AN IDEA.—When an idea is just rising on the horizon, the +soul’s temperature is usually very low. Gradually the idea develops in +warmth, and is hottest (that is to say, exerts its greatest influence) +when belief in the idea is already on the wane. + + + + +208. + + +HOW TO HAVE EVERY MAN AGAINST YOU.—If some one now dared to say, “He that +is not for me is against me,” he would at once have all against him.—This +sentiment does credit to our era. + + + + +209. + + +BEING ASHAMED OF WEALTH.—Our age endures only a single species of rich +men—those who are ashamed of their wealth. If we hear it said of any one +that he is very rich, we at once feel a similar sentiment to that +experienced at the sight of a repulsively swollen invalid, one suffering +from diabetes or dropsy. We must with an effort remember our humanity, in +order to go about with this rich man in such a way that he does not notice +our feeling of disgust. But as soon as he prides himself at all on his +wealth, our feelings are mingled with an almost compassionate surprise at +such a high degree of human unreason. We would fain raise our hands to +heaven and cry, “Poor deformed and overburdened creature, fettered a +hundredfold, to whom every hour brings or may bring something unpleasant, +in whose frame twitches every event that occurs in scores of countries, +how can you make us believe that you feel at ease in your position? If you +appear anywhere in public, we know that it is a sort of running the +gauntlet amid countless glances that have for you only cold hate or +importunity or silent scorn. You may earn more easily than others, but it +is only a superfluous earning, which brings little joy, and the guarding +of what you have earned is now, at any rate, a more troublesome business +than any toilsome process of earning. You are continually suffering, +because you are continually losing. What avails it you that they are +always injecting you with fresh artificial blood? That does not relieve +the pain of those cupping-glasses that are fixed, for ever fixed, on your +neck!—But, to be quite fair to you, it is difficult or perhaps impossible +for you _not_ to be rich. You _must_ guard, you _must_ earn more; the +inherited bent of your character is the yoke fastened upon you. But do not +on that account deceive us—be honestly and visibly ashamed of the yoke you +wear, as in your soul you are weary and unwilling to wear it. This shame +is no disgrace.” + + + + +210. + + +EXTRAVAGANT PRESUMPTIONS.—There are men so presumptuous that they can only +praise a greatness which they publicly admire by representing it as steps +and bridges that lead to themselves. + + + + +211. + + +ON THE SOIL OF INSULT.—He who wishes to deprive men of a conception is +generally not satisfied with refuting it and drawing out of it the +illogical worm that resides within. Rather, when the worm has been killed, +does he throw the whole fruit as well into the mire, in order to make it +ignoble in men’s sight and to inspire disgust. Thus he thinks that he has +found a means of making the usual “third-day resurrection” of conceptions +an impossibility.—He is wrong, for on the very soil of insult, in the +midst of the filth, the kernel of the conception soon produces new +seeds.—The right thing then, is not to scorn and bespatter what one wishes +finally to remove, but to lay it tenderly on ice again and again, having +regard to the fact that conceptions are very tenacious of life. Here we +must act according to the maxim: “One refutation is no refutation.” + + + + +212. + + +THE LOT OF MORALITY.—Since spiritual bondage is being relaxed, morality +(the inherited, traditional, instinctive mode of action in accordance with +moral sentiments) is surely also on the decline. This, however, is not the +case with the individual virtues, moderation, justice, repose; for the +greatest freedom of the conscious intellect leads at some time, even +unconsciously, back to these virtues, and then enjoins their practice as +expedient. + + + + +213. + + +THE FANATIC OF DISTRUST AND HIS SURETY.—_The Elder_: You wish to make the +tremendous venture and instruct mankind in the great things? What is your +surety? + +_Pyrrho_: It is this: I intend to warn men against myself; I intend to +confess all the defects of my character quite openly, and reveal to the +world my hasty conclusions, my contradictions, and my foolish blunders. +“Do not listen to me,” I will say to them, “until I have become equal to +the meanest among you, nay am even less than he. Struggle against truth as +long as you can, from your disgust with her advocate. I shall be your +seducer and betrayer if you find in me the slightest glimmering of +respectability and dignity.” + +_The Elder_: You promise too much; you cannot bear this burden. + +_Pyrrho_: Then I will tell men even that, and say that I am too weak, and +cannot keep my promise. The greater my unworthiness, the more will they +mistrust the truth, when it passes through my lips. + +_The Elder_: You propose to teach distrust of truth? + +_Pyrrho_: Yes; distrust as it never was yet on earth, distrust of anything +and everything. This is the only road to truth. The right eye must not +trust the left eye, and for some time light must be called darkness: this +is the path that you must tread. Do not imagine that it will lead you to +fruit trees and fair pastures. You will find on this road little hard +grains—these are truths. For years and years you will have to swallow +handfuls of lies, so as not to die of hunger, although you know that they +are lies. But those grains will be sown and planted, and perhaps, perhaps +some day will come the harvest. No one may _promise_ that day, unless he +be a fanatic. + +_The Elder_: Friend, friend! Your words too are those of a fanatic! + +_Pyrrho_: You are right! I will be distrustful of all words. + +_The Elder_: Then you will have to be silent. + +_Pyrrho_: I shall tell men that I have to be silent, and that they are to +mistrust my silence. + +_The Elder_: So you draw back from your undertaking? + +_Pyrrho_: On the contrary—you have shown me the door through which I must +pass. + +_The Elder_: I don’t know whether we yet completely understand each other? + +_Pyrrho_: Probably not. + +_The Elder_: If only you understand yourself! + +(Pyrrho turns round and laughs.) + +_The Elder_: Ah, friend! Silence and laughter—is that now your whole +philosophy? + +_Pyrrho_: There might be a worse. + + + + +214. + + +EUROPEAN BOOKS.—In reading Montaigne, La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, +Fontenelle (especially the _Dialogues des Morts_), Vauvenargues, and +Chamfort we are nearer to antiquity than in any group of six authors of +other nations. Through these six the spirit of the last centuries before +Christ has once more come into being, and they collectively form an +important link in the great and still continuous chain of the Renaissance. +Their books are raised above all changes of national taste and +philosophical nuances from which as a rule every book takes and must take +its hue in order to become famous. They contain more real ideas than all +the books of German philosophers put together: ideas of the sort that +breed ideas——I am at a loss how to define to the end: enough to say that +they appear to me writers who wrote neither for children nor for +visionaries, neither for virgins nor for Christians, neither for Germans +nor for—I am again at a loss how to finish my list. To praise them in +plain terms, I may say that had they been written in Greek, they would +have been understood by Greeks. How much, on the other hand, would even a +Plato have understood of the writings of our best German thinkers—Goethe +and Schopenhauer, for instance—to say nothing of the repugnance that he +would have felt to their style, particularly to its obscure, exaggerated, +and occasionally dry-as-dust elements? And these are defects from which +these two among German thinkers suffer least and yet far too much (Goethe +as thinker was fonder than he should have been of embracing the cloud, and +Schopenhauer almost constantly wanders, not with impunity, among symbols +of objects rather than among the objects themselves).—On the other hand, +what clearness and graceful precision there is in these Frenchmen! The +Greeks, whose ears were most refined, could not but have approved of this +art, and one quality they would even have admired and reverenced—the +French verbal wit: they were extremely fond of this quality, without being +particularly strong in it themselves. + + + + +215. + + +FASHION AND MODERNITY.—Wherever ignorance, uncleanness, and superstition +are still rife, where communication is backward, agriculture poor, and the +priesthood powerful, national costumes are still worn. Fashion, on the +other hand, rules where the opposite conditions prevail. Fashion is +accordingly to be found next to the virtues in modern Europe. Are we to +call it their seamy side?—Masculine dress that is fashionable and no +longer national proclaims of its wearer: firstly, that he does not wish to +appear as an individual or as member of a class or race; that he has made +an intentional suppression of these kinds of vanity a law unto himself: +secondly, that he is a worker, and has little time for dressing and +self-adornment, and moreover regards anything expensive or luxurious in +material and cut as out of harmony with his work: lastly, that by his +clothes he indicates the more learned and intellectual callings as those +to which he stands or would like to stand nearest as a European—whereas +such national costumes as still exist would exhibit the occupations of +brigand, shepherd, and soldier as the most desirable and distinguished. +Within this general character of masculine fashion exist the slight +fluctuations demanded by the vanity of young men, the dandies and dawdlers +of our great cities—in other words, Europeans who have not yet reached +maturity.—European women are as yet far less mature, and for this reason +the fluctuations with them are much greater. They also will not have the +national costume, and hate to be recognised by their dress as German, +French, or Russian. They are, however, very desirous of creating an +impression as individuals. Then, too, their dress must leave no one in +doubt that they belong to one of the more reputable classes of society (to +“good” or “high” or “great” society), and on this score their pretensions +are all the greater if they belong scarcely or not at all to that class. +Above all, the young woman does not want to wear what an older woman +wears, because she thinks she loses her market value if she is suspected +of being somewhat advanced in years. The older woman, on the other hand, +would like to deceive the world as long as possible by a youthful garb. +From this competition must continually arise temporary fashions, in which +the youthful element is unmistakably and inimitably apparent. But after +the inventive genius of the young female artists has run riot for some +time in such indiscreet revelations of youth (or rather, after the +inventive genius of older, courtly civilisations and of still existing +peoples—in fact, of the whole world of dress—has been pressed into the +service, and, say, the Spaniards, Turks, and ancient Greeks have been +yoked together for the glorification of fair flesh), then they at last +discover, time and again, that they have not been good judges of their own +interest; that if they wish to have power over men, the game of +hide-and-seek with the beautiful body is more likely to win than naked or +half-naked honesty. And then the wheel of taste and vanity turns once more +in an opposite direction. The rather older young women find that their +kingdom has come, and the competition of the dear, absurd creatures rages +again from the beginning.—But the more women advance mentally, and no +longer among themselves concede the pre-eminence to an unripe age, the +smaller their fluctuations of costume grow and the less elaborate their +adornment. A just verdict in this respect must not be based on ancient +models—in other words, not on the standard of the dress of women who dwell +on the shores of the Mediterranean—but must have an eye to the climatic +conditions of the central and northern regions, where the intellectual and +creative spirit of Europe now finds its most natural home.