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diff --git a/old/52881-0.txt b/old/52881-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8e6ba7b..0000000 --- a/old/52881-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10345 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Joyful Wisdom, by Friedrich Nietzsche - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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 -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Joyful Wisdom - -Author: Friedrich Nietzsche - -Contributor: Paul V. Cohn -Maude D. Petre - -Editor: Oscar Levy - -Translator: Thomas Common - -Release Date: August 23, 2016 [EBook #52881] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOYFUL WISDOM *** - - - - -Produced by Thierry Alberto, readbueno and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE COMPLETE WORKS - OF - FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE - - _The First Complete and Authorised English Translation_ - - EDITED BY - DR OSCAR LEVY - -[Illustration] - - VOLUME TEN - - THE JOYFUL WISDOM - - ("LA GAYA SCIENZA") - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Of the First Edition of - One Thousand Five Hundred - Copies this is - No. - - - - - _FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE_ - - THE - - JOYFUL WISDOM - - ("LA GAYA SCIENZA") - - - TRANSLATED BY - - THOMAS COMMON - - - WITH POETRY RENDERED BY - - PAUL V. COHN - - AND - - MAUDE D. PETRE - - _I stay to mine house confined, - Nor graft my wits on alien stock; - And mock at every master mind - That never at itself could mock._ - - - T. N. FOULIS - - 13 & 15 FREDERICK STREET - - EDINBURGH: & LONDON - - 1910 - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - Printed at THE DARIEN PRESS, _Edinburgh_. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - EDITORIAL NOTE vii - - PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION 1 - - JEST, RUSE AND REVENGE: A PRELUDE IN RHYME 11 - - BOOK FIRST 29 - - BOOK SECOND 93 - - BOOK THIRD 149 - - BOOK FOURTH: SANCTUS JANUARIUS 211 - - BOOK FIFTH: WE FEARLESS ONES 273 - - APPENDIX: SONGS OF PRINCE FREE-AS-A-BIRD 355 - - - - - EDITORIAL NOTE - - -"The Joyful Wisdom," written in 1882, just before "Zarathustra," is -rightly judged to be one of Nietzsche's best books. Here the essentially -grave and masculine face of the poet-philosopher is seen to light up and -suddenly break into a delightful smile. The warmth and kindness that -beam from his features will astonish those hasty psychologists who have -never divined that behind the destroyer is the creator, and behind the -blasphemer the lover of life. In the retrospective valuation of his work -which appears in "Ecce Homo" the author himself observes with truth that -the fourth book, "Sanctus Januarius," deserves especial attention: "The -whole book is a gift from the Saint, and the introductory verses express -my gratitude for the most wonderful month of January that I have ever -spent." Book fifth "We Fearless Ones," the Appendix "Songs of Prince -Free-as-a-Bird," and the Preface, were added to the second edition in -1887. - -The translation of Nietzsche's poetry has proved to be a more -embarrassing problem than that of his prose. Not only has there been a -difficulty in finding adequate translators—a difficulty overcome, it is -hoped, by the choice of Miss Petre and Mr Cohn,—but it cannot be denied -that even in the original the poems are of unequal merit. By the side of -such masterpieces as "To the Mistral" are several verses of -comparatively little value. The Editor, however, did not feel justified -in making a selection, as it was intended that the edition should be -complete. The heading, "Jest, Ruse and Revenge," of the "Prelude in -Rhyme" is borrowed from Goethe. - - - - - PREFACE TO THE SECOND - EDITION. - - - 1. - -Perhaps more than one preface would be necessary for this book; and -after all it might still be doubtful whether any one could be brought -nearer to the _experiences_ in it by means of prefaces, without having -himself experienced something similar. It seems to be written in the -language of the thawing-wind: there is wantonness, restlessness, -contradiction and April-weather in it; so that one is as constantly -reminded of the proximity of winter as of the _victory_ over it: the -victory which is coming, which must come, which has perhaps already -come.... Gratitude continually flows forth, as if the most unexpected -thing had happened, the gratitude of a convalescent—for _convalescence_ -was this most unexpected thing. "Joyful Wisdom": that implies the -Saturnalia of a spirit which has patiently withstood a long, frightful -pressure—patiently, strenuously, impassionately, without submitting, but -without hope—and which is now suddenly o'erpowered with hope, the hope -of health, the _intoxication_ of convalescence. What wonder that much -that is unreasonable and foolish thereby comes to light: much wanton -tenderness expended even on problems which have a prickly hide, and are -not therefore fit to be fondled and allured. The whole book is really -nothing but a revel after long privation and impotence: the frolicking -of returning energy, of newly awakened belief in a to-morrow and -after-to-morrow; of sudden sentience and prescience of a future, of near -adventures, of seas open once more, and aims once more permitted and -believed in. And what was now all behind me! This track of desert, -exhaustion, unbelief, and frigidity in the midst of youth, this advent -of grey hairs at the wrong time, this tyranny of pain, surpassed, -however, by the tyranny of pride which repudiated the _consequences_ of -pain—and consequences are comforts,—this radical isolation, as defence -against the contempt of mankind become morbidly clairvoyant, this -restriction upon principle to all that is bitter, sharp, and painful in -knowledge, as prescribed by the _disgust_ which had gradually resulted -from imprudent spiritual diet and pampering—it is called -Romanticism,—oh, who could realise all those feelings of mine! He, -however, who could do so would certainly forgive me everything, and more -than a little folly, boisterousness and "Joyful Wisdom"—for example, the -handful of songs which are given along with the book on this -occasion,—songs in which a poet makes merry over all poets in a way not -easily pardoned.—Alas, it is not only on the poets and their fine -"lyrical sentiments" that this reconvalescent must vent his malignity: -who knows what kind of victim he seeks, what kind of monster of material -for parody will allure him ere long? _Incipit tragœdia_, it is said at -the conclusion of this seriously frivolous book; let people be on their -guard! Something or other extraordinarily bad and wicked announces -itself: _incipit parodia_, there is no doubt... - - - 2. - -——But let us leave Herr Nietzsche; what does it matter to people that -Herr Nietzsche has got well again?... A psychologist knows few questions -so attractive as those concerning the relations of health to philosophy, -and in the case when he himself falls sick, he carries with him all his -scientific curiosity into his sickness. For, granting that one is a -person, one has necessarily also the philosophy of one's personality, -there is, however, an important distinction here. With the one it is his -defects which philosophise, with the other it is his riches and powers. -The former _requires_ his philosophy, whether it be as support, -sedative, or medicine, as salvation, elevation, or self-alienation; with -the latter it is merely a fine luxury, at best the voluptuousness of a -triumphant gratitude, which must inscribe itself ultimately in cosmic -capitals on the heaven of ideas. In the other more usual case, however, -when states of distress occupy themselves with philosophy (as is the -case with all sickly thinkers—and perhaps the sickly thinkers -preponderate in the history of philosophy), what will happen to the -thought itself which is brought under the _pressure_ of sickness? This -is the important question for psychologists: and here experiment is -possible. We philosophers do just like a traveller who resolves to awake -at a given hour, and then quietly yields himself to sleep: we surrender -ourselves temporarily, body and soul, to the sickness, supposing we -become ill—we shut, as it were, our eyes on ourselves. And as the -traveller knows that something _does not_ sleep, that something counts -the hours and will awake him, we also know that the critical moment will -find us awake—that then something will spring forward and surprise the -spirit _in the very act_, I mean in weakness, or reversion, or -submission, or obduracy, or obscurity, or whatever the morbid conditions -are called, which in times of good health have the _pride_ of the spirit -opposed to them (for it is as in the old rhyme: "The spirit proud, -peacock and horse are the three proudest things of earthly source"). -After such self-questioning and self-testing, one learns to look with a -sharper eye at all that has hitherto been philosophised; one divines -better than before the arbitrary by-ways, side-streets, resting-places, -and _sunny_ places of thought, to which suffering thinkers, precisely as -sufferers, are led and misled: one knows now in what direction the -sickly _body_ and its requirements unconsciously press, push, and allure -the spirit—towards the sun, stillness, gentleness, patience, medicine, -refreshment in any sense whatever. Every philosophy which puts peace -higher than war, every ethic with a negative grasp of the idea of -happiness, every metaphysic and physic that knows a _finale_, an -ultimate condition of any kind whatever, every predominating, æsthetic -or religious longing for an aside, a beyond, an outside, an above—all -these permit one to ask whether sickness has not been the motive which -inspired the philosopher. The unconscious disguising of physiological -requirements under the cloak of the objective, the ideal, the purely -spiritual, is carried on to an alarming extent,—and I have often enough -asked myself, whether, on the whole, philosophy hitherto has not -generally been merely an interpretation of the body, and a -_misunderstanding of the body_. Behind the loftiest estimates of value -by which the history of thought has hitherto been governed, -misunderstandings of the bodily constitution, either of individuals, -classes, or entire races are concealed. One may always primarily -consider these audacious freaks of metaphysic, and especially its -answers to the question of the _worth_ of existence, as symptoms of -certain bodily constitutions; and if, on the whole, when scientifically -determined, not a particle of significance attaches to such affirmations -and denials of the world, they nevertheless furnish the historian and -psychologist with hints so much the more valuable (as we have said) as -symptoms of the bodily constitution, its good or bad condition, its -fullness, powerfulness, and sovereignty in history; or else of its -obstructions, exhaustions, and impoverishments, its premonition of the -end, its will to the end. I still expect that a philosophical -_physician_, in the exceptional sense of the word—one who applies -himself to the problem of the collective health of peoples, periods, -races, and mankind generally—will some day have the courage to follow -out my suspicion to its ultimate conclusions, and to venture on the -judgment that in all philosophising it has not hitherto been a question -of "truth" at all, but of something else,—namely, of health, futurity, -growth, power, life.... - - - 3. - -It will be surmised that I should not like to take leave ungratefully of -that period of severe sickness, the advantage of which is not even yet -exhausted in me: for I am sufficiently conscious of what I have in -advance of the spiritually robust generally, in my changeful state of -health. A philosopher who has made the tour of many states of health, -and always makes it anew, has also gone through just as many -philosophies: he really _cannot_ do otherwise than transform his -condition on every occasion into the most ingenious posture and -position,—this art of transfiguration _is_ just philosophy. We -philosophers are not at liberty to separate soul and body, as the people -separate them; and we are still less at liberty to separate soul and -spirit. We are not thinking frogs, we are not objectifying and -registering apparatuses with cold entrails,—our thoughts must be -continually born to us out of our pain, and we must, motherlike, share -with them all that we have in us of blood, heart, ardour, joy, passion, -pang, conscience, fate and fatality. Life—that means for us to transform -constantly into light and flame all that we are, and also all that we -meet with; we _cannot_ possibly do otherwise. And as regards sickness, -should we not be almost tempted to ask whether we could in general -dispense with it? It is great pain only which is the ultimate -emancipator of the spirit; for it is the teacher of the _strong -suspicion_ which makes an X out of every U[1], a true, correct X, -_i.e._, the ante-penultimate letter.... It is great pain only, the long -slow pain which takes time, by which we are burned as it were with green -wood, that compels us philosophers to descend into our ultimate depths, -and divest ourselves of all trust, all good-nature, veiling, gentleness, -and averageness, wherein we have perhaps formerly installed our -humanity. I doubt whether such pain "improves" us; but I know that it -_deepens_ us. Be it that we learn to confront it with our pride, our -scorn, our strength of will, doing like the Indian who, however sorely -tortured, revenges himself on his tormentor with his bitter tongue; be -it that we withdraw from the pain into the oriental nothingness—it is -called Nirvana,—into mute, benumbed, deaf self-surrender, -self-forgetfulness, and self-effacement: one emerges from such long, -dangerous exercises in self-mastery as another being, with several -additional notes of interrogation, and above all, with the _will_ to -question more than ever, more profoundly, more strictly, more sternly, -more wickedly, more quietly than has ever been questioned hitherto. -Confidence in life is gone: life itself has become a _problem_.—Let it -not be imagined that one has necessarily become a hypochondriac thereby! -Even love of life is still possible—only one loves differently. It is -the love of a woman of whom one is doubtful.... The charm, however, of -all that is problematic, the delight in the X, is too great in those -more spiritual and more spiritualised men, not to spread itself again -and again like a clear glow over all the trouble of the problematic, -over all the danger of uncertainty, and even over the jealousy of the -lover. We know a new happiness.... - - - 4. - -Finally, (that the most essential may not remain unsaid), one comes back -out of such abysses, out of such severe sickness, and out of the -sickness of strong suspicion—_new-born_, with the skin cast; more -sensitive, more wicked, with a finer taste for joy, with a more delicate -tongue for all good things, with a merrier disposition, with a second -and more dangerous innocence in joy; more childish at the same time, and -a hundred times more refined than ever before. Oh, how repugnant to us -now is pleasure, coarse, dull, drab pleasure, as the pleasure-seekers, -our "cultured" classes, our rich and ruling classes, usually understand -it! How malignantly we now listen to the great holiday-hubbub with which -"cultured people" and city-men at present allow themselves to be forced -to "spiritual enjoyment" by art, books, and music, with the help of -spirituous liquors! How the theatrical cry of passion now pains our ear, -how strange to our taste has all the romantic riot and sensuous bustle -which the cultured populace love become (together with their aspirations -after the exalted, the elevated, and the intricate)! No, if we -convalescents need an art at all, it is _another_ art—a mocking, light, -volatile, divinely serene, divinely ingenious art, which blazes up like -a clear flame, into a cloudless heaven! Above all, an art for artists, -only for artists! We at last know better what is first of all necessary -_for it_—namely, cheerfulness, _every_ kind of cheerfulness, my friends! -also as artists:—I should like to prove it. We now know something too -well, we men of knowledge: oh, how well we are now learning to forget -and _not_ know, as artists! And as to our future, we are not likely to -be found again in the tracks of those Egyptian youths who at night make -the temples unsafe, embrace statues, and would fain unveil, uncover, and -put in clear light, everything which for good reasons is kept -concealed.[2] No, we have got disgusted with this bad taste, this will -to truth, to "truth at all costs," this youthful madness in the love of -truth: we are now too experienced, too serious, too joyful, too singed, -too profound for that.... We no longer believe that truth remains truth -when the veil is withdrawn from it: we have lived long enough to believe -this. At present we regard it as a matter of propriety not to be anxious -either to see everything naked, or to be present at everything, or to -understand and "know" everything. "Is it true that the good God is -everywhere present?" asked a little girl of her mother: "I think that is -indecent":—a hint to philosophers! One should have more reverence for -the _shamefacedness_ with which nature has concealed herself behind -enigmas and motley uncertainties. Perhaps truth is a woman who has -reasons for not showing her reasons? Perhaps her name is Baubo, to speak -in Greek?... Oh, those Greeks! They knew how _to live_: for that purpose -it is necessary to keep bravely to the surface, the fold and the skin; -to worship appearance, to believe in forms, tones, and words, in the -whole Olympus of appearance! Those Greeks were superficial—_from -profundity_! And are we not coming back precisely to this point, we -dare-devils of the spirit, who have scaled the highest and most -dangerous peak of contemporary thought, and have looked around us from -it, have _looked down_ from it? Are we not precisely in this -respect—Greeks? Worshippers of forms, of tones, and of words? And -precisely on that account—artists? - -RUTA, near GENOA - -_Autumn, 1886._ - ------ - -Footnote 1: - - This means literally to put the numeral X instead of the numeral V - (formerly U); hence it means to double a number unfairly, to - exaggerate, humbug, cheat.—TR. - -Footnote 2: - - An allusion to Schiller's poem: "The Veiled Image of Sais."—TR. - - - - - JEST, RUSE AND REVENGE. - - A PRELUDE IN RHYME. - - - 1. - - _Invitation._ - - Venture, comrades, I implore you, - On the fare I set before you, - You will like it more to-morrow, - Better still the following day: - If yet more you're then requiring, - Old success I'll find inspiring, - And fresh courage thence will borrow - Novel dainties to display. - - - 2. - - _My Good Luck._ - - Weary of Seeking had I grown, - So taught myself the way to Find: - Back by the storm I once was blown, - But follow now, where drives the wind. - - - 3. - - _Undismayed._ - - Where you're standing, dig, dig out: - Down below's the Well: - Let them that walk in darkness shout: - "Down below—there's Hell!" - - - 4. - - _Dialogue._ - - _A._ Was I ill? and is it ended? - Pray, by what physician tended? - I recall no pain endured! - _B._ Now I know your trouble's ended: - He that can forget, is cured. - - - 5. - - _To the Virtuous._ - - Let our virtues be easy and nimble-footed in motion, - Like unto Homer's verse ought they to come _and to go_. - - - 6. - - _Worldly Wisdom._ - - Stay not on level plain, - Climb not the mount too high, - But half-way up remain— - The world you'll best descry! - - - 7. - - _Vademecum—Vadetecum._ - - Attracted by my style and talk - You'd follow, in my footsteps walk? - Follow yourself unswervingly, - So—careful!—shall you follow me. - - - 8. - - _The Third Sloughing._ - - My skin bursts, breaks for fresh rebirth, - And new desires come thronging: - Much I've devoured, yet for more earth - The serpent in me's longing. - 'Twixt stone and grass I crawl once more, - Hungry, by crooked ways, - To eat the food I ate before, - Earth-fare all serpents praise! - - - 9. - - _My Roses._ - - My luck's good—I'd make yours fairer, - (Good luck ever needs a sharer), - Will you stop and pluck my roses? - - Oft mid rocks and thorns you'll linger, - Hide and stoop, suck bleeding finger— - Will you stop and pluck my roses? - - For my good luck's a trifle vicious, - Fond of teasing, tricks malicious— - Will you stop and pluck my roses? - - - 10. - - _The Scorner._ - - Many drops I waste and spill, - So my scornful mood you curse: - Who to brim his cup doth fill, - Many drops _must_ waste and spill— - Yet he thinks the wine no worse. - - - 11. - - _The Proverb Speaks._ - - Harsh and gentle, fine and mean, - Quite rare and common, dirty and clean, - The fools' and the sages' go-between: - All this I will be, this have been, - Dove and serpent and swine, I ween! - - - 12. - - _To a Lover of Light._ - - That eye and sense be not fordone - E'en in the shade pursue the sun! - - - 13. - - _For Dancers._ - - Smoothest ice, - A paradise - To him who is a dancer nice. - - - 14. - - _The Brave Man._ - - A feud that knows not flaw nor break, - Rather then patched-up friendship, take. - - - 15. - - _Rust._ - - Rust's needed: keenness will not satisfy! - "He is too young!" the rabble loves to cry. - - - 16. - - _Excelsior._ - - "How shall I reach the top?" No time - For thus reflecting! Start to climb! - - - 17. - - _The Man of Power Speaks._ - - Ask never! Cease that whining, pray! - Take without asking, take alway! - - - 18. - - _Narrow Souls._ - - Narrow souls hate I like the devil, - Souls wherein grows nor good nor evil. - - - 19. - - _Accidentally a Seducer._[3] - - He shot an empty word - Into the empty blue; - But on the way it met - A woman whom it slew. - - - 20. - - _For Consideration._ - - A twofold pain is easier far to bear - Than one: so now to suffer wilt thou dare? - - - 21. - - _Against Pride._ - - Brother, to puff thyself up ne'er be quick: - For burst thou shalt be by a tiny prick! - - - 22. - - _Man and Woman._ - - "The woman seize, who to thy heart appeals!" - Man's motto: woman seizes not, but steals. - - - 23. - - _Interpretation._ - - If I explain my wisdom, surely - 'Tis but entangled more securely, - I can't expound myself aright: - But he that's boldly up and doing, - His own unaided course pursuing, - Upon my image casts more light! - - - 24. - - _A Cure for Pessimism._ - - Those old capricious fancies, friend! - You say your palate naught can please, - I hear you bluster, spit and wheeze, - My love, my patience soon will end! - Pluck up your courage, follow me— - Here's a fat toad! Now then, don't blink, - Swallow it whole, nor pause to think! - From your dyspepsia you'll be free! - - - 25. - - _A Request._ - - Many men's minds I know full well, - Yet what mine own is, cannot tell. - I cannot see—my eye's too near— - And falsely to myself appear. - 'Twould be to me a benefit - Far from myself if I could sit, - Less distant than my enemy, - And yet my nearest friend's too nigh— - 'Twixt him and me, just in the middle! - What do I ask for? Guess my riddle! - - - 26. - - _My Cruelty._ - - I must ascend an hundred stairs, - I must ascend: the herd declares - I'm cruel: "Are we made