—Generally +speaking, therefore, it is not change that will be the characteristic mark +of fashion and modernity, for change is retrograde, and betokens the still +unripened men and women of Europe; but rather the repudiation of national, +social, and individual vanity. Accordingly, it is commendable, because +involving a saving of time and strength, if certain cities and districts +of Europe think and invent for all the rest in the matter of dress, in +view of the fact that a sense of form does not seem to have been bestowed +upon all. Nor is it really an excessive ambition, so long as these +fluctuations still exist, for Paris, for example, to claim to be the sole +inventor and innovator in this sphere. If a German, from hatred of these +claims on the part of a French city, wishes to dress differently,—as, for +example, in the Dürer style,—let him reflect that he then has a costume +which the Germans of olden times wore, but which the Germans have not in +the slightest degree invented. For there has never been a style of dress +that characterised the German as a German. Moreover, let him observe how +he looks in his costume, and whether his altogether modern face, with all +its hues and wrinkles, does not raise a protest against a Dürer fashion of +dress.—Here, where the concepts “modern” and “European” are almost +identical, we understand by “Europe” a far wider region than is embraced +by the Europe of geography, the little peninsula of Asia. In particular, +we must include America, in so far as America is the daughter of our +civilisation. On the other hand, not all Europe falls under the heading of +cultured “Europe,” but only those nations and divisions of nations which +have their common past in Greece, Rome, Judaism, and Christianity. + + + + +216. + + +“GERMAN VIRTUE.”—There is no denying that from the end of the eighteenth +century a current of moral awakening flowed through Europe. Then only +Virtue found again the power of speech. She learnt to discover the +unrestrained gestures of exaltation and emotion, she was no longer ashamed +of herself, and she created philosophies and poems for her own +glorification. If we look for the sources of this current, we come upon +Rousseau, but the mythical Rousseau, the phantom formed from the +impression left by his writings (one might almost say again, his +mythically interpreted writings) and by the indications that he provided +himself. He and his public constantly worked at the fashioning of this +ideal figure. The other origin lies in the resurrection of the Stoical +side of Rome’s greatness, whereby the French so nobly carried on the task +of the Renaissance. With striking success they proceeded from the +reproduction of antique forms to the reproduction of antique characters. +Thus they may always claim a title to the highest honours, as the nation +which has hitherto given the modern world its best books and its best men. +How this twofold archetype, the mythical Rousseau and the resurrected +spirit of Rome, affected France’s weaker neighbours, is particularly +noticeable in Germany, which, in consequence of her novel and quite +unwonted impulse to seriousness and loftiness in will and self-control, +finally came to feel astonishment at her own newfound virtue, and launched +into the world the concept “German virtue,” as if this were the most +original and hereditary of her possessions. The first great men who +transfused into their own blood that French impulse towards greatness and +consciousness of the moral will were more honest, and more grateful. +Whence comes the moralism of Kant? He is continually reminding us: from +Rousseau and the revival of Stoic Rome. The moralism of Schiller has the +same source and the same glorification of the source. The moralism of +Beethoven in notes is a continual song in praise of Rousseau, the antique +French, and Schiller. “Young Germany” was the first to forget its +gratitude, because in the meantime people had listened to the preachers of +hatred of the French. The “young German” came to the fore with more +consciousness than is generally allowed to youths. When he investigated +his paternity, he might well think of the proximity of Schiller, +Schleiermacher, and Fichte. But he should have looked for his grandfathers +in Paris and Geneva, and it was very short-sighted of him to believe what +he believed: that virtue was not more than thirty years old. People became +used to demanding that the word “German” should connote “virtue,” and this +process has not been wholly forgotten to this day.—Be it observed further +that this moral awakening, as may almost be guessed, has resulted only in +drawbacks and obstacles to the _recognition_ of moral phenomena. What is +the entire German philosophy, starting from Kant, with all its French, +English, and Italian offshoots and by-products? A semi-theological attack +upon Helvetius, a rejection of the slowly and laboriously acquired views +and signposts of the right road, which in the end he collected and +expressed so well. To this day Helvetius is the best-abused of all good +moralists and good men in Germany. + + + + +217. + + +CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC.—Both classically and romantically minded spirits—two +species that always exist—cherish a vision of the future; but the former +derive their vision from the strength of their time, the latter from its +weakness. + + + + +218. + + +THE MACHINE AS TEACHER.—Machinery teaches in itself the dovetailed working +of masses of men, in activities where each has but one thing to do. It is +the model of party organisations and of warfare. On the other hand, it +does not teach individual self-glorification, for it makes of the many a +machine, and of each individual a tool for one purpose. Its most general +effect is to teach the advantage of centralisation. + + + + +219. + + +UNABLE TO SETTLE.—One likes to live in a small town. But from time to time +just this small town drives us out into bare and lonely Nature, especially +when we think we know it too well. Finally, in order to refresh ourselves +from Nature, we go to the big town. A few draughts from this cup and we +see its dregs, and the circle begins afresh, with the small town as +starting-point.—So the moderns live; they are in all things rather too +thorough to be able to settle like the men of other days. + + + + +220. + + +REACTION AGAINST THE CIVILISATION OF MACHINERY.—The machine, itself a +product of the highest mental powers, sets in motion hardly any but the +lower, unthinking forces of the men who serve it. True, it unfetters a +vast quantity of force which would otherwise lie dormant. But it does not +communicate the impulse to climb higher, to improve, to become artistic. +It creates activity and monotony, but this in the long-run produces a +counter-effect, a despairing ennui of the soul, which through machinery +has learnt to hanker after the variety of leisure. + + + + +221. + + +THE DANGER OF ENLIGHTENMENT.—All the half-insane, theatrical, bestially +cruel, licentious, and especially sentimental and self-intoxicating +elements which go to form the true revolutionary substance, and became +flesh and spirit, before the revolution, in Rousseau—all this composite +being, with factitious enthusiasm, finally set even “enlightenment” upon +its fanatical head, which thereby began itself to shine as in an +illuminating halo. Yet, enlightenment is essentially foreign to that +phenomenon, and, if left to itself, would have pierced silently through +the clouds like a shaft of light, long content to transfigure individuals +alone, and thus only slowly transfiguring national customs and +institutions as well. But now, bound hand and foot to a violent and abrupt +monster, enlightenment itself became violent and abrupt. Its danger has +therefore become almost greater than its useful quality of liberation and +illumination, which it introduced into the great revolutionary movement. +Whoever grasps this will also know from what confusion it has to be +extricated, from what impurities to be cleansed, in order that it may then +by itself continue the work of enlightenment and also nip the revolution +in the bud and nullify its effects. + + + + +222. + + +PASSION IN THE MIDDLE AGES.—The Middle Ages are the period of great +passions. Neither antiquity nor our period possesses this widening of the +soul. Never was the capacity of the soul greater or measured by larger +standards. The physical, primeval sensuality of the barbarian races and +the over-soulful, over-vigilant, over-brilliant eyes of Christian mystics, +the most childish and youthful and the most over-ripe and world-weary, the +savageness of the beast of prey and the effeminacy and excessive +refinement of the late antique spirit—all these elements were then not +seldom united in one and the same person. Thus, if a man was seized by a +passion, the rapidity of the torrent must have been greater, the whirl +more confused, the fall deeper than ever before.—We modern men may be +content to feel that we have suffered a loss here. + + + + +223. + + +ROBBING AND SAVING.—All intellectual movements whereby the great may hope +to rob and the small to save are sure to prosper. That is why, for +instance, the German Reformation made progress. + + + + +224. + + +GLADSOME SOULS.—When even a remote hint of drink, drunkenness, and an +evil-smelling kind of jocularity was given, the souls of the old Germans +waxed gladsome. Otherwise they were depressed, but here they found +something they really understood. + + + + +225. + + +DEBAUCHERY AT ATHENS.—Even when the fish-market of Athens acquired its +thinkers and poets, Greek debauchery had a more idyllic and refined +appearance than Roman or German debauchery ever had. The voice of Juvenal +would have sounded there like a hollow trumpet, and would have been +answered by a good-natured and almost childish outburst of laughter. + + + + +226. + + +CLEVERNESS OF THE GREEK.—As the desire for victory and pre-eminence is an +ineradicable trait of human nature, older and more primitive than any +respect of or joy in equality, the Greek State sanctioned gymnastic and +artistic competitions among equals. In other words, it marked out an arena +where this impulse to conquer would find a vent without jeopardising the +political order. With the final decline of gymnastic and artistic contests +the Greek State fell into a condition of profound unrest and dissolution. + + + + +227. + + +THE “ETERNAL EPICURUS.”—Epicurus has lived in all periods, and lives yet, +unbeknown to those who called and still call themselves Epicureans, and +without repute among philosophers. He has himself even forgotten his own +name—that was the heaviest luggage that he ever cast off. + + + + +228. + + +THE STYLE OF SUPERIORITY.—“University slang,” the speech of the German +students, has its origin among the students who do not study. The latter +know how to acquire a preponderance over their more serious fellows by +exposing all the farcical elements of culture, respectability, erudition, +order, and moderation, and by having words taken from these realms always +on their lips, like the better and more learned students, but with malice +in their glance and an accompanying grimace. This language of +superiority—the only one that is original in Germany—is nowadays +unconsciously used by statesmen and newspaper critics as well. It is a +continual process of ironical quotation, a restless, cantankerous +squinting of the eye right and left, a language of inverted commas and +grimaces. + + + + +229. + + +THE RECLUSE.—We retire into seclusion, but not from personal misgivings, +as if the political and social conditions of the day did not satisfy us; +rather because by our retirement we try to save and collect forces which +will some day be urgently needed by culture, the more this present is +_this present_, and, as such, fulfils its task. We form a capital and try +to make it secure, but, as in times of real danger, our method is to bury +our hoard. + + + + +230. + + +TYRANTS OF THE INTELLECT.—In our times, any one who expressed a single +moral trait so thoroughly as the characters of Theophrastus and Molière +do, would be considered ill, and be spoken of as possessing “a fixed +idea.” The Athens of the third century, if we could visit it, would appear +to us populated by fools. Nowadays the democracy of ideas rules in every +brain—there the multitude collectively is lord. A single idea that tried +to be lord is now called, as above stated, “a fixed idea.” This is our +method of murdering tyrants—we hint at the madhouse. + + + + +231. + + +A MOST DANGEROUS EMIGRATION.—In Russia there is an emigration of the +intelligence. People cross the frontier in order to read and write good +books. Thus, however, they are working towards turning their country, +abandoned by the intellect, into a gaping Asiatic maw, which would fain +swallow our little Europe. + + + + +232. + + +POLITICAL FOOLS.—The almost religious love of the king was transferred by +the Greeks, when the monarchy was abolished, to the _polis_. An idea can +be loved more than a person, and does not thwart the lover so often as a +beloved human being (for the more men know themselves to be loved, the +less considerate they usually become, until they are no longer worthy of +love, and a rift really arises). Hence the reverence for State and _polis_ +was greater than the reverence for princes had ever been. The Greeks are +the political fools of ancient history—today other nations boast that +distinction. + + + + +233. + + +AGAINST NEGLECT OF THE EYES.—Might one not find among the cultured classes +of England, who read the _Times_, a decline in their powers of sight every +ten years? + + + + +234. + + +GREAT WORKS AND GREAT FAITH.—One man had great works, but his comrade had +great faith in these works. They were inseparable, but obviously the +former was entirely dependent upon the latter. + + + + +235. + + +THE SOCIABLE MAN.—“I don’t get on well with myself,” said some one in +explanation of his fondness for society. “Society has a stronger digestion +than I have, and can put up with me.” + + + + +236. + + +SHUTTING THE MIND’S EYES.—If we are practised and accustomed to reflect +upon our actions, we must nevertheless close the inner eye while +performing an action (be this even only writing letters or eating or +drinking). Even in conversation with average people we must know how to +obscure our own mental vision in order to attain and grasp average +thinking. This shutting of the eyes is a conscious act and can be achieved +by the will. + + + + +237. + + +THE MOST TERRIBLE REVENGE.—If we wish to take a thorough revenge upon an +opponent, we must wait until we have our hand quite full of truths and +equities, and can calmly use the whole lot against him. Hence the exercise +of revenge may be identified with the exercise of equity. It is the most +terrible kind of revenge, for there is no higher court to which an appeal +can be made. Thus did Voltaire revenge himself on Piron, with five lines +that sum up Piron’s whole life, work, and character: every word is a +truth. So too he revenged himself upon Frederick the Great in a letter to +him from Ferney. + + + + +238. + + +TAXES OF LUXURY.—In shops we buy the most necessary and urgent things, and +have to pay very dear, because we pay as well for what is also to be had +there cheap, but seldom finds a customer—articles of luxury that minister +to pleasure. Thus luxury lays a constant tax upon the man of simple life +who does without luxuries. + + + + +239. + + +WHY BEGGARS STILL LIVE.—If all alms were given only out of compassion, the +whole tribe of beggars would long since have died of starvation. + + + + +240. + + +WHY BEGGARS STILL LIVE.—The greatest of almsgivers is cowardice. + + + + +241. + + +HOW THE THINKER MAKES USE OF A CONVERSATION.—Without being eavesdroppers, +we can hear a good deal if we are able to see well, and at the same time +to let ourselves occasionally get out of our own sight. But people do not +know how to make use of a conversation. They pay far too much attention to +what _they_ want to say and reply, whereas the true listener is often +contented to make a provisional answer and to say something merely as a +payment on account of politeness, but on the other hand, with his memory +lurking in ambush, carries away with him all that the other said, together +with his tones and gestures in speaking.—In ordinary conversation every +one thinks _he_ is the leader, just as if two ships, sailing side by side +and giving each other a slight push here and there, were each firmly +convinced that the other ship was following or even being towed. + + + + +242. + + +THE ART OF EXCUSING ONESELF.—If some one excuses himself to us, he has to +make out a very good case, otherwise we readily come to feel ourselves the +culprits, and experience an unpleasant emotion. + + + + +243. + + +IMPOSSIBLE INTERCOURSE.—The ship of your thoughts goes too deep for you to +be able to travel with it in the waters of these friendly, decorous, +obliging people. There are too many shallows and sandbanks: you would have +to tack and turn, and would find yourself continually at your wits’ end, +and they would soon also be in perplexity as to _your_ perplexity, the +reason for which they cannot divine. + + + + +244. + + +THE FOX OF FOXES.—A true fox not only calls sour the grapes he cannot +reach, but also those he has reached and snatched from the grasp of +others. + + + + +245. + + +IN INTIMATE INTERCOURSE.—However closely men are connected, there are +still all the four quarters of the heavens in their common horizon, and at +times they become aware of this fact. + + + + +246. + + +THE SILENCE OF DISGUST.—Behold! some one undergoes a thorough and painful +transformation as thinker and human being, and makes a public avowal of +the change. And those who hear him see nothing, and still believe he is +the same as before! This common experience has already disgusted many +writers. They had rated the intellectuality of mankind too highly, and +made a vow to be silent as soon as they became aware of their mistake. + + + + +247. + + +BUSINESS SERIOUSNESS.—The business of many rich and eminent men is their +form of recreation from too long periods of habitual leisure. They then +become as serious and impassioned as other people do in their rare moments +of leisure and amusement. + + + + +248. + + +THE EYE’S DOUBLE SENSE.—Just as a sudden scaly ripple runs over the waters +at your feet, so there are similar sudden uncertainties and ambiguities in +the human eye. They lead to the question: is it a shudder, or a smile, or +both? + + + + +249. + + +POSITIVE AND NEGATIVE.—This thinker needs no one to refute him—he is quite +capable of doing that himself. + + + + +250. + + +THE REVENGE OF THE EMPTY NETS.—Above all we should beware of those who +have the bitter feeling of the fisherman who after a hard day’s work comes +home in the evening with nets empty. + + + + +251. + + +NON-ASSERTION OF OUR RIGHTS.—The exertion of power is laborious and +demands courage. That is why so many do not assert their most valid +rights, because their rights are a kind of power, and they are too lazy or +too cowardly to exercise them. _Indulgence_ and _patience_ are the names +given to the virtues that cloak these faults. + + + + +252. + + +BEARERS OF LIGHT.—In Society there would be no sunshine if the born +flatterers (I mean the so-called amiable people) did not bring some in +with them. + + + + +253. + + +WHEN MOST BENEVOLENT.—When a man has been highly honoured and has eaten a +little, he is most benevolent. + + + + +254. + + +TO THE LIGHT.—Men press forward to the light not in order to see better +but to shine better.—The person before whom we shine we gladly allow to be +called a light. + + + + +255. + + +THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.—The hypochondriac is a man who has just enough +intellect and pleasure in the intellect to take his sorrows, his losses, +and his mistakes seriously. But the field on which he grazes is too small: +he crops it so close that in the end he has to look for single stalks. +Thus he finally becomes envious and avaricious—and only then is he +unbearable. + + + + +256. + + +GIVING IN RETURN.—Hesiod advises us to give the neighbour who has helped +us good measure and, if possible, fuller measure in return, as soon as we +have the power. For this is where the neighbour’s pleasure comes in, since +his former benevolence brings him interest. Moreover, he who gives in +return also has his pleasure, inasmuch as, by giving a little more than he +got, he redeems the slight humiliation of being compelled to seek aid. + + + + +257. + + +MORE SUBTLE THAN IS NECESSARY.—Our sense of observation for how far others +perceive our weaknesses is far more subtle than our sense of observation +for the weaknesses of others. It follows that the first-named sense is +more subtle than is necessary. + + + + +258. + + +A KIND OF BRIGHT SHADOWS.—Close to the nocturnal type of man we almost +regularly find, as if bound up with him, a bright soul. This is, as it +were, the negative shadow cast by the former. + + + + +259. + + +NOT TO TAKE REVENGE.—There are so many subtle sorts of revenge that one +who has occasion to take revenge can really do or omit to do what he +likes. In any case, the whole world will agree, after a time, that he +_has_ avenged himself. Hence the avoidance of revenge is hardly within +man’s power. He must not even so much as say that he does not _want_ to do +so, since the contempt for revenge is interpreted and felt as a sublime +and exquisite form of revenge.—It follows that we must do nothing +superfluous. + + + + +260. + + +THE MISTAKE OF THOSE WHO PAY HOMAGE.—Every one thinks he is paying a most +agreeable compliment to a thinker when he says that he himself hit upon +exactly the same idea and even upon the same expression. The thinker, +however, is seldom delighted at hearing such news, nay, rather, he often +becomes distrustful of his own thoughts and expressions. He silently +resolves to revise both some day. If we wish to pay homage to any one, we +must beware of expressing our agreement, for this puts us on the same +level.—Often it is a matter of social tact to listen to an opinion as if +it were not ours or even travelled beyond the limits of our own +horizon—as, for example, when an old man once in a while opens the +storehouse of his acquired knowledge. + + + + +261. + + +LETTERS.—A letter is an unannounced visit, and the postman is the +intermediary of impolite surprises. Every week we ought to have one hour +for receiving letters, and then go and take a bath. + + + + +262. + + +PREJUDICED.—Some one said: I have been prejudiced against myself from +childhood upwards, and hence I find some truth in every censure and some +absurdity in every eulogy. Praise I generally value too low and blame too +high. + + + + +263. + + +THE PATH TO EQUALITY.—A few hours of mountain-climbing make a blackguard +and a saint two rather similar creatures. Weariness is the shortest path +to equality and fraternity—and finally liberty is bestowed by sleep. + + + + +264. + + +CALUMNY.—If we begin to trace to its source a real scandalous +misrepresentation, we shall rarely look for its origin in our honourable +and straightforward enemies; for if they invented anything of the sort +about us, they, as being our enemies, would gain no credence. Those, +however, to whom for a time we have been most useful, but who, from some +reason or other, may be secretly sure that they will obtain no more from +us—such persons are in a position to start the ball of slander rolling. +They gain credence, firstly, because it is assumed that they would invent +nothing likely to do them damage; secondly, because they have learnt to +know us intimately.—As a consolation, the much-slandered man may say to +himself: Calumnies are diseases of others that break out in your body. +They prove that Society is a (moral) organism, so that you can prescribe +to _yourself_ the cure that will in the end be useful to others. + + + + +265. + + +THE CHILD’S KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.