of stone?" - I must ascend an hundred stairs: - All men the part of stair disown. - - - 27. - - _The Wanderer._ - - "No longer path! Abyss and silence chilling!" - Thy fault! To leave the path thou wast too willing! - Now comes the test! Keep cool—eyes bright and clear! - Thou'rt lost for sure, if thou permittest—fear. - - - 28. - - _Encouragement for Beginners._ - - See the infant, helpless creeping— - Swine around it grunt swine-talk— - Weeping always, naught but weeping, - Will it ever learn to walk? - Never fear! Just wait, I swear it - Soon to dance will be inclined, - And this babe, when two legs bear it, - Standing on its head you'll find. - - - 29. - - _Planet Egoism._ - - Did I not turn, a rolling cask, - Ever about myself, I ask, - How could I without burning run - Close on the track of the hot sun? - - - 30. - - _The Neighbour._ - - Too nigh, my friend my joy doth mar, - I'd have him high above and far, - Or how can he become my star? - - - 31. - - _The Disguised Saint._ - - Lest we for thy bliss should slay thee, - In devil's wiles thou dost array thee, - Devil's wit and devil's dress. - But in vain! Thy looks betray thee - And proclaim thy holiness. - - - 32. - - _The Slave._ - - _A._ He stands and listens: whence his pain? - What smote his ears? Some far refrain? - Why is his heart with anguish torn? - _B._ Like all that fetters once have worn, - He always hears the clinking—chain! - - - 33. - - _The Lone One._ - - I hate to follow and I hate to lead. - Obedience? no! and ruling? no, indeed! - Wouldst fearful be in others' sight? - Then e'en _thyself_ thou must affright: - The people but the Terror's guidance heed. - I hate to guide myself, I hate the fray. - Like the wild beasts I'll wander far afield. - In Error's pleasing toils I'll roam - Awhile, then lure myself back home, - Back home, and—to my self-seduction yield. - - - 34. - - _Seneca et hoc Genus omne._ - - They write and write (quite maddening me) - Their "sapient" twaddle airy, - As if 'twere _primum scribere, - Deinde philosophari_. - - - 35. - - _Ice._ - - Yes! I manufacture ice: - Ice may help you to digest: - If you _had_ much to digest, - How you would enjoy my ice! - - - 36. - - _Youthful Writings._ - - My wisdom's A and final O - Was then the sound that smote mine ear. - Yet now it rings no longer so, - My youth's eternal Ah! and Oh! - Is now the only sound I hear.[4] - - - 37. - - _Foresight._ - - In yonder region travelling, take good care! - An hast thou wit, then be thou doubly ware! - They'll smile and lure thee; then thy limbs they'll tear: - Fanatics' country this where wits are rare! - - - 38. - - _The Pious One Speaks._ - - God loves us, _for_ he made us, sent us here!— - "Man hath made God!" ye subtle ones reply. - His handiwork he must hold dear, - And _what he made_ shall he deny? - There sounds the devil's halting hoof, I fear. - - - 39. - - _In Summer._ - - In sweat of face, so runs the screed, - We e'er must eat our bread, - Yet wise physicians if we heed - "Eat naught in sweat," 'tis said. - The dog-star's blinking: what's his need? - What tells his blazing sign? - In sweat of face (so runs _his_ screed) - We're meant to drink our wine! - - - 40. - - _Without Envy._ - - His look bewrays no envy: and ye laud him? - He cares not, asks not if your throng applaud him! - He has the eagle's eye for distance far, - He sees you not, he sees but star on star! - - - 41. - - _Heraclitism._ - - Brethren, war's the origin - Of happiness on earth: - Powder-smoke and battle-din - Witness friendship's birth! - Friendship means three things, you know,— - Kinship in luckless plight, - Equality before the foe - Freedom—in death's sight! - - - 42. - - _Maxim of the Over-refined._ - - "Rather on your toes stand high - Than crawl upon all fours, - Rather through the keyhole spy - Than through open doors!" - - - 43. - - _Exhortation._ - - Renown you're quite resolved to earn? - My thought about it - Is this: you need not fame, must learn - To do without it! - - - 44. - - _Thorough._ - - I an Inquirer? No, that's not my calling - Only _I weigh a lot_—I'm such a lump!— - And through the waters I keep falling, falling, - Till on the ocean's deepest bed I bump. - - - 45. - - _The Immortals._ - - "To-day is meet for me, I come to-day," - Such is the speech of men foredoomed to stay. - "Thou art too soon," they cry, "thou art too late," - What care the Immortals what the rabble say? - - - 46. - - _Verdicts of the Weary._ - - The weary shun the glaring sun, afraid, - And only care for trees to gain the shade. - - - 47. - - _Descent._ - - "He sinks, he falls," your scornful looks portend: - The truth is, to your level he'll descend. - His Too Much Joy is turned to weariness, - His Too Much Light will in your darkness end. - - - 48. - - _Nature Silenced._[5] - - Around my neck, on chain of hair, - The timepiece hangs—a sign of care. - For me the starry course is o'er, - No sun and shadow as before, - No cockcrow summons at the door, - For nature tells the time no more! - Too many clocks her voice have drowned, - And droning law has dulled her sound. - - - 49. - - _The Sage Speaks._ - - Strange to the crowd, yet useful to the crowd, - I still pursue my path, now sun, now cloud, - But always pass above the crowd! - - - 50. - - _He lost his Head...._ - - She now has wit—how did it come her way? - A man through her his reason lost, they say. - His head, though wise ere to this pastime lent, - Straight to the devil—no, to woman went! - - - 51. - - _A Pious Wish._ - - "Oh, might all keys be lost! 'Twere better so - And in all keyholes might the pick-lock go!" - Who thus reflects ye may as—picklock know. - - - 52. - - _Foot Writing._ - - I write not with the hand alone, - My foot would write, my foot that capers, - Firm, free and bold, it's marching on - Now through the fields, now through the papers. - - - 53. - - "_Human, All-too-Human._"... - - Shy, gloomy, when your looks are backward thrust, - Trusting the future where yourself you trust, - Are you an eagle, mid the nobler fowl, - Or are you like Minerva's darling owl? - - - 54. - - _To my Reader._ - - Good teeth and a digestion good - I wish you—these you need, be sure! - And, certes, if my book you've stood, - Me with good humour you'll endure. - - - 55. - - _The Realistic Painter._ - - "To nature true, complete!" so he begins. - Who complete Nature to his canvas _wins_? - Her tiniest fragment's endless, no constraint - Can know: he paints just what his _fancy_ pins: - What does his fancy pin? What he _can_ paint! - - - 56. - - _Poets' Vanity._ - - Glue, only glue to me dispense, - The wood I'll find myself, don't fear! - To give four senseless verses sense— - That's an achievement I revere! - - - 57. - - _Taste in Choosing._ - - If to choose my niche precise - Freedom I could win from fate, - I'd be in midst of Paradise— - Or, sooner still—before the gate! - - - 58. - - _The Crooked Nose._ - - Wide blow your nostrils, and across - The land your nose holds haughty sway: - So you, unhorned rhinoceros, - Proud mannikin, fall forward aye! - The one trait with the other goes: - A straight pride and a crooked nose. - - - 59. - - _The Pen is Scratching...._ - - The pen is scratching: hang the pen! - To scratching I'm condemned to sink! - I grasp the inkstand fiercely then - And write in floods of flowing ink. - How broad, how full the stream's career! - What luck my labours doth requite! - 'Tis true, the writing's none too clear— - What then? Who reads the stuff I write? - - - 60. - - _Loftier Spirits._ - - This man's climbing up—let us praise him— - But that other we love - From aloft doth eternally move, - So above even praise let us raise him, - He _comes_ from above! - - - 61. - - _The Sceptic Speaks._ - - Your life is half-way o'er; - The clock-hand moves; your soul is thrilled with fear, - It roamed to distant shore - And sought and found not, yet you—linger here! - - Your life is half-way o'er; - That hour by hour was pain and error sheer: - _Why stay?_ What seek you more? - "That's what I'm seeking—reasons why I'm here!" - - - 62. - - _Ecce Homo._ - - Yes, I know where I'm related, - Like the flame, unquenched, unsated, - I consume myself and glow: - All's turned to light I lay my hand on, - All to coal that I abandon, - Yes, I am a flame, I know! - - - 63. - - _Star Morality._[6] - - Foredoomed to spaces vast and far, - What matters darkness to the star? - - Roll calmly on, let time go by, - Let sorrows pass thee—nations die! - - Compassion would but dim the light - That distant worlds will gladly sight. - - To thee one law—be pure and bright! - ------ - -Footnote 3: - - Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. - -Footnote 4: - - A and O, suggestive of Ah! and Oh! refer of course to Alpha and Omega, - the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet.—TR. - -Footnote 5: - - Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. - -Footnote 6: - - Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. - - - - - BOOK FIRST - - - 1. - -_The Teachers of the Object of Existence._—Whether I look with a good or -an evil eye upon men, I find them always at one problem, each and all of -them: to do that which conduces to the conservation of the human -species. And certainly not out of any sentiment of love for this -species, but simply because nothing in them is older, stronger, more -inexorable, and more unconquerable than that instinct,—because it is -precisely _the essence_ of our race and herd. Although we are accustomed -readily enough, with our usual short-sightedness, to separate our -neighbours precisely into useful and hurtful, into good and evil men, -yet when we make a general calculation, and on longer reflection on the -whole question, we become distrustful of this defining and separating, -and finally leave it alone. Even the most hurtful man is still perhaps, -in respect to the conservation of the race, the most useful of all; for -he conserves in himself or by his effect on others, impulses without -which mankind might long ago have languished or decayed. Hatred, delight -in mischief, rapacity and ambition, and whatever else is called -evil—belong to the marvellous economy of the conservation of the race; -to be sure a costly, lavish, and on the whole very foolish -economy:—which has, however, hitherto preserved our race, _as is -demonstrated to us_. I no longer know, my dear fellow-man and neighbour, -if thou _canst_ at all live to the disadvantage of the race, and -therefore, "unreasonably" and "badly"; that which could have injured the -race has perhaps died out many millenniums ago, and now belongs to the -things which are no longer possible even to God. Indulge thy best or thy -worst desires, and above all, go to wreck!—in either case thou art still -probably the furtherer and benefactor of mankind in some way or other, -and in that respect thou mayest have thy panegyrists—and similarly thy -mockers! But thou wilt never find him who would be quite qualified to -mock at thee, the individual, at thy best, who could bring home to thy -conscience its limitless, buzzing and croaking wretchedness so as to be -in accord with truth! To laugh at oneself as one would have to laugh in -order to laugh _out of the veriest truth_,—to do this the best have not -hitherto had enough of the sense of truth, and the most endowed have had -far too little genius! There is perhaps still a future even for -laughter! When the maxim, "The race is all, the individual is -nothing,"—has incorporated itself in humanity, and when access stands -open to every one at all times to this ultimate emancipation and -irresponsibility.