—The happiness of a child is as much of a +myth as the happiness of the Hyperboreans of whom the Greeks fabled. The +Greeks supposed that, if indeed happiness dwells anywhere on our earth, it +must certainly dwell as far as possible from us, perhaps over yonder at +the edge of the world. Old people have the same thought—if man is at all +capable of being happy, he must be happy as far as possible from our age, +at the frontiers and beginnings of life. For many a man the sight of +children, through the veil of this myth, is the greatest happiness that he +can feel. He enters himself into the forecourt of heaven when he says, +“Suffer the little children to come unto me, for of them is the kingdom of +heaven.” The myth of the child’s kingdom of heaven holds good, in some way +or other, wherever in the modern world some sentimentality exists. + + + + +266. + + +THE IMPATIENT.—It is just the growing man who does not want things in the +growing stage. He is too impatient for that. The youth will not wait +until, after long study, suffering, and privation, his picture of men and +things is complete. Accordingly, he confidently accepts another picture +that lies ready to his hand and is recommended to him, and pins his faith +to that, as if it must give him at once the lines and colours of his own +painting. He presses a philosopher or a poet to his bosom, and must from +that time forth perform long stretches of forced labour and renounce his +own self. He learns much in the process, but he often forgets what is most +worth learning and knowing—his self. He remains all his life a partisan. +Ah, a vast amount of tedious work has to be done before you find your own +colours, your own brush, your own canvas!—Even then you are very far from +being a master in the art of life, but at least you are the boss in your +own workshop. + + + + +267. + + +THERE ARE NO TEACHERS.—As thinkers we ought only to speak of +self-teaching. The instruction of the young by others is either an +experiment performed upon something as yet unknown and unknowable, or else +a thorough levelling process, in order to make the new member of society +conform to the customs and manners that prevail for the time being. In +both cases the result is accordingly unworthy of a thinker—the handiwork +of parents and teachers, whom some valiantly honest person(25) has called +“_nos ennemis naturels_.” One day, when, as the world thinks, we have long +since finished our education, we _discover ourselves_. Then begins the +task of the thinker, and then is the time to summon him to our aid—not as +a teacher, but as a self-taught man who has experience. + + + + +268. + + +SYMPATHY WITH YOUTH.—We are sorry when we hear that some one who is still +young is losing his teeth or growing blind. If we knew all the irrevocable +and hopeless feelings hidden in his whole being, how great our sorrow +would be! Why do we really suffer on this account? Because youth has to +continue the work we have undertaken, and every flaw and failing in its +strength is likely to injure _our_ work, that will fall into its hands. It +is the sorrow at the imperfect guarantee of our immortality: or, if we +only feel ourselves as executors of the human mission, it is the sorrow +that this mission must pass to weaker hands than ours. + + + + +269. + + +THE AGES OF LIFE.—The comparison of the four ages of life with the four +seasons of the year is a venerable piece of folly. Neither the first +twenty nor the last twenty years of a life correspond to a season of the +year, assuming that we are not satisfied with drawing a parallel between +white hair and snow and similar colour-analogies. The first twenty years +are a preparation for life in general, for the whole year of life, a sort +of long New Year’s Day. The last twenty review, assimilate, bring into +union and harmony all that has been experienced till then: as, in a small +degree, we do on every New Year’s Eve with the whole past year. But in +between there really lies an interval which suggests a comparison with the +seasons—the time from the twentieth to the fiftieth year (to speak here of +decades in the lump, while it is an understood thing that every one must +refine for himself these rough outlines). Those three decades correspond +to three seasons—summer, spring, and autumn. Winter human life has none, +unless we like to call the (unfortunately) often intervening hard, cold, +lonely, hopeless, unfruitful periods of disease the winters of man. The +twenties, hot, oppressive, stormy, impetuous, exhausting years, when we +praise the day in the evening, when it is over, as we wipe the sweat from +our foreheads—years in which work seems to us cruel but necessary—these +twenties are the summer of life. The thirties, on the other hand, are its +spring-time, with the air now too warm, now too cold, ever restless and +stimulating, bubbling sap, bloom of leaves, fragrance of buds everywhere, +many delightful mornings and evenings, work to which the song of birds +awakens us, a true work of the heart, a kind of joy in our own robustness, +strengthened by the savour of hopeful anticipation. Lastly the forties, +mysterious like all that is stationary, like a high, broad plateau, +traversed by a fresh breeze, with a clear, cloudless sky above it, which +always has the same gentle look all day and half the night—the time of +harvest and cordial gaiety—that is the autumn of life. + + + + +270. + + +WOMEN’S INTELLECT IN MODERN SOCIETY.—What women nowadays think of men’s +intellect may be divined from the fact that in their art of adornment they +think of anything but of emphasising the intellectual side of their faces +or their single intellectual features. On the contrary, they conceal such +traits, and understand, for example by an arrangement of their hair over +their forehead, how to give themselves an appearance of vivid, eager +sensuality and materialism, just when they but slightly possess those +qualities. Their conviction that intellect in women frightens men goes so +far that they even gladly deny the keenness of the most intellectual sense +and purposely invite the reputation of short-sightedness. They think they +will thereby make men more confiding. It is as if a soft, attractive +twilight were spreading itself around them. + + + + +271. + + +GREAT AND TRANSITORY.—What moves the observer to tears is the rapturous +look of happiness with which a fair young bride gazes upon her husband. We +feel all the melancholy of autumn in thinking of the greatness and of the +transitoriness of human happiness. + + + + +272. + + +SENSE AND SACRIFICE.—Many a woman has the _intelletto del sacrifizio_,(26) +and no longer enjoys life when her husband refuses to sacrifice her. With +all her wit, she then no longer knows—whither? and without perceiving it, +is changed from sacrificial victim to sacrificial priest. + + + + +273. + + +THE UNFEMININE.—“Stupid as a man,” say the women; “Cowardly as a woman,” +say the men. Stupidity in a woman is unfeminine. + + + + +274. + + +MASCULINE AND FEMININE TEMPERAMENT AND MORTALITY.—That the male sex has a +worse temperament than the female follows from the fact that male children +have a greater mortality than female, clearly because they “leap out of +their skins” more easily. Their wildness and unbearableness soon make all +the bad stuff in them deadly. + + + + +275. + + +THE AGE OF CYCLOPEAN BUILDING.—The democratisation of Europe is a +resistless force. Even he who would stem the tide uses those very means +that democratic thought first put into men’s hands, and he makes these +means more handy and workable. The most inveterate enemies of democracy (I +mean the spirits of upheaval) seem only to exist in order, by the fear +that they inspire, to drive forward the different parties faster and +faster on the democratic course. Now we may well feel sorry for those who +are working consciously and honourably for this future. There is something +dreary and monotonous in their faces, and the grey dust seems to have been +wafted into their very brains. Nevertheless, posterity may possibly some +day laugh at our anxiety, and see in the democratic work of several +generations what we see in the building of stone dams and walls—an +activity that necessarily covers clothes and face with a great deal of +dust, and perhaps unavoidably makes the workmen, too, a little +dull-witted; but who would on that account desire such work undone? It +seems that the democratisation of Europe is a link in the chain of those +mighty prophylactic principles which are the thought of the modern era, +and whereby we rise up in revolt against the Middle Ages. Now, and now +only, is the age of Cyclopean building! A final security in the +foundations, that the future may build on them without danger! Henceforth, +an impossibility of the orchards of culture being once more destroyed +overnight by wild, senseless mountain torrents! Dams and walls against +barbarians, against plagues, against physical and spiritual serfdom! And +all this understood at first roughly and literally, but gradually in an +ever higher and more spiritual sense, so that all the principles here +indicated may appear as the intellectual preparation of the highest artist +in horticulture, who can only apply himself to his own task when the other +is fully accomplished!—True, if we consider the long intervals of time +that here lie between means and end, the great, supreme labour, straining +the powers and brains of centuries, that is necessary in order to create +or to provide each individual means, we must not bear too hardly upon the +workers of the present when they loudly proclaim that the wall and the +fence are already the end and the final goal. After all, no one yet sees +the gardener and the fruit, for whose sake the fence exists. + + + + +276. + + +THE RIGHT OF UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE.—The people has not granted itself +universal suffrage but, wherever this is now in force, it has received and +accepted it as a temporary measure. But in any case the people has the +right to restore the gift, if it does not satisfy its anticipations. This +dissatisfaction seems universal nowadays, for when, at any occasion where +the vote is exercised, scarce two-thirds, nay perhaps not even the +majority of all voters, go to the polls, that very fact is a vote against +the whole suffrage system.—On this point, in fact, we must pronounce a +much sterner verdict. A law that enacts that the majority shall decide as +to the welfare of all cannot be built up on the foundation that it alone +has provided, for it is bound to require a far broader foundation, namely +the unanimity of all. Universal suffrage must not only be the expression +of the will of a majority, but of the whole country. Thus the dissent of a +very small minority is already enough to set aside the system as +impracticable; and the abstention from voting is in fact a dissent of this +kind, which ruins the whole institution. The “absolute veto” of the +individual, or—not to be too minute—the veto of a few thousands, hangs +over the system as the consequence of justice. On every occasion when it +is employed, the system must, according to the variety of the division, +first prove that it has still a right to exist. + + + + +277. + + +FALSE CONCLUSIONS.—What false conclusions are drawn in spheres where we +are not at home, even by those of us who are accustomed as men of science +to draw right conclusions! It is humiliating! Now it is clear that in the +great turmoil of worldly doings, in political affairs, in all sudden and +urgent matters such as almost every day brings up, these false conclusions +must decide. For no one feels at home with novelties that have sprung up +in the night. All political work, even with great statesmen, is an +improvisation that trusts to luck. + + + + +278. + + +PREMISSES OF THE AGE OF MACHINERY.—The press, the machine, the railway, +the telegraph are premisses of which no one has yet dared to draw the +conclusions that will follow in a thousand years. + + + + +279. + + +A DRAG UPON CULTURE.—When we are told that here men have no time for +productive occupations, because military manœuvres and processions take up +their days, and the rest of the population must feed and clothe them, +their dress, however, being striking, often gay and full of absurdities; +that there only a few distinguished qualities are recognised, individuals +resemble each other more than elsewhere, or at any rate are treated as +equals, yet obedience is exacted and yielded without reasoning, for men +command and make no attempt to convince; that here punishments are few, +but these few cruel and likely to become the final and most terrible; that +there treason ranks as the capital offence, and even the criticism of +evils is only ventured on by the most audacious; that there, again, human +life is cheap, and ambition often takes the form of setting life in +danger—when we hear all this, we at once say, “This is a picture of a +barbarous society that rests on a hazardous footing.” One man perhaps will +add, “It is a portrait of Sparta.” But another will become meditative and +declare that this is a description of our modern military system, as it +exists in the midst of our altogether different culture and society, a +living anachronism, the picture, as above said, of a community resting on +a hazardous footing; a posthumous work of the past, which can only act as +a drag upon the wheels of the present.—Yet at times even a drag upon +culture is vitally necessary—that is to say, when culture is advancing too +rapidly downhill or (as perhaps in this case) _uphill_. + + + + +280. + + +MORE REVERENCE FOR THEM THAT KNOW.—In the competition of production and +sale the public is made judge of the product. But the public has no +special knowledge, and judges by the appearance of the wares. In +consequence, the art of appearance (and perhaps the taste for it) must +increase under the dominance of competition, while on the other hand the +quality of every product must deteriorate. The result will be—so far as +reason does not fall in value—that one day an end will be put to that +competition, and a new principle will win the day. Only the master of the +craft should pronounce a verdict on the work, and the public should be +dependent on the belief in the personality of the judge and his honesty. +Accordingly, no anonymous work! At least an expert should be there as +guarantor and pledge his name if the name of the creator is lacking or is +unknown. The cheapness of an article is for the layman another kind of +illusion and deceit, since only durability can decide that a thing is +cheap and to what an extent. But it is difficult, and for a layman +impossible, to judge of its durability.—Hence that which produces an +effect on the eye and costs little at present gains the advantage—this +being naturally machine-made work. Again, machinery—that is to say, the +cause of the greatest rapidity and facility in production—favours the most +saleable kind of article. Otherwise it involves no tangible profit; it +would be too little used and too often stand idle. But as to what is most +saleable, the public, as above said, decides: it must be the most +exchangeable—in other words, the thing that appears good and also appears +cheap. Thus in the domain of labour our motto must also hold good: “More +respect for them that know!” + + + + +281. + + +THE DANGER OF KINGS.—Democracy has it in its power, without any violent +means, and only by a lawful pressure steadily exerted, to make kingship +and emperorship hollow, until only a zero remains, perhaps with the +significance of every zero in that, while nothing in itself, it multiplies +a number tenfold if placed on the right side. Kingship and emperorship +would remain a gorgeous ornament upon the simple and appropriate dress of +democracy, a beautiful superfluity that democracy allows itself, a relic +of all the historically venerable, primitive ornaments, nay the symbol of +history itself, and in this unique position a highly effective thing if, +as above said, it does not stand alone, but is put on the right side.—In +order to avoid the danger of this nullification, kings hold by their teeth +to their dignity as war-lords. To this end they need wars, or in other +words exceptional circumstances, in which that slow, lawful pressure of +the democratic forces is relaxed. + + + + +282. + + +THE TEACHER A NECESSARY EVIL.—Let us have as few people as possible +between the productive minds and the hungry and recipient minds! The +middlemen almost unconsciously adulterate the food which they supply. For +their work as middlemen they want too high a fee for themselves, and this +is drawn from the original, productive spirits—namely, interest, +admiration, leisure, money, and other advantages.—Accordingly, we should +always look upon the teacher as a necessary evil, just like the merchant; +as an evil that we should make as small as possible.—Perhaps the +prevailing distress in Germany has its main cause in the fact that too +many wish to live and live well by trade (in other words, desiring as far +as possible to diminish prices for the producer and raise prices for the +consumer, and thus to profit by the greatest possible loss to both). In +the same way, we may certainly trace a main cause of the prevailing +intellectual poverty in the superabundance of teachers. It is because of +teachers that so little is learnt, and that so badly. + + + + +283. + + +THE TAX OF HOMAGE.—Him whom we know and honour,—be he physician, artist, +or artisan,—who does and produces something for us, we gladly pay as +highly as we can, often a fee beyond our means. On the other hand, we pay +the unknown as low a price as possible; here is a contest in which every +one struggles and makes others struggle for a foot’s breadth of land. In +the work of the known there is something that cannot be bought, the +sentiment and ingenuity put into his work for our own sake. We think we +cannot better express our sense of obligation than by a sort of sacrifice +on our part.—The heaviest tax is the tax of homage. The more competition +prevails, the more we buy for the unknown and work for the unknown, the +lower does this tax become, whereas it is really the standard for the +loftiness of man’s spiritual intercourse. + + + + +284. + + +THE MEANS TOWARDS GENUINE PEACE.—No government will nowadays admit that it +maintains an army in order to satisfy occasionally its passion for +conquest. The army is said to serve only defensive purposes. This +morality, which justifies self-defence, is called in as the government’s +advocate. This means, however, reserving morality for ourselves and +immorality for our neighbour, because he must be thought eager for attack +and conquest if our state is forced to consider means of self-defence.—At +the same time, by our explanation of our need of an army (because he +denies the lust of attack just as our state does, and ostensibly also +maintains his army for defensive reasons), we proclaim him a hypocrite and +cunning criminal, who would fain seize by surprise, without any fighting, +a harmless and unwary victim. In this attitude all states face each other +to-day. They presuppose evil intentions on their neighbour’s part and good +intentions on their own. This hypothesis, however, is an _inhuman_ notion, +as bad as and worse than war. Nay, at bottom it is a challenge and motive +to war, foisting as it does upon the neighbouring state the charge of +immorality, and thus provoking hostile intentions and acts. The doctrine +of the army as a means of self-defence must be abjured as completely as +the lust of conquest. Perhaps a memorable day will come when a nation +renowned in wars and victories, distinguished by the highest development +of military order and intelligence, and accustomed to make the heaviest +sacrifice to these objects, will voluntarily exclaim, “We will break our +swords,” and will destroy its whole military system, lock, stock, and +barrel. Making ourselves defenceless (after having been the most strongly +defended) from a loftiness of sentiment—that is the means towards genuine +peace, which must always rest upon a pacific disposition. The so-called +armed peace that prevails at present in all countries is a sign of a +bellicose disposition, of a disposition that trusts neither itself nor its +neighbour, and, partly from hate, partly from fear, refuses to lay down +its weapons. Better to perish than to hate and fear, and twice as far +better to perish than to make oneself hated and feared—this must some day +become the supreme maxim of every political community!—Our liberal +representatives of the people, as is well known, have not the time for +reflection on the nature of humanity, or else they would know that they +are working in vain when they work for “a gradual diminution of the +military burdens.” On the contrary, when the distress of these burdens is +greatest, the sort of God who alone can help here will be nearest. The +tree of military glory can only be destroyed at one swoop, with one stroke +of lightning. But, as you know, lightning comes from the cloud and from +above. + + + + +285. + + +WHETHER PROPERTY CAN BE SQUARED WITH JUSTICE.—When the injustice of +property is strongly felt (and the hand of the great clock is once more at +this place), we formulate two methods of relieving this injustice: either +an equal distribution, or an abolition of private possession and a return +to State ownership. The latter method is especially dear to the hearts of +our Socialists, who are angry with that primitive Jew for saying, “Thou +shalt not steal.” In their view the eighth(27) commandment should rather +run, “Thou shalt not possess.”—The former method was frequently tried in +antiquity, always indeed on a small scale, and yet with poor success. From +this failure we too may learn. “Equal plots of land” is easily enough +said, but how much bitterness is aroused by the necessary division and +separation, by the loss of time-honoured possessions, how much piety is +wounded and sacrificed! We uproot the foundation of morality when we +uproot boundary-stones. Again, how much fresh bitterness among the new +owners, how much envy and looking askance! For there have never been two +really equal plots of land, and if there were, man’s envy of his neighbour +would prevent him from believing in their equality. And how long would +this equality, unhealthy and poisoned at the very roots, endure? In a few +generations, by inheritance, here one plot would come to five owners, +there five plots to one. Even supposing that men acquiesced in such abuses +through the enactment of stern laws of inheritance, the same equal plots +would indeed exist, but there would also be needy malcontents, owning +nothing but dislike of their kinsmen and neighbours, and longing for a +general upheaval.—If, however, by the second method we try to restore +ownership to the community and make the individual but a temporary tenant, +we interfere with agriculture. For man is opposed to all that is only a +transitory possession, unblessed with his own care and sacrifice. With +such property he behaves in freebooter fashion, as robber or as worthless +spendthrift. When Plato declares that self-seeking would be removed with +the abolition of property, we may answer him that, if self-seeking be +taken away, man will no longer possess the four cardinal virtues either; +as we must say that the most deadly plague could not injure mankind so +terribly as if vanity were one day to disappear. Without vanity and +self-seeking what are human virtues? By this I am far from meaning that +these virtues are but varied names and masks for these two qualities. +Plato’s Utopian refrain, which is still sung by Socialists, rests upon a +deficient knowledge of men. He lacked the historical science of moral +emotions, the insight into the origin of the good and useful +characteristics of the human soul. He believed, like all antiquity, in +good and evil as in black and white—that is to say, in a radical +difference between good and bad men and good and bad qualities.—In order +that property may henceforth inspire more confidence and become more +moral, we should keep open all the paths of work for small fortunes, but +should prevent the effortless and sudden acquisition of wealth. +Accordingly, we should take all the branches of transport and trade which +favour the accumulation of large fortunes—especially, therefore, the money +market—out of the hands of private persons or private companies, and look +upon those who own too much, just as upon those who own nothing, as types +fraught with danger to the community. + + + + +286. + + +THE VALUE OF LABOUR.—If we try to determine the value of labour by the +amount of time, industry, good or bad will, constraint, inventiveness or +laziness, honesty or make-believe bestowed upon it, the valuation can +never be a just one. For the whole personality would have to be thrown +into the scale, and this is impossible. Here the motto is, “Judge not!” +But after all the cry for justice is the cry we now hear from those who +are dissatisfied with the present valuation of labour. If we reflect +further we find every person non-responsible for his product, the labour; +hence merit can never be derived therefrom, and every labour is as good or +as bad as it must be through this or that necessary concatenation of +forces and weaknesses, abilities and desires. The worker is not at liberty +to say whether he shall work or not, or to decide how he shall work. Only +the standpoints of usefulness, wider and narrower, have created the +valuation of labour. What we at present call justice does very well in +this sphere as a highly refined utility, which does not only consider the +moment and exploit the immediate opportunity, but looks to the permanence +of all conditions, and thus also keeps in view the well-being of the +worker, his physical and spiritual contentment: in order that he and his +posterity may work well for our posterity and become trustworthy for +longer periods than the individual span of human life. The _exploitation_ +of the worker was, as we now understand, a piece of folly, a robbery at +the expense of the future, a jeopardisation of society. We almost have the +war now, and in any case the expense of maintaining peace, of concluding +treaties and winning confidence, will henceforth be very great, because +the folly of the exploiters was very great and long-lasting. + + + + +287. + + +OF THE STUDY OF THE SOCIAL BODY.—The worst drawback for the modern student +of economics and political science in Europe, and especially in Germany, +is that the actual conditions, instead of exemplifying rules, illustrate +exceptions or stages of transition and extinction. We must therefore learn +to look beyond actually existing conditions and, for example, turn our +eyes to distant North America, where we can still contemplate and +investigate, if we will, the initial and normal movement of the social +body. In Germany such a study requires arduous and historical research, +or, as I have suggested, a telescope. + + + + +288. + + +HOW FAR MACHINERY HUMILIATES.—Machinery is impersonal; it robs the piece +of work of its pride, of the individual merits and defects that cling to +all work that is not machine-made—in other words, of its bit of humanity. +Formerly, all buying from handicraftsmen meant a mark of distinction for +their personalities, with whose productions people surrounded themselves. +Furniture and dress accordingly became the symbols of mutual valuation and +personal connection. Nowadays, on the other hand, we seem to live in the +midst of anonymous and impersonal serfdom.—We must not buy the +facilitation of labour too dear. + + + + +289. + + +CENTURY-OLD QUARANTINE.—Democratic institutions are centres of quarantine +against the old plague of tyrannical desires. As such they are extremely +useful and extremely tedious. + + + + +290. + + +THE MOST DANGEROUS PARTISAN.—The most dangerous partisan is he whose +defection would involve the ruin of the whole party—in other words, the +best partisan. + + + + +291. + + +DESTINY AND THE STOMACH.—A piece more or less of bread and butter in the +jockey’s body is occasionally the decisive factor in races and bets, and +thus in the good and bad luck of thousands.—So long as the destiny of +nations depends upon diplomats, the stomachs of diplomats will always be +the object of patriotic misgivings. _Quousque tandem_.... + + + + +292. + + +THE VICTORY OF DEMOCRACY.—All political powers nowadays attempt to exploit +the fear of Socialism for their own strengthening. Yet in the long run +democracy alone gains the advantage, for _all_ parties are now compelled +to flatter “the masses” and grant them facilities and liberties of all +kinds, with the result that the masses finally become omnipotent. The +masses are as far as possible removed from Socialism as a doctrine of +altering the acquisition of property. If once they get the steering-wheel +into their hands, through great majorities in their Parliaments, they will +attack with progressive taxation the whole dominant system of capitalists, +merchants, and financiers, and will in fact slowly create a middle class +which may forget Socialism like a disease that has been overcome.—The +practical result of this increasing democratisation will next be a +European league of nations, in which each individual nation, delimited by +the proper geographical frontiers, has the position of a canton with its +separate rights. Small account will be taken of the historic memories of +previously existing nations, because the pious affection for these +memories will be gradually uprooted under the democratic régime, with all +its craze for novelty and experiment. The corrections of frontiers that +will prove necessary will be so carried out as to serve the interests of +the great cantons and at the same time that of the whole federation, but +not that of any venerable memories. To find the standpoints for these +corrections will be the task of future diplomats, who will have to be at +the same time students of civilisation, agriculturists, and commercial +experts, with no armies but motives and utilities at their back. Then only +will foreign and home politics be inseparably connected, whereas to-day +the latter follows its haughty dictator, and gleans in sorry baskets the +stubble that is left over from the harvest of the former. + + + + +293. + + +GOAL AND MEANS OF DEMOCRACY.—Democracy tries to create and guarantee +independence for as many as possible in their opinions, way of life, and +occupation. For this purpose democracy must withhold the political +suffrage both from those who have nothing and from those who are really +rich, as being the two intolerable classes of men. At the removal of these +classes it must always work, because they are continually calling its task +in question. In the same way democracy must prevent all measures that seem +to aim at party organisation. For the three great foes of independence, in +that threefold sense, are the have-nots, the rich, and the parties.—I +speak of democracy as of a thing to come. What at present goes by that +name is distinguished from older forms of government only by the fact that +it drives with new horses; the roads and the wheels are the same as of +yore.—Has the danger really become less with _these_ conveyances of the +commonwealth? + + + + +294. + + +DISCRETION AND SUCCESS.—That great quality of discretion, which is +fundamentally the virtue of virtues, their ancestress and queen, has in +common life by no means always success on its side. The wooer would find +himself deceived if he had wooed that virtue only for the sake of success. +For it is rated by practical people as suspicious, and is confused with +cunning and hypocrisy: he who obviously lacks discretion, the man who +quickly grasps and sometimes misses his grasp, has prejudice on his +side—he is an honest, trustworthy fellow. Practical people, accordingly, +do not like the prudent man, thinking he is to them a danger. Moreover, we +often assume the prudent man to be anxious, preoccupied, +pedantic—unpractical, butterfly people find him uncomfortable, because he +does not live in their happy-go-lucky way, without thinking of actions and +duties; he appears among them as their embodied conscience, and the bright +day is dimmed to their eyes before his gaze. Thus when success and +popularity fail him, he may often say by way of private consolation, “So +high are the taxes you have to pay for the possession of the most precious +of human commodities—still it is worth the price!” + + + + +295. + + +_ET IN ARCADIA EGO._—I looked down, over waves of hills, to a milky-green +lake, through firs and pines austere with age; rocky crags of all shapes +about me, the soil gay with flowers and grasses. A herd of cattle moved, +stretched, and expanded itself before me; single cows and groups in the +distance, in the clearest evening light, hard by the forest of pines; +others nearer and darker; all in calm and eventide contentment. My watch +pointed to half-past six. The bull of the herd had stepped into the white +foaming brook, and went forward slowly, now striving against, now giving +way to his tempestuous course; thus, no doubt, he took his sort of fierce +pleasure. Two dark brown beings, of Bergamasque origin, tended the herd, +the girl dressed almost like a boy. On the left, overhanging cliffs and +fields of snow above broad belts of woodland; to the right, two enormous +ice-covered peaks, high above me, shimmering in the veil of the sunny +haze—all large, silent, and bright. The beauty of the whole was +awe-inspiring and induced to a mute worship of the moment and its +revelation. Unconsciously, as if nothing could be more natural, you +peopled this pure, clear world of light (which had no trace of yearning, +of expectancy, of looking forward or backward) with Greek heroes. You felt +it all as Poussin and his school felt—at once heroic and idyllic.—So +individual men too have lived, constantly feeling themselves in the world +and the world in themselves, and among them one of the greatest men, the +inventor of a heroico-idyllic form of philosophy—Epicurus. + + + + +296. + + +COUNTING AND MEASURING.—The art of seeing many things, of weighing one +with another, of reckoning one thing with another and constructing from +them a rapid conclusion, a fairly correct sum—that goes to make a great +politician or general or merchant. This quality is, in fact, a power of +speedy mental calculation. The art of seeing _one_ thing alone, of finding +therein the sole motive for action, the guiding principle of all other +action, goes to make the hero and also the fanatic. This quality means a +dexterity in measuring with one scale. + + + + +297. + + +NOT TO SEE TOO SOON.—As long as we undergo some experience, we must give +ourselves up to the experience and shut our eyes—in other words, not +become observers of what we are undergoing. For to observe would disturb +good digestion of the experience, and instead of wisdom we should gain +nothing but dyspepsia. + + + + +298. + + +FROM THE PRACTICE OF THE WISE.—To become wise we must _will_ to undergo +certain experiences, and accordingly leap into their jaws. This, it is +true, is very dangerous. Many a “sage” has been eaten up in the process. + + + + +299. + + +EXHAUSTION OF THE INTELLECT.—Our occasional coldness and indifference +towards people, which is imputed to us as hardness and defect of +character, is often only an exhaustion of the intellect. In this state +other men are to us, as we are to ourselves, tedious or immaterial. + + + + +300. + + +“THE ONE THING NEEDFUL.”—If we are clever, the one thing we need is to +have joy in our hearts. “Ah,” adds some one, “if we are clever, the best +thing we can do is to be wise.” + + + + +301. + + +A SIGN OF LOVE.—Some one said, “There are two persons about whom I have +never thought deeply. That is a sign of my love for them.” + + + + +302. + + +HOW WE SEEK TO IMPROVE BAD ARGUMENTS.—Many a man adds a bit of his +personality to his bad arguments, as if they would thus go better and +change into straight and good arguments. In the same way, players at +skittles, even after a throw, try to give a direction to the ball by turns +and gestures. + + + + +303. + + +HONESTY.—It is but a small thing to be a pattern sort of man with regard +to rights and property—for instance (to name trifling points, which of +course give a better proof of this sort of pattern nature than great +examples), if as a boy one never steals fruit from another’s orchard, and +as a man never walks on unmown fields. It is but little; you are then +still only a “law-abiding person,” with just that degree of morality of +which a “society,” a group of human beings, is capable. + + + + +304. + + +“MAN!”—What is the vanity of the vainest individual as compared with the +vanity which the most modest person feels when he thinks of his position +in nature and in the world as “Man!” + + + + +305. + + +THE MOST NECESSARY GYMNASTIC.—Through deficiency in self-control in small +matters a similar deficiency on great occasions slowly arises. Every day +on which we have not at least once denied ourselves some _trifle_ is +turned to bad use and a danger to the next day. This gymnastic is +indispensable if we wish to maintain the joy of being our own master. + + + + +306. + + +LOSING OURSELVES.—When we have first found ourselves, we must understand +how from time to time to _lose_ ourselves and then to find ourselves +again.—This is true on the assumption that we are thinkers. A thinker +finds it a drawback always to be tied to one person. + + + + +307. + + +WHEN IT IS NECESSARY TO PART.—You must, for a time at least, part from +that which you want to know and measure. Only when you have left a city do +you see how high its towers rise above its houses. + + + + +308. + + +AT NOONTIDE.—He to whom an active and stormy morning of life is allotted, +at the noontide of life feels his soul overcome by a strange longing for a +rest that may last for months and years. All grows silent around him, +voices sound farther and farther in the distance, the sun shines straight +down upon him. On a hidden woodland sward he sees the great God Pan +sleeping, and with Pan Nature seems to him to have gone to sleep with an +expression of eternity on their faces. He wants nothing, he troubles about +nothing; his heart stands still, only his eye lives. It is a death with +waking eyes. Then man sees much that he never saw before, and, so far as +his eye can reach, all is woven into and as it were buried in a net of +light. He feels happy, but it is a heavy, very heavy kind of +happiness.—Then at last the wind stirs in the trees, noontide is over, +life carries him away again, life with its blind eyes, and its tempestuous +retinue behind it—desire, illusion, oblivion, enjoyment, destruction, +decay. And so comes evening, more stormy and more active than was even the +morning.—To the really active man these prolonged phases of cognition seem +almost uncanny and morbid, but not unpleasant. + + + + +309. + + +TO BEWARE OF ONE’S PORTRAIT-PAINTER.—A great painter, who in a portrait +has revealed and put on canvas the fullest expression and look of which a +man is capable, will almost always think, when he sees the man later in +real life, that he is only looking at a caricature. + + + + +310. + + +THE TWO PRINCIPLES OF THE NEW LIFE.—_First Principle_: to arrange one’s +life on the most secure and tangible basis, not as hitherto upon the most +distant, undetermined, and cloudy foundation. _Second Principle_: to +establish the rank of the nearest and nearer things, and of the more and +less secure, before one arranges one’s life and directs it to a final end. + + + + +311. + + +DANGEROUS IRRITABILITY.—Talented men who are at the same time _idle_ will +always appear somewhat irritated when one of their friends has +accomplished a thorough piece of work. Their jealousy is awakened, they +are ashamed of their own laziness, or rather, they fear that their active +friend will now despise them even more than before. In such a mood they +criticise the new achievement, and, to the utter astonishment of the +author, their criticism becomes a revenge. + + + + +312. + + +DESTRUCTIONS OF ILLUSIONS.—Illusions are certainly expensive amusements; +but the destruction of illusions is still more expensive, if looked upon +as an amusement, as it undoubtedly is by some people. + + + + +313. + + +THE MONOTONE OF THE “SAGE.”—Cows sometimes have a look of wondering which +stops short on the path to questioning. In the eye of the higher +intelligence, on the other hand, the _nil admirari_ is spread out like the +monotony of the cloudless sky. + + + + +314. + + +NOT TO BE ILL TOO LONG.—We should beware of being ill too long. The +lookers-on become impatient of their customary duty of showing sympathy, +because they find it too much trouble to maintain the appearance of this +emotion for any length of time. Then they immediately pass to suspicion of +our character, with the conclusion: “You deserve to be ill, and we need no +longer be at pains to show our sympathy.” + + + + +315. + + +A HINT TO ENTHUSIASTS.—He who likes to be carried away, and would fain be +carried on high, must beware lest he become too heavy. For instance, he +must not learn much, and especially not let himself be crammed with +science. Science makes men ponderous—take care, ye enthusiasts! + + + + +316. + + +KNOWLEDGE OF HOW TO SURPRISE ONESELF.—He who would see himself as he is, +must know how to _surprise_ himself, torch in hand. For with the mind it +is as with the body: whoever is accustomed to look at himself in the glass +forgets his ugliness, and only recognises it again by means of the +portrait-painter. Yet he even grows used to the picture and forgets his +ugliness all over again.—Herein we see the universal law that man cannot +endure unalterable ugliness, unless for a moment. He forgets or denies it +in all cases.—The moralists must reckon upon that “moment” for bringing +forward their truths. + + + + +317. + + +OPINIONS AND FISH.—We are possessors of our opinions as of fish—that is, +in so far as we are possessors of a fish pond. We must go fishing and have +luck—then we have _our_ fish, _our_ opinions. I speak here of live +opinions, of live fish. Others are content to possess a cabinet of +fossils—and, in their head, “convictions.” + + + + +318. + + +SIGNS OF FREEDOM AND SERVITUDE.—To satisfy one’s needs so far as possible +oneself, even if imperfectly, is the path towards freedom in mind and +personality. To satisfy many even superfluous needs, and that as fully as +possible, is a training for servitude. The Sophist Hippias, who himself +earned and made all that he wore within and without, is the representative +of the highest freedom of mind and personality. It does not matter whether +all is done equally well and perfectly—pride can repair the damaged +places. + + + + +319. + + +BELIEF IN ONESELF.—In our times we mistrust every one who believes in +himself. Formerly this was enough to make people believe in one. The +recipe for finding faith now runs: “Spare not thyself! In order to set thy +opinion in a credible light, thou must first set fire to thy own hut!” + + + + +320. + + +AT ONCE RICHER AND POORER.—I know a man who accustomed himself even in +childhood to think well of the intellectuality of mankind—in other words, +of their real devotion as regards things of the intellect, their unselfish +preference for that which is recognised as true—but who had at the same +time a modest or even depreciatory view of his own brain (judgment, +memory, presence of mind, imagination). He set no value on himself when he +compared himself with others. Now in the course of years he was compelled, +first once and then in a hundred ways, to revise this verdict. One would +have thought he would be thoroughly satisfied and delighted. Such, in +fact, was to some extent the case, but, as he once said, “Yet a bitterness +of the deepest dye is mingled with my feeling, such as I did not know in +earlier life; for since I learnt to value men and myself more correctly, +my intellect seems to me of less use. I scarcely think I can now do any +good at all with it, because the minds of others cannot understand the +good. I now always see before me the frightful gulf between those who +could give help and those who need help. So I am troubled by the +misfortune of having my intellect to myself and of being forced to enjoy +it alone so far as it can give any enjoyment. But to give is more blessed +than to possess, and what is the richest man in the solitude of a +desert?”(28) + + + + +321. + + +HOW WE SHOULD ATTACK.—The reasons for which men believe or do not believe +are in very few people as strong as they might be. As a rule, in order to +shake a belief it is far from necessary to use the heaviest weapon of +attack. Many attain their object by merely making the attack with some +noise—in fact, pop-guns are often enough. In dealing with very vain +persons, the semblance of a strong attack is enough. They think they are +being taken quite seriously, and readily give way. + + + + +322. + + +DEATH.—Through the certain prospect of death a precious, fragrant drop of +frivolity might be mixed with every life—and now, you singular +druggist-souls, you have made of death a drop of poison, unpleasant to +taste, which makes the whole of life hideous. + + + + +323. + + +REPENTANCE.—Never allow repentance free play, but say at once to yourself, +“That would be adding a second piece of folly to the first.” If you have +worked evil, you must bethink yourself of doing good. If you are punished +for your actions, submit to the punishment with the feeling that by this +very submission you are somehow doing good, in that you are deterring +others from falling into the same error. Every malefactor who is punished +has a right to consider himself a benefactor to mankind. + + + + +324. + + +BECOMING A THINKER.—How can any one become a thinker if he does not spend +at least a third part of the day without passions, men, and books? + + + + +325. + + +THE BEST REMEDY.—A little health on and off is the best remedy for the +invalid. + + + + +326. + + +DON’T TOUCH.—There are dreadful people who, instead of solving a problem, +complicate it for those who deal with it and make it harder to solve.(29) +Whoever does not know how to hit the nail on the head should be entreated +not to hit the nail at all. + + + + +327. + + +FORGETTING NATURE.—We speak of Nature, and, in doing so, forget ourselves: +we ourselves are Nature, _quand même_.—Consequently, Nature is something +quite different from what we feel on hearing her name pronounced. + + + + +328. + + +PROFUNDITY AND ENNUI.—In the case of profound men, as of deep wells, it +takes a long time before anything that is thrown into them reaches the +bottom. The spectators, who generally do not wait long enough, too readily +look upon such a man as callous and hard—or even as boring. + + + + +329. + + +WHEN IT IS TIME TO VOW FIDELITY TO ONESELF.—We sometimes go astray in an +intellectual direction which does not correspond to our talents. For a +time we struggle heroically against wind and tide, really against +ourselves; but finally we become weary and we pant. What we accomplish +gives us no real pleasure, since we think that we have paid too heavy a +price for these successes. We even despair of our productivity, of our +future, perhaps in the midst of victory.—Finally, finally we turn back—and +then the wind swells our sails and bears us into our smooth water. What +bliss! How certain of victory we feel! Only now do we know what we are and +what we intend, and now we vow fidelity to ourselves, and have a right to +do so—as men that know. + + + + +330. + + +WEATHER PROPHETS.—Just as the clouds reveal to us the direction of the +wind high above our heads, so the lightest and freest spirits give signs +of future weather by their course. The wind in the valley and the +market-place opinions of to-day have no significance for the future, but +only for the past. + + + + +331. + + +CONTINUAL ACCELERATION.—Those who begin slowly and find it hard to become +familiar with a subject, sometimes acquire afterwards the quality of +continual acceleration—so that in the end no one knows where the current +will take them. + + + + +332. + + +THE THREE GOOD THINGS.—Greatness, calm, sunlight—these three embrace all +that a thinker desires and also demands of himself: his hopes and duties, +his claims in the intellectual and moral sphere, nay even in his daily +manner of life and the scenic background of his residence. Corresponding +to these three things are, firstly thoughts that exalt, secondly thoughts +that soothe, and thirdly thoughts that illuminate—but, fourthly, thoughts +that share in all these three qualities, in which all earthly things are +transfigured. This is the kingdom of the great _trinity of joy_. + + + + +333. + + +DYING FOR “TRUTH.”—We should not let ourselves be burnt for our +opinions—we are not so certain of them as all that. But we might let +ourselves be burnt for the right of possessing and changing our opinions. + + + + +334. + + +MARKET VALUE.—If we wish to pass exactly for what we are, we must be +something that has its market value. As, however, only objects in common +use have a market value, this desire is the consequence either of shrewd +modesty or of stupid immodesty. + + + + +335. + + +MORAL FOR BUILDERS.—We must remove the scaffolding when the house has been +built. + + + + +336. + + +SOPHOCLEANISM.—Who poured more water into wine than the Greeks? Sobriety +and grace combined—that was the aristocratic privilege of the Athenian in +the time of Sophocles and after. Imitate that whoever can! In life and in +work! + + + + +337. + + +HEROISM.—The heroic consists in doing something great (or in nobly _not_ +doing something) without feeling oneself to be in competition _with_ or +_before_ others. The hero carries with him, wherever he goes, the +wilderness and the holy land with inviolable precincts. + + + + +338. + + +FINDING OUR “DOUBLE” IN NATURE.—In some country places we rediscover +ourselves, with a delightful shudder: it is the pleasantest way of finding +our “double.”—How happy must he be who has that feeling just here, in this +perpetually sunny October air, in this happy elfin play of the wind from +morn till eve, in this clearest of atmospheres and mildest of +temperatures, in all the serious yet cheerful landscape of hill, lake, and +forest on this plateau, which has encamped fearlessly next to the terrors +of eternal snow: here, where Italy and Finland have joined hands, and +where the home of all the silver colour-tones of Nature seems to be +established. How happy must he be who can say, “True, there are many +grander and finer pieces of scenery, but this is so familiar and intimate +to me, related by blood, nay even more to me!” + + + + +339. + + +AFFABILITY OF THE SAGE.—The sage will unconsciously be affable in his +intercourse with other men, as a prince would be, and will readily treat +them as equals, in spite of all differences of talent, rank, and +character. For this characteristic, however, so soon as people notice it, +he is most heavily censured. + + + + +340. + + +GOLD.—All that is gold does not glitter. A soft sheen characterises the +most precious metal. + + + + +341. + + +WHEEL AND DRAG.—The wheel and the drag have different duties, but also one +in common—that of hurting each other. + + + + +342. + + +DISTURBANCES OF THE THINKER.—All that interrupts the thinker in his +thoughts (disturbs him, as people say) must be regarded by him calmly, as +a new model who comes in by the door to offer himself to the artist. +Interruptions are the ravens which bring food to the recluse. + + + + +343. + + +BEING VERY CLEVER.—Being very clever keeps men young, but they must put up +with being considered, for that very reason, older than they are. For men +read the handwriting of the intellect as signs of _experience_—that is, of +having lived much and evilly, of suffering, error, and repentance. Hence, +if we are very clever and show it, we appear to them older and wickeder +than we are. + + + + +344. + + +HOW WE MUST CONQUER.—We ought not to desire victory if we only have the +prospect of overcoming our opponent by a hair’s breadth. A good victory +makes the vanquished rejoice, and must have about it something divine +which spares _humiliation_. + + + + +345. + + +AN ILLUSION OF SUPERIOR MINDS.—Superior minds find it difficult to free +themselves from an illusion; for they imagine that they excite envy among +the mediocre and are looked upon as exceptions. As a matter of fact, +however, they are looked upon as superfluous, as something that would not +be missed if it did not exist. + + + + +346. + + +DEMANDED BY CLEANLINESS.—Changing opinions is in some natures as much +demanded by cleanliness as changing clothes. In the case of other natures +it is only demanded by vanity. + + + + +347. + + +ALSO WORTHY OF A HERO.—Here is a hero who did nothing but shake the tree +as soon as the fruits were ripe. Do you think that too small a thing? +Well, just look at the tree that he shook. + + + + +348. + + +A GAUGE FOR WISDOM.—The growth of wisdom may be gauged exactly by the +diminution of ill-temper. + + + + +349. + + +EXPRESSING AN ERROR DISAGREEABLY.—It is not to every one’s taste to hear +truth pleasantly expressed. But let no one at least believe that error +will become truth if it is disagreeably expressed. + + + + +350. + + +THE GOLDEN MAXIM.—Man has been bound with many chains, in order that he +may forget to comport himself like an animal. And indeed he has become +more gentle, more intellectual, more joyous, more meditative than any +animal. But now he still suffers from having carried his chains so long, +from having been so long without pure air and free movement—these chains, +however, are, as I repeat again and again, the ponderous and significant +errors of moral, religious, and metaphysical ideas. Only when the disease +of chains is overcome is the first great goal reached—the separation of +man from the brute. At present we stand in the midst of our work of +removing the chains, and in doing so we need the strictest precautions. +Only the ennobled man may be granted freedom of spirit; to him alone comes +the alleviation of life and heals his wounds; he is the first who can say +that he lives for the sake of joy, with no other aim; in any other mouth, +his motto of “Peace around me and goodwill towards all the most familiar +things,” would be dangerous.—In this motto for single individuals he is +thinking of an ancient saying, magnificent and pathetic, which applied to +all, and has remained standing above all mankind, as a motto and a beacon +whereby shall perish all who adorn their banner too early—the rock on +which Christianity foundered. It is not even yet time, it seems, for _all +men_ to have the lot of those shepherds who saw the heavens lit up above +them and heard the words: “Peace on earth and goodwill to one another +among men.”—It is still the age of the individual. + + + + + ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐ + + + + +_The Shadow_: Of all that you have enunciated, nothing pleased me more +than one promise: “Ye want again to be good neighbours to the most +familiar things.” This will be to the advantage of us poor shadows too. +For do but confess that you have hitherto been only too fond of reviling +us. + +_The Wanderer_: Reviling? But why did you never defend yourselves? After +all, you were very close to our ears. + +_The Shadow_: It seemed to us that we were too near you to have a right to +talk of ourselves. + +_The Wanderer_: What delicacy! Ah, you shadows are “better men”(30) than +we, I can see that. + +_The Shadow_: And yet you called us “importunate”—us, who know one thing +at least extremely well: how to be silent and to wait—no Englishman knows +it better. It is true we are very, very often in the retinue of men, but +never as their bondsmen. When man shuns light, we shun man—so far, at +least, we are free. + +_The Wanderer_: Ah, light shuns man far oftener, and then also you abandon +him. + +_The Shadow_: It has often pained me to leave you. I am eager for +knowledge, and much in man has remained obscure to me, because I cannot +always be in his company. At the price of complete knowledge of man I +would gladly be your slave. + +_The Wanderer_: Do you know, do I know, whether you would not then +unwittingly become master instead of slave? Or would remain a slave +indeed, but would lead a life of humiliation and disgust because you +despised your master? Let us both be content with freedom such as you have +enjoyed up to now—you and I! For the sight of a being not free would +embitter my greatest joys; all that is best would be repugnant to me if +any one had to share it with me—I will not hear of any slaves about me. +That is why I do not care for the dog, that lazy, tail-wagging parasite, +who first became “doggish” as the slave of man, and of whom they still say +that he is loyal to his master and follows him like—— + +_The Shadow_: Like his shadow, they say. Perhaps I have already followed +you too long to-day? It has been the longest day, but we are nearing the +end; be patient a little more! The grass is damp; I am feeling chilly. + +_The Wanderer_: Oh, is it already time to part? And I had to hurt you in +the end—I saw you became darker. + +_The Shadow_: I blushed the only colour I have at command. I remembered +that I had often lain at your feet like a dog, and that you then—— + +_The Wanderer_: Can I not with all speed do something to please you? Have +you no wish? + +_The Shadow_: None, except perhaps the wish that the philosophic “dog”(31) +expressed to Alexander the Great—just move a little out of my light; I +feel cold. + +_The Wanderer_: What am I to do? + +_The Shadow_: Walk under those fir-trees and look around you towards the +mountains; the sun is sinking. + +_The Wanderer_: Where are you? Where are you? + + + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + + 1 “Foreword” and “forword” would be the literal rendering of the play + on words.—TR. + + 2 The allusion is to the ending of the Second Part of Goethe’s + _Faust_—“das Ewig Weibliche Zieht uns _hinan_!”—“The Eternal + Feminine Draweth us _on_!”—TR. + + 3 It has been attempted to render the play on “Gewissen” and + “Wissen.”—TR. + + 4 Cf. John i. 1.—TR. + + 5 The German word _Mitfreude_, coined by Nietzsche in opposition to + _Mitleid_ (sympathy), is untranslateable.—TR. + + 6 Herostratus of Ephesus (in 356 B.C.) set fire to the temple of Diana + in order (as he confessed on the rack) to gain notoriety.—TR. + + 7 Quotation from Schiller, _Don Carlos_, i. 5.—TR. + + 8 This, of course, refers to Jesus and Socrates.—TR. + + 9 Queen of the Amazons, slain by Achilles in the Trojan War.—TR. + + 10 From Schiller, _Wallenstein’s Lager_: “Wer den Besten seiner Zeit + genug gethan, der hat gelebt für alle Zeiten” (“He that has + satisfied the best men of his time has lived for all time”). + + 11 In German _Barockstil_, _i.e._ the degenerate post-Renaissance style + in art and literature, which spread from Italy in the seventeenth + century.—TR. + + 12 The original word, _Freizügig_, means, in the modern German Empire, + possessing the free right of migration, without pecuniary burdens or + other restrictions, from one German state to another. The play on + words in _Zug zur Freiheit_ (“impulse to freedom”) is + untranslateable.—TR. + + 13 Nietzsche seems to allude to his own case, for he ultimately + contracted a myopia which bordered on blindness.—TR. + + 14 The play on _bergen_ (shelter) and _verbergen_ (hide) is + untranslateable.—TR. + + 15 Allusion to German proverb: “Where there is nothing, the Emperor has + lost his rights.”—TR. + + 16 Genesis xiii. 9.—TR. + + 17 Luke viii. 33.—TR. + + 18 The play on Freudenschaften (_i.e._ pleasure-giving passions) and + _Leidenschaften_ (_i.e._ pain-giving passions) is often used by + Nietzsche, and is untranslateable.—_Tr._ + + 19 The wife of the Stoic Thrasea Paetus, when their complicity in the + great conspiracy of 65 A.D. against Nero was discovered, is reported + to have said as she committed suicide, “It doesn’t hurt, + Paetus.”—_Tr._ + + 20 It is interesting to compare this judgment with Carlyle’s praise of + Jean Paul. The dressing-gown is an allusion to Jean Paul’s favourite + costume.—TR. + + 21 The German copyright expires thirty years after publication.—TR. + + 22 Nietzsche himself was extremely short-sighted.—TR. + + 23 In the sixth century B.C. Pythagoras founded at Croton a “school” + somewhat resembling a monastic order. Among the ordeals for + novitiates was enforced silence for five years.—TR. + + 24 In the German _Aufklärung_ there is a play on the sense “clearing + up” (of weather) and “enlightenment.”—TR. + + 25 Stendhal.—TR. + + 26 A transposition of _sacrifizio dell’ intelletto_, the Jesuit + maxim.—TR. + + 27 The original, by a curious slip, has “seventh.”—TR. + + 28 Clearly autobiographical. Nietzsche, like all great men, passed + through a period of modesty and doubt.—TR. + + 29 Nietzsche here alludes to his own countrymen.—TR. + + 30 An allusion to the poem “Der Wilde” (The Savage) by Säume, which + ends with the line, “Sehet, wir wilden sind doch bessere Menschen” + (Behold, after all, we savages are better men).—TR. + + 31 Diogenes, founder of the Cynic school, which derived its name from + κυών (dog).—TR. + + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUMAN, ALL-TOO-HUMAN, PART II*** + + + +CREDITS + + +October 24, 2011 + + Project Gutenberg TEI edition 1 + Produced by Gary Rees, David King, and the Online Distributed + Proofreading Team at <http://www.pgdp.net/>. 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