—Perhaps then laughter will have united with wisdom, -perhaps then there will be only "joyful wisdom." Meanwhile, however, it -is quite otherwise, meanwhile the comedy of existence has not yet -"become conscious" of itself, meanwhile it is still the period of -tragedy, the period of morals and religions. What does the ever new -appearing of founders of morals and religions, of instigators of -struggles for moral valuations, of teachers of remorse of conscience and -religious war, imply? What do these heroes on this stage imply? For they -have hitherto been the heroes of it, and all else, though solely visible -for the time being, and too close to one, has served only as preparation -for these heroes, whether as machinery and coulisse, or in the rôle of -confidants and valets. (The poets, for example, have always been the -valets of some morality or other.)—It is obvious of itself that these -tragedians also work in the interest of the _race_, though they may -believe that they work in the interest of God, and as emissaries of God. -They also further the life of the species, _in that they further the -belief in life_. "It is worth while to live"—each of them calls -out,—"there is something of importance in this life; life has something -behind it and under it; take care!" That impulse, which rules equally in -the noblest and the ignoblest, the impulse towards the conservation of -the species, breaks forth from time to time as reason and passion of -spirit; it has then a brilliant train of motives about it, and tries -with all its power to make us forget that fundamentally it is just -impulse, instinct, folly and baselessness. Life _should_ be loved, _for_ -...! Man _should_ benefit himself and his neighbour, _for_ ...! And -whatever all these _shoulds_ and _fors_ imply, and may imply in future! -In order that that which necessarily and always happens of itself and -without design, may henceforth appear to be done by design, and may -appeal to men as reason and ultimate command,—for that purpose the -ethiculturist comes forward as the teacher of design in existence; for -that purpose he devises a second and different existence, and by means -of this new mechanism he lifts the old common existence off its old -common hinges. No! he does not at all want us to _laugh_ at existence, -nor even at ourselves—nor at himself; to him an individual is always an -individual, something first and last and immense, to him there are no -species, no sums, no noughts. However foolish and fanatical his -inventions and valuations may be, however much he may misunderstand the -course of nature and deny its conditions—and all systems of ethics -hitherto have been foolish and anti-natural to such a degree that -mankind would have been ruined by any one of them had it got the upper -hand,—at any rate, every time that "the hero" came upon the stage -something new was attained: the frightful counterpart of laughter, the -profound convulsion of many individuals at the thought, "Yes, it is -worth while to live! yes, I am worthy to live!"—life, and thou, and I, -and all of us together became for a while _interesting_ to ourselves -once more.—It is not to be denied that hitherto laughter and reason and -nature have _in the long run_ got the upper hand of all the great -teachers of design: in the end the short tragedy always passed over once -more into the eternal comedy of existence; and the "waves of innumerable -laughters"—to use the expression of Æschylus—must also in the end beat -over the greatest of these tragedies. But with all this corrective -laughter, human nature has on the whole been changed by the ever new -appearance of those teachers of the design of existence,—human nature -has now an additional requirement, the very requirement of the ever new -appearance of such teachers and doctrines of "design." Man has gradually -become a visionary animal, who has to fulfil one more condition of -existence than the other animals: man _must_ from time to time believe -that he knows _why_ he exists; his species cannot flourish without -periodically confiding in life! Without the belief in _reason in life_! -And always from time to time will the human race decree anew that "there -is something which really may not be laughed at." And the most -clairvoyant philanthropist will add that "not only laughing and joyful -wisdom, but also the tragic, with all its sublime irrationality, counts -among the means and necessities for the conservation of the race!"—And -consequently! Consequently! Consequently! Do you understand me, oh my -brothers? Do you understand this new law of ebb and flow? We also shall -have our time! - - - 2. - -_The Intellectual Conscience._—I have always the same experience over -again, and always make a new effort against it; for although it is -evident to me I do not want to believe it: _in the greater number of men -the intellectual conscience is lacking_; indeed, it would often seem to -me that in demanding such a thing, one is as solitary in the largest -cities as in the desert. Everyone looks at you with strange eyes, and -continues to make use of his scales, calling this good and that bad; and -no one blushes for shame when you remark that these weights are not the -full amount,—there is also no indignation against you; perhaps they -laugh at your doubt. I mean to say that _the greater number of people_ -do not find it contemptible to believe this or that, and live according -to it, _without_ having been previously aware of the ultimate and surest -reasons for and against it, and without even giving themselves any -trouble about such reasons afterwards,—the most gifted men and the -noblest women still belong to this "greater number." But what is -kind-heartedness, refinement and genius to me, if the man with these -virtues harbours indolent sentiments in belief and judgment, if _the -longing for certainty_ does not rule in him, as his innermost desire and -profoundest need—as that which separates higher from lower men! In -certain pious people I have found a hatred of reason, and have been -favourably disposed to them for it: their bad, intellectual conscience -still betrayed itself, at least in this manner! But to stand in the -midst of this _rerum concordia discors_ and all the marvellous -uncertainty and ambiguity of existence, _and not to question_, not to -tremble with desire and delight in questioning, not even to hate the -questioner—perhaps even to make merry over him to the extent of -weariness—that is what I regard as _contemptible_, and it is this -sentiment which I first of all search for in every one:—some folly or -other always persuades me anew that every man has this sentiment, as -man. This is my special kind of unrighteousness. - - - 3. - -_Noble and Ignoble._—To ignoble natures all noble, magnanimous -sentiments appear inexpedient, and on that account first and foremost, -as incredible: they blink with their eyes when they hear of such -matters, and seem inclined to say, "there will, no doubt, be some -advantage therefrom, one cannot see through all walls;"—they are jealous -of the noble person, as if he sought advantage by back-stair methods. -When they are all too plainly convinced of the absence of selfish -intentions and emoluments, the noble person is regarded by them as a -kind of fool: they despise him in his gladness, and laugh at the lustre -of his eye. "How can a person rejoice at being at a disadvantage, how -can a person with open eyes want to meet with disadvantage! It must be a -disease of the reason with which the noble affection is associated,"—so -they think, and they look depreciatingly thereon; just as they -depreciate the joy which the lunatic derives from his fixed idea. The -ignoble nature is distinguished by the fact that it keeps its advantage -steadily in view, and that this thought of the end and advantage is even -stronger than its strongest impulse: not to be tempted to inexpedient -activities by its impulses—that is its wisdom and inspiration. In -comparison with the ignoble nature the higher nature is _more -irrational_:—for the noble, magnanimous, and self-sacrificing person -succumbs in fact to his impulses, and in his best moments his reason -_lapses_ altogether. An animal, which at the risk of life protects its -young, or in the pairing season follows the female where it meets with -death, does not think of the risk and the death; its reason pauses -likewise, because its delight in its young, or in the female, and the -fear of being deprived of this delight, dominate it exclusively; it -becomes stupider than at other times, like the noble and magnanimous -person. He possesses feelings of pleasure and pain of such intensity -that the intellect must either be silent before them, or yield itself to -their service: his heart then goes into his head, and one henceforth -speaks of "passions." (Here and there to be sure, the antithesis to -this, and as it were the "reverse of passion," presents itself; for -example in Fontenelle, to whom some one once laid the hand on the heart -with the words, "What you have there, my dearest friend, is brain -also.") It is the unreason, or perverse reason of passion, which the -ignoble man despises in the noble individual, especially when it -concentrates upon objects whose value appears to him to be altogether -fantastic and arbitrary. He is offended at him who succumbs to the -passion of the belly, but he understands the allurement which here plays -the tyrant; but he does not understand, for example, how a person out of -love of knowledge can stake his health and honour on the game. The taste -of the higher nature devotes itself to exceptional matters, to things -which usually do not affect people, and seem to have no sweetness; the -higher nature has a singular standard of value. Besides, it is mostly of -the belief that it has _not_ a singular standard of value in its -idiosyncrasies of taste; it rather sets up its values and non-values as -the generally valid values and non-values, and thus becomes -incomprehensible and impracticable. It is very rarely that a higher -nature has so much reason over and above as to understand and deal with -everyday men as such; for the most part it believes in its passion as if -it were the concealed passion of every one, and precisely in this belief -it is full of ardour and eloquence. If then such exceptional men do not -perceive themselves as exceptions, how can they ever understand the -ignoble natures and estimate average men fairly! Thus it is that they -also speak of the folly, inexpediency and fantasy of mankind, full of -astonishment at the madness of the world, and that it will not recognise -the "one thing needful for it."—This is the eternal unrighteousness of -noble natures. - - - 4. - -_That which Preserves the Species._—The strongest and most evil spirits -have hitherto advanced mankind the most: they always rekindled the -sleeping passions—all orderly arranged society lulls the passions to -sleep; they always reawakened the sense of comparison, of contradiction, -of delight in the new, the adventurous, the untried; they compelled men -to set opinion against opinion, ideal plan against ideal plan. By means -of arms, by upsetting boundary-stones, by violations of piety most of -all: but also by new religions and morals! The same kind of "wickedness" -is in every teacher and preacher of the _new_—which makes a conqueror -infamous, although it expresses itself more refinedly, and does not -immediately set the muscles in motion (and just on that account does not -make so infamous!). The new, however, is under all circumstances the -_evil_, as that which wants to conquer, which tries to upset the old -boundary-stones and the old piety; only the old is the good! The good -men of every age are those who go to the roots of the old thoughts and -bear fruit with them, the agriculturists of the spirit. But every soil -becomes finally exhausted, and the ploughshare of evil must always come -once more.—There is at present a fundamentally erroneous theory of -morals which is much celebrated, especially in England: according to it -the judgments "good" and "evil" are the accumulation of the experiences -of that which is "expedient" and "inexpedient"; according to this -theory, that which is called good is conservative of the species, what -is called evil, however, is detrimental to it. But in reality the evil -impulses are just in as high a degree expedient, indispensable, and -conservative of the species as the good:—only, their function is -different. - - - 5. - -_Unconditional Duties._—All men who feel that they need the strongest -words and intonations, the most eloquent gestures and attitudes, in -order to operate _at all_—revolutionary politicians, socialists, -preachers of repentance with or without Christianity, with all of whom -there must be no mere half-success,—all these speak of "duties," and -indeed, always of duties, which have the character of being -unconditional—without such they would have no right to their excessive -pathos: they know that right well! They grasp, therefore, at -philosophies of morality which preach some kind of categorical -imperative, or they assimilate a good lump of religion, as, for example, -Mazzini did. Because they want to be trusted unconditionally, it is -first of all necessary for them to trust themselves unconditionally, on -the basis of some ultimate, undebatable command, sublime in itself, as -the ministers and instruments of which, they would fain feel and -announce themselves. Here we have the most natural, and for the most -part, very influential opponents of moral enlightenment and scepticism: -but they are rare. On the other hand, there is always a very numerous -class of those opponents wherever interest teaches subjection, while -repute and honour seem to forbid it. He who feels himself dishonoured at -the thought of being the _instrument_ of a prince, or of a party and -sect, or even of wealthy power (for example, as the descendant of a -proud, ancient family), but wishes just to be this instrument, or must -be so before himself and before the public—such a person has need of -pathetic principles which can at all times be appealed to:—principles of -an unconditional _ought_, to which a person can subject himself without -shame, and can show himself subjected. All more refined servility holds -fast to the categorical imperative, and is the mortal enemy of those who -want to take away the unconditional character of duty: propriety demands -this from them, and not only propriety. - - - 6. - -_Loss of Dignity._—Meditation has lost all its dignity of form; the -ceremonial and solemn bearing of the meditative person have been made a -mockery, and one would no longer endure a wise man of the old style. We -think too hastily and on the way and while walking and in the midst of -business of all kinds, even when we think on the most serious matters; -we require little preparation, even little quiet:—it is as if each of us -carried about an unceasingly revolving machine in his head, which still -works, even under the most unfavourable circumstances. Formerly it was -perceived in a person that on some occasion he wanted to think—it was -perhaps the exception!—that he now wanted to become wiser and collected -his mind on a thought: he put on a long face for it, as for a prayer, -and arrested his step—nay, stood still for hours on the street when the -thought "came"—on one or on two legs. It was thus "worthy of the -affair"! - - - 7. - -_Something for the Laborious._—He who at present wants to make moral -questions a subject of study has an immense field of labour before him. -All kinds of passions must be thought about singly, and followed singly -throughout periods, peoples, great and insignificant individuals; all -their rationality, all their valuations and elucidations of things, -ought to come to light! Hitherto all that has given colour to existence -has lacked a history: where would one find a history of love, of -avarice, of envy, of conscience, of piety, of cruelty? Even a -comparative history of law, as also of punishment, has hitherto been -completely lacking. Have the different divisions of the day, the -consequences of a regular appointment of the times for labour, feast, -and repose, ever been made the object of investigation? Do we know the -moral effects of the alimentary substances? Is there a philosophy of -nutrition? (The ever-recurring outcry for and against vegetarianism -proves that as yet there is no such philosophy!) Have the experiences -with regard to communal living, for example, in monasteries, been -collected? Has the dialectic of marriage and friendship been set forth? -The customs of the learned, of trades-people, of artists, and of -mechanics—have they already found their thinkers? There is so much to -think of thereon! All that up till now has been considered as the -"conditions of existence," of human beings, and all reason, passion and -superstition in this consideration—have they been investigated to the -end? The observation alone of the different degrees of development which -the human impulses have attained, and could yet attain, according to the -different moral climates, would furnish too much work for the most -laborious; whole generations, and regular co-operating generations of -the learned, would be needed in order to exhaust the points of view and -the material here furnished. The same is true of the determining of the -reasons for the differences of the moral climates ("_on what account_ -does this sun of a fundamental moral judgment and standard of highest -value shine here—and that sun there?"). And there is again a new labour -which points out the erroneousness of all these reasons, and determines -the entire essence of the moral judgments hitherto made. Supposing all -these labours to be accomplished, the most critical of all questions -would then come into the foreground: whether science is in a position to -_furnish_ goals for human action, after it has proved that it can take -them away and annihilate them—and then would be the time for a process -of experimenting in which every kind of heroism could satisfy itself, an -experimenting for centuries, which would put into the shade all the -great labours and sacrifices of previous history. Science has not -hitherto built its Cyclopic structures; for that also the time will -come. - - - 8. - -_Unconscious Virtues._—All qualities in a man of which he is -conscious—and especially when he presumes that they are visible and -evident to his environment also—are subject to quite other laws of -development than those qualities which are unknown to him, or -imperfectly known, which by their subtlety can also conceal themselves -from the subtlest observer, and hide as it were behind nothing,—as in -the case of the delicate sculptures on the scales of reptiles (it would -be an error to suppose them an adornment or a defence—for one sees them -only with the microscope; consequently, with an eye artificially -strengthened to an extent of vision which similar animals, to which they -might perhaps have meant adornment or defence, do not possess!) Our -visible moral qualities, and especially our moral qualities _believed to -be_ visible, follow their own course,—and our invisible qualities of -similar name, which in relation to others neither serve for adornment -nor defence, _also follow their own course_: quite a different course -probably, and with lines and refinements, and sculptures, which might -perhaps give pleasure to a God with a divine microscope. We have, for -example, our diligence, our ambition, our acuteness: all the world knows -about them,—and besides, we have probably once more _our_ diligence, -_our_ ambition, _our_ acuteness; but for these—our reptile scales—the -microscope has not yet been invented!—And here the adherents of -instinctive morality will say, "Bravo! He at least regards unconscious -virtues as possible—that suffices us!"—Oh, ye unexacting creatures! - - - 9. - -_Our Eruptions._—Numberless things which humanity acquired in its -earlier stages, but so weakly and embryonically that it could not be -noticed that they were acquired, are thrust suddenly into light long -afterwards, perhaps after the lapse of centuries: they have in the -interval become strong and mature. In some ages this or that talent, -this or that virtue seems to be entirely lacking, as it is in some men; -but let us wait only for the grandchildren and grandchildren's children, -if we have time to wait,—they bring the interior of their grandfathers -into the sun, that interior of which the grandfathers themselves were -unconscious. The son, indeed, is often the betrayer of his father; the -latter understands himself better since he has got his son. We have all -hidden gardens and plantations in us; and by another simile, we are all -growing volcanoes, which will have their hours of eruption:—how near or -how distant this is, nobody of course knows, not even the good God. - - - 10. - -_A Species of Atavism._—I like best to think of the rare men of an age -as suddenly emerging aftershoots of past cultures, and of their -persistent strength: like the atavism of a people and its -civilisation:—there is thus still something in them to _think of_! They -now seem strange, rare, and extraordinary: and he who feels these forces -in himself has to foster them in face of a different, opposing world; he -has to defend them, honour them, and rear them to maturity: and he -either becomes a great man thereby, or a deranged and eccentric person, -unless he should altogether break down betimes. Formerly these rare -qualities were usual, and were consequently regarded as common: they did -not distinguish people. Perhaps they were demanded and presupposed; it -was impossible to become great with them, for indeed there was also no -danger of becoming insane and solitary with them.—It is principally in -the _old-established_ families and castes of a people that such -after-effects of old impulses present themselves, while there is no -probability of such atavism where races, habits, and valuations change -too rapidly. For the _tempo_ of the evolutional forces in peoples -implies just as much as in music; for our case an _andante_ of evolution -is absolutely necessary, as the _tempo_ of a passionate and slow -spirit:—and the spirit of conserving families is certainly of _that_ -sort. - - - 11. - -_Consciousness._—Consciousness is the last and latest development of the -organic, and consequently also the most unfinished and least powerful of -these developments. Innumerable mistakes originate out of consciousness, -which, "in spite of fate," as Homer says, cause an animal or a man to -break down earlier than might be necessary. If the conserving bond of -the instincts were not very much more powerful, it would not generally -serve as a regulator: by perverse judging and dreaming with open eyes, -by superficiality and credulity, in short, just by consciousness, -mankind would necessarily have broken down: or rather, without the -former there would long ago have been nothing more of the latter! Before -a function is fully formed and matured, it is a danger to the organism: -all the better if it be then thoroughly tyrannised over! Consciousness -is thus thoroughly tyrannised over—and not least by the pride in it! It -is thought that here is _the quintessence_ of man; that which is -enduring, eternal, ultimate, and most original in him! Consciousness is -regarded as a fixed, given magnitude! Its growth and intermittences are -denied! It is accepted as the "unity of the organism"!—This ludicrous -overvaluation and misconception of consciousness, has as its result the -great utility, that a too rapid maturing of it has thereby been -_hindered_. Because men believed that they already possessed -consciousness, they gave themselves very little trouble to acquire -it—and even now it is not otherwise! It is still an entirely new -_problem_ just dawning on the human eye and hardly yet plainly -recognisable: _to embody knowledge in ourselves_ and make it -instinctive,—a problem which is only seen by those who have grasped the -fact that hitherto our _errors_ alone have been embodied in us, and that -all our consciousness is relative to errors! - - - 12. - -_The Goal of Science._—What? The ultimate goal of science is to create -the most pleasure possible to man, and the least possible pain? But what -if pleasure and pain should be so closely connected that he who _wants_ -the greatest possible amount of the one _must_ also have the greatest -possible amount of the other,—that he who wants to experience the -"heavenly high jubilation,"[7] must also be ready to be "sorrowful unto -death"?(ref. same footnote) And it is so, perhaps! The Stoics at least -believed it was so, and they were consistent when they wished to have -the least possible pleasure, in order to have the least possible pain -from life. (When one uses the expression: "The virtuous man is the -happiest," it is as much the sign-board of the school for the masses, as -a casuistic subtlety for the subtle.) At present also ye have still the -choice: either the _least possible pain_, in short painlessness—and -after all, socialists and politicians of all parties could not -honourably promise more to their people,—or the _greatest possible -amount of pain_, as the price of the growth of a fullness of refined -delights and enjoyments rarely tasted hitherto! If ye decide for the -former, if ye therefore want to depress and minimise man's capacity for -pain, well, ye must also depress and minimise his _capacity for -enjoyment_. In fact, one can further the one as well as the other goal -_by science_! Perhaps science is as yet best known by its capacity for -depriving man of enjoyment, and making him colder, more statuesque, and -more Stoical. But it might also turn out to be the _great -pain-bringer_!—And then, perhaps, its counteracting force would be -discovered simultaneously, its immense capacity for making new sidereal -worlds of enjoyment beam forth! - - - 13. - -_The Theory of the Sense of Power._—We exercise our power over others by -doing them good or by doing them ill—that is all we care for! _Doing -ill_ to those on whom we have to make our power felt; for pain is a far -more sensitive means for that purpose than pleasure:—pain always asks -concerning the cause, while pleasure is inclined to keep within itself -and not look backward. _Doing good_ and being kind to those who are in -any way already dependent on us (that is, who are accustomed to think of -us as their _raison d'être_); we want to increase their power, because -we thus increase our own; or we want to show them the advantage there is -in being in our power,—they thus become more contented with their -position, and more hostile to the enemies of _our_ power and readier to -contend with them. If we make sacrifices in doing good or in doing ill, -it does not alter the ultimate value of our actions; even if we stake -our life in the cause, as martyrs for the sake of our church, it is a -sacrifice to _our_ longing for power, or for the purpose of conserving -our sense of power. He who under these circumstances feels that he "is -in possession of truth," how many possessions does he not let go, in -order to preserve this feeling! What does he not throw overboard, in -order to keep himself "up,"—that is to say, _above_ the others who lack -the "truth"! Certainly the condition we are in when we do ill is seldom -so pleasant, so purely pleasant, as that in which we practise -kindness,—it is an indication that we still lack power, or it betrays -ill-humour at this defect in us; it brings with it new dangers and -uncertainties as to the power we already possess, and clouds our horizon -by the prospect of revenge, scorn, punishment and failure. Perhaps only -those most susceptible to the sense of power, and eager for it, will -prefer to impress the seal of power on the resisting individual,—those -to whom the sight of the already subjugated person as the object of -benevolence is a burden and a tedium. It is a question how a person is -accustomed to _season_ his life; it is a matter of taste whether a -person would rather have the slow or the sudden, the safe or the -dangerous and daring increase of power,—he seeks this or that seasoning -always according to his temperament. An easy booty is something -contemptible to proud natures; they have an agreeable sensation only at -the sight of men of unbroken spirit who could be enemies to them, and -similarly, also, at the sight of all not easily accessible possession; -they are often hard toward the sufferer, for he is not worthy of their -effort or their pride,—but they show themselves so much the more -courteous towards their _equals_, with whom strife and struggle would in -any case be full of honour, _if_ at any time an occasion for it should -present itself. It is under the agreeable feelings of _this_ perspective -that the members of the knightly caste have habituated themselves to -exquisite courtesy toward one another.—Pity is the most pleasant feeling -in those who have not much pride, and have no prospect of great -conquests: the easy booty—and that is what every sufferer is—is for them -an enchanting thing. Pity is said to be the virtue of the gay lady. - - - 14. - -_What is called Love._—The lust of property and love: what different -associations each of these ideas evoke!—and yet it might be the same -impulse twice named: on the one occasion disparaged from the standpoint -of those already possessing (in whom the impulse has attained something -of repose, and who are now apprehensive for the safety of their -"possession"); on the other occasion viewed from the standpoint of the -unsatisfied and thirsty, and therefore glorified as "good." Our love of -our neighbour,—is it not a striving after new _property_? And similarly -our love of knowledge, of truth; and in general all the striving after -novelties? We gradually become satiated with the old, the securely -possessed, and again stretch out our hands; even the finest landscape in -which we live for three months is no longer certain of our love, and any -kind of more distant coast excites our covetousness: the possession for -the most part becomes smaller through possessing. Our pleasure in -ourselves seeks to maintain itself, by always transforming something new -_into ourselves_,—that is just possessing. To become satiated with a -possession, that is to become satiated with ourselves. (One can also -suffer from excess,—even the desire to cast away, to share out, can -assume the honourable name of "love.") When we see any one suffering, we -willingly utilise the opportunity then afforded to take possession of -him; the beneficent and sympathetic man, for example, does this; he also -calls the desire for new possession awakened in him, by the name of -"love," and has enjoyment in it, as in a new acquisition suggesting -itself to him. The love of the sexes, however, betrays itself most -plainly as the striving after possession: the lover wants the -unconditioned, sole possession of the person longed for by him; he wants -just as absolute power over her soul as over her body; he wants to be -loved solely, and to dwell and rule in the other soul as what is highest -and most to be desired. When one considers that this means precisely to -_exclude_ all the world from a precious possession, a happiness, and an -enjoyment; when one considers that the lover has in view the -impoverishment and privation of all other rivals, and would like to -become the dragon of his golden hoard, as the most inconsiderate and -selfish of all "conquerors" and exploiters; when one considers finally -that to the lover himself, the whole world besides appears indifferent, -colourless, and worthless, and that he is ready to make every sacrifice, -disturb every arrangement, and put every other interest behind his -own,—one is verily surprised that this ferocious lust of property and -injustice of sexual love should have been glorified and deified to such -an extent at all times; yea, that out of this love the conception of -love as the antithesis of egoism should have been derived, when it is -perhaps precisely the most unqualified expression of egoism. Here, -evidently, the non-possessors and desirers have determined the usage of -language,—there were, of course, always too many of them. Those who have -been favoured with much possession and satiety, have, to be sure, -dropped a word now and then about the "raging demon," as, for instance, -the most lovable and most beloved of all the Athenians—Sophocles; but -Eros always laughed at such revilers,—they were always his greatest -favourites.—There is, of course, here and there on this terrestrial -sphere a kind of sequel to love, in which that covetous longing of two -persons for one another has yielded to a new desire and covetousness, to -a _common_, higher thirst for a superior ideal standing above them: but -who knows this love? Who has experienced it? Its right name is -_friendship_. - - - 15. - -_Out of the Distance._—This mountain makes the whole district which it -dominates charming in every way, and full of significance: after we have -said this to ourselves for the hundredth time, we are so irrationally -and so gratefully disposed towards it, as the giver of this charm, that -we fancy it must itself be the most charming thing in the district—and -so we climb it, and are undeceived. All of a sudden, it itself, and the -whole landscape around and under us, is as it were disenchanted; we had -forgotten that many a greatness, like many a goodness, wants only to be -seen at a certain distance, and entirely from below, not from above,—it -is thus only that _it operates_. Perhaps you know men in your -neighbourhood who can only look at themselves from a certain distance to -find themselves at all endurable, or attractive and enlivening; they are -to be dissuaded from self-knowledge. - - - 16. - -_Across the Plank._—One must be able to dissimulate in intercourse with -persons who are ashamed of their feelings; they experience a sudden -aversion towards anyone who surprises them in a state of tender, or -enthusiastic and high-running feeling, as if he had seen their secrets. -If one wants to be kind to them in such moments one should make them -laugh, or say some kind of cold, playful wickedness:—their feeling -thereby congeals, and they are again self-possessed. But I give the -moral before the story.—We were once on a time so near one another in -the course of our lives, that nothing more seemed to hinder our -friendship and fraternity, and there was merely a small plank between -us. While you were just about to step on it, I asked you: "Do you want -to come across the plank to me?" But then you did not want to come any -longer; and when I again entreated, you were silent. Since then -mountains and torrents, and whatever separates and alienates, have -interposed between us, and even if we wanted to come to one another, we -could no longer do so! When, however, you now remember that small plank, -you have no longer words,—but merely sobs and amazement. - - - 17. - -_Motivation of Poverty._—We cannot, to be sure, by any artifice make a -rich and richly-flowing virtue out of a poor one, but we can gracefully -enough reinterpret its poverty into necessity, so that its aspect no -longer gives pain to us, and we do not make any reproachful faces at -fate on account of it. It is thus that the wise gardener does, who puts -the tiny streamlet of his garden into the arms of a fountain-nymph, and -thus motivates the poverty:—and who would not like him need the nymphs! - - - 18. - -_Ancient Pride._—The ancient savour of nobility is lacking in us, -because the ancient slave is lacking in our sentiment. A Greek of noble -descent found such immense intermediate stages, and such a distance -betwixt his elevation and that ultimate baseness, that he could hardly -even see the slave plainly: even Plato no longer saw him entirely. It is -otherwise with us, accustomed as we are to the _doctrine_ of the -equality of men, although not to the equality itself. A being who has -not the free disposal of himself and has not got leisure,—that is not -regarded by us as anything contemptible; there is perhaps too much of -this kind of slavishness in each of us, in accordance with the -conditions of our social order and activity, which are fundamentally -different from those of the ancients.—The Greek philosopher went through -life with the secret feeling that there were many more slaves than -people supposed—that is to say, that every one was a slave who was not a -philosopher. His pride was puffed up when he considered that even the -mightiest of the earth were thus to be looked upon as slaves. This pride -is also unfamiliar to us, and impossible; the word "slave" has not its -full force for us even in simile. - - - 19. - -_Evil._—Test the life of the best and most productive men and nations, -and ask yourselves whether a tree which is to grow proudly heavenward -can dispense with bad weather and tempests: whether disfavour and -opposition from without, whether every kind of hatred, jealousy, -stubbornness, distrust, severity, greed, and violence do not belong to -the _favouring_ circumstances without which a great growth even in -virtue is hardly possible? The poison by which the weaker nature is -destroyed is strengthening to the strong individual—and he does not call -it poison. - - - 20. - -_Dignity of Folly._—Several millenniums further on in the path of the -last century!—and in everything that man does the highest prudence will -be exhibited: but just thereby prudence will have lost all its dignity. -It will then, sure enough, be necessary to be prudent, but it will also -be so usual and common, that a more fastidious taste will feel this -necessity as _vulgarity_. And just as a tyranny of truth and science -would be in a position to raise the value of falsehood, a tyranny of -prudence could force into prominence a new species of nobleness. To be -noble—that might then mean, perhaps, to be capable of follies. - - - 21. - -_To the Teachers of Unselfishness._—The virtues of a man are called -_good_, not in respect of the results they have for himself, but in -respect of the results which we expect therefrom for ourselves and for -society:—we have all along had very little unselfishness, very little -"non-egoism" in our praise of the virtues! For otherwise it could not -but have been seen that the virtues (such as diligence, obedience, -chastity, piety, justice) are mostly _injurious_ to their possessors, as -impulses which rule in them too vehemently and ardently, and do not want -to be kept in co-ordination with the other impulses by the reason. If -you have a virtue, an actual, perfect virtue (and not merely a kind of -impulse towards virtue!)—you are its _victim_! But your neighbour -praises your virtue precisely on that account! One praises the diligent -man though he injures his sight, or the originality and freshness of his -spirit, by his diligence; the youth is honoured and regretted who has -"worn himself out by work," because one passes the judgment that "for -society as a whole the loss of the best individual is only a small -sacrifice! A pity that this sacrifice should be necessary! A much -greater pity, it is true, if the individual should think differently, -and regard his preservation and development as more important than his -work in the service of society!" And so one regrets this youth, not on -his own account, but because a devoted _instrument_, regardless of -self—a so-called "good man," has been lost to society by his death. -Perhaps one further considers the question, whether it would not have -been more advantageous for the interests of society if he had laboured -with less disregard of himself, and had preserved himself -longer,—indeed, one readily admits an advantage therefrom, but one -esteems the other advantage, namely, that a _sacrifice_ has been made, -and that the disposition of the sacrificial animal has once more been -_obviously_ endorsed—as higher and more enduring. It is accordingly, on -the one part, the instrumental character in the virtues which is praised -when the virtues are praised, and on the other part, the blind, ruling -impulse in every virtue, which refuses to let itself be kept within -bounds by the general advantage to the individual; in short, what is -praised is the unreason in the virtues, in consequence of which the -individual allows himself to be transformed into a function of the -whole. The praise of the virtues is the praise of something which is -privately injurious to the individual; it is praise of impulses which -deprive man of his noblest self-love, and the power to take the best -care of himself. To be sure, for the teaching and embodying of virtuous -habits a series of effects of virtue are displayed, which make it appear -that virtue and private advantage are closely related,—and there is in -fact such a relationship! Blindly furious diligence, for example, the -typical virtue of an instrument, is represented as the way to riches and -honour, and as the most beneficial antidote to tedium and passion: but -people are silent concerning its danger, its greatest dangerousness. -Education proceeds in this manner throughout: it endeavours, by a series -of enticements and advantages, to determine the individual to a certain -mode of thinking and acting, which, when it has become habit, impulse -and passion, rules in him and over him, _in opposition to his ultimate -advantage_, but "for the general good." How often do I see that blindly -furious diligence does indeed create riches and honours, but at the same -time deprives the organs of the refinement by virtue of which alone an -enjoyment of riches and honours is possible; so that really the main -expedient for combating tedium and passion, simultaneously blunts the -senses and makes the spirit refractory towards new stimuli! (The busiest -of all ages—our age—does not know how to make anything out of its great -diligence and wealth, except always more and more wealth, and more and -more diligence; there is even more genius needed for laying out wealth -than for acquiring it!—Well, we shall have our "grandchildren"!) If the -education succeeds, every virtue of the individual is a public utility, -and a private disadvantage in respect to the highest private -end,—probably some psycho-æsthetic stunting, or even premature -dissolution. One should consider successively from the same standpoint -the virtues of obedience, chastity, piety, and justice. The praise of -the unselfish, self-sacrificing, virtuous person—he, consequently, who -does not expend his whole energy and reason for _his own_ conservation, -development, elevation, furtherance and augmentation of power, but lives -as regards himself unassumingly and thoughtlessly, perhaps even -indifferently or ironically,—this praise has in any case not originated -out of the spirit of unselfishness! The "neighbour" praises -unselfishness because _he profits by it_! If the neighbour were -"unselfishly" disposed himself, he would reject that destruction of -power, that injury for _his_ advantage, he would thwart such -inclinations in their origin, and above all he would manifest his -unselfishness just by _not giving it a good name_! The fundamental -contradiction in that morality which at present stands in high honour is -here indicated: the _motives_ to such a morality are in antithesis to -its _principle_! That with which this morality wishes to prove itself, -refutes it out of its criterion of what is moral! The maxim, "Thou shalt -renounce thyself and offer thyself as a sacrifice," in order not to be -inconsistent with its own morality, could only be decreed by a being who -himself renounced his own advantage thereby, and who perhaps in the -required self-sacrifice of individuals brought about his own -dissolution. As soon, however, as the neighbour (or society) recommended -altruism _on account of its utility_, the precisely antithetical -proposition, "Thou shalt seek thy advantage even at the expense of -everybody else," was brought into use: accordingly, "thou shalt," and -"thou shalt not," are preached in one breath! - - - 22. - -_L'Ordre du Jour pour le Roi._—The day commences: let us begin to -arrange for this day the business and fêtes of our most gracious lord, -who at present is still pleased to repose. His Majesty has bad weather -to-day: we shall be careful not to call it bad; we shall not speak of -the weather,—but we shall go through to-day's business somewhat more -ceremoniously and make the fêtes somewhat more festive than would -otherwise be necessary. His Majesty may perhaps even be sick: we shall -give the last good news of the evening at breakfast, the arrival of M. -Montaigne, who knows how to joke so pleasantly about his sickness,—he -suffers from stone. We shall receive several persons (persons!—what -would that old inflated frog, who will be among them, say, if he heard -this word! "I am no person," he would say, "but always the thing -itself")—and the reception will last longer than is pleasant to anybody; -a sufficient reason for telling about the poet who wrote over his door, -"He who enters here will do me an honour; he who does not—a -favour."—That is, forsooth, saying a discourteous thing in a courteous -manner! And perhaps this poet is quite justified on his part in being -discourteous; they say that the rhymes are better than the rhymester. -Well, let him still make many of them, and withdraw himself as much as -possible from the world: and that is doubtless the significance of his -well-bred rudeness! A prince, on the other hand, is always of more value -than his "verse," even when—but what are we about? We gossip, and the -whole court believes that we have already been at work and racked our -brains: there is no light to be seen earlier than that which burns in -our window.—Hark! Was that not the bell? The devil! The day and the -dance commence, and we do not know our rounds! We must then -improvise,—all the world improvises its day. To-day, let us for once do -like all the world!—And therewith vanished my wonderful morning dream, -probably owing to the violent strokes of the tower-clock, which just -then announced the fifth hour with all the importance which is peculiar -to it. It seems to me that, on this occasion, the God of dreams wanted -to make merry over my habits,—it is my habit to commence the day by -arranging it properly, to make it endurable _for myself_, and it is -possible that I may often have done this too formally, and too much like -a prince. - - - 23. - -_The Characteristics of Corruption._—Let us observe the following -characteristics in that condition of society from time to time -necessary, which is designated by the word "corruption." Immediately -upon the appearance of corruption anywhere, a motley _superstition_ -gets the upper hand, and the hitherto universal belief of a people -becomes colourless and impotent in comparison with it; for -superstition is freethinking of the second rank,—he who gives himself -over to it selects certain forms and formulæ which appeal to him, and -permits himself a right of choice. The superstitious man is always -much more of a "person," in comparison with the religious man, and a -superstitious society will be one in which there are many individuals, -and a delight in individuality. Seen from this standpoint superstition -always appears as a _progress_ in comparison with belief, and as a -sign that the intellect becomes more independent and claims to have -its rights. Those who reverence the old religion and the religious -disposition then complain of corruption,—they have hitherto also -determined the usage of language, and have given a bad repute to -superstition, even among the freest spirits. Let us learn that it is a -symptom of _enlightenment_.—Secondly, a society in which corruption -takes a hold is blamed for _effeminacy_: for the appreciation of war, -and the delight in war perceptibly diminish in such a society, and the -conveniences of life are now just as eagerly sought after as were -military and gymnastic honours formerly. But one is accustomed to -overlook the fact that the old national energy and national passion, -which acquired a magnificent splendour in war and in the tourney, has -now transferred itself into innumerable private passions, and has -merely become less visible; indeed in periods of "corruption" the -quantity and quality of the expended energy of a people is probably -greater than ever, and the individual spends it lavishly, to such an -extent as could not be done formerly—he was not then rich enough to do -so! And thus it is precisely in times of "effeminacy" that tragedy -runs at large in and out of doors, it is then that ardent love and -ardent hatred are born, and the flame of knowledge flashes heavenward -in full blaze.—Thirdly, as if in amends for the reproach of -superstition and effeminacy, it is customary to say of such periods of -corruption that they are milder, and that cruelty has then greatly -diminished in comparison with the older, more credulous, and stronger -period. But to this praise I am just as little able to assent as to -that reproach: I only grant so much—namely, that cruelty now becomes -more refined, and its older forms are henceforth counter to the taste; -but the wounding and torturing by word and look reaches its highest -development in times of corruption,—it is now only that _wickedness_ -is created, and the delight in wickedness. The men of the period of -corruption are witty and calumnious; they know that there are yet -other ways of murdering than by the dagger and the ambush—they know -also that all that is _well said_ is believed in.—Fourthly, it is when -"morals decay" that those beings whom one calls tyrants first make -their appearance; they are the forerunners of the _individual_, and as -it were early matured _firstlings_. Yet a little while, and this fruit -of fruits hangs ripe and yellow on the tree of a people,—and only for -the sake of such fruit did this tree exist! When the decay has reached -its worst, and likewise the conflict of all sorts of tyrants, there -always arises the Cæsar, the final tyrant, who puts an end to the -exhausted struggle for sovereignty, by making the exhaustedness work -for him. In his time the individual is usually most mature, and -consequently the "culture" is highest and most fruitful, but not on -his account nor through him: although the men of highest culture love -to flatter their Cæsar by pretending that they are _his_ creation. The -truth, however, is that they need quietness externally, because -internally they have disquietude and labour. In these times bribery -and treason are at their height: for the love of the _ego_, then first -discovered, is much more powerful than the love of the old, used-up, -hackneyed "fatherland"; and the need to be secure in one way or other -against the frightful fluctuations of fortune, opens even the nobler -hands, as soon as a richer and more powerful person shows himself -ready to put gold into them. There is then so little certainty with -regard to the future; people live only for the day: a condition of -mind which enables every deceiver to play an easy game,—people of -course only let themselves be misled and bribed "for the present," and -reserve for themselves futurity and virtue. The individuals, as is -well known, the men who only live for themselves, provide for the -moment more than do their opposites, the gregarious men, because they -consider themselves just as incalculable as the future; and similarly -they attach themselves willingly to despots, because they believe -themselves capable of activities and expedients, which can neither -reckon on being understood by the multitude, nor on finding favour -with them,—but the tyrant or the Cæsar understands the rights of the -Individual even in his excesses, and has an interest in speaking on -behalf of a bolder private morality, and even in giving his hand to -it. For he thinks of himself, and wishes people to think of him what -Napoleon once uttered in his classical style—"I have the right to -answer by an eternal 'thus I am' to everything about which complaint -is brought against me. I am apart from all the world, I accept -conditions from nobody. I wish people also to submit to my fancies, -and to take it quite as a simple matter, if I should indulge in this -or that diversion." Thus spoke Napoleon once to his wife, when she had -reasons for calling in question the fidelity of her husband.—The times -of corruption are the seasons when the apples fall from the tree: I -mean the individuals, the seed-bearers of the future, the pioneers of -the spiritual colonisation and of a new construction of national and -social unions. Corruption is only an abusive term for the _harvest -time_ of a people. - - - 24. - -_Different Dissatisfactions._—The feeble and as it were feminine -dissatisfied people have ingenuity for beautifying and deepening life; -the strong dissatisfied people—the masculine persons among them, to -continue the metaphor—have the ingenuity for improving and safeguarding -life. The former show their weakness and feminine character by willingly -letting themselves be temporarily deceived, and perhaps even by putting -up with a little ecstasy and enthusiasm on a time, but on the whole they -are never to be satisfied, and suffer from the incurability of their -dissatisfaction; moreover they are the patrons of all those who manage -to concoct opiate and narcotic comforts, and just on that account averse -to those who value the physician higher than the priest,—they thereby -encourage the _continuance_ of actual distress! If there had not been a -surplus of dissatisfied persons of this kind in Europe since the time of -the Middle Ages, the remarkable capacity of Europeans for constant -_transformation_ would perhaps not have originated at all; for the -claims of the strong dissatisfied persons are too gross, and really too -modest to resist being finally quieted down. China is an instance of a -country in which dissatisfaction on a grand scale and the capacity for -transformation have died out for many centuries; and the Socialists and -state-idolaters of Europe could easily bring things to Chinese -conditions and to a Chinese "happiness," with their measures for the -amelioration and security of life, provided that they could first of all -root out the sicklier, tenderer, more feminine dissatisfaction and -Romanticism which are still very abundant among us. Europe is an invalid -who owes her best thanks to her incurability and the eternal -transformations of her sufferings; these constant new situations, these -equally constant new dangers, pains, and make-shifts, have at last -generated an intellectual sensitiveness which is almost equal to genius, -and is in any case the mother of all genius. - - - 25. - -_Not Pre-ordained to Knowledge._—There is a purblind humility not at all -rare, and when a person is afflicted with it, he is once for all -unqualified for being a disciple of knowledge. It is this in fact: the -moment a man of this kind perceives anything striking, he turns as it -were on his heel, and says to himself: "You have deceived yourself! -Where have your wits been! This cannot be the truth!"—and then, instead -of looking at it and listening to it with more attention, he runs out of -the way of the striking object as if intimidated, and seeks to get it -out of his head as quickly as possible. For his fundamental rule runs -thus: "I want to see nothing that contradicts the usual opinion -concerning things! Am _I_ created for the purpose of discovering new -truths? There are already too many of the old ones." - - - 26. - -_What is Living?_—Living—that is to continually eliminate from ourselves -what is about to die; Living—that is to be cruel and inexorable towards -all that becomes weak and old in ourselves, and not only in ourselves. -Living—that means, therefore, to be without piety toward the dying, the -wretched and the old? To be continually a murderer?—And yet old Moses -said: "Thou shalt not kill!" - - - 27. - -_The Self-Renouncer._—What does the self-renouncer do? He strives after -a higher world, he wants to fly longer and further and higher than all -men of affirmation—he _throws away many things_ that would burden his -flight, and several things among them that are not valueless, that are -not unpleasant to him: he sacrifices them to his desire for elevation. -Now this sacrificing, this casting away, is the very thing which becomes -visible in him: on that account one calls him the self-renouncer, and as -such he stands before us, enveloped in his cowl, and as the soul of a -hair-shirt. With this effect, however, which he makes upon us he is well -content: he wants to keep concealed from us his desire, his pride, his -intention of flying _above_ us.—Yes! He is wiser than we thought, and so -courteous towards us—this affirmer! For that is what he is, like us, -even in his self-renunciation. - - - 28. - -_Injuring with one's best Qualities._—Our strong points sometimes drive -us so far forward that we cannot any longer endure our weaknesses, and -we perish by them: we also perhaps see this result beforehand, but -nevertheless do not want it to be otherwise. We then become hard towards -that which would fain be spared in us, and our pitilessness is also our -greatness. Such an experience, which must in the end cost us our life, -is a symbol of the collective effect of great men upon others and upon -their epoch:—it is just with their best abilities, with that which only -_they_ can do, that they destroy much that is weak, uncertain, evolving, -and _willing_, and are thereby injurious. Indeed, the case may happen in -which, taken on the whole, they only do injury, because their best is -accepted and drunk up as it were solely by those who lose their -understanding and their egoism by it, as by too strong a beverage; they -become so intoxicated that they go breaking their limbs on all the wrong -roads where their drunkenness drives them. - - - 29. - -_Adventitious Liars._—When people began to combat the unity of Aristotle -in France, and consequently also to defend it, there was once more to be -seen that which has been seen so often, but seen so unwillingly:—_people -imposed false reasons on themselves_ on account of which those laws -ought to exist, merely for the sake of not acknowledging to themselves -that they had _accustomed_ themselves to the authority of those laws, -and did not want any longer to have things otherwise. And people do so -in every prevailing morality and religion, and have always done so: the -reasons and intentions behind the habit, are only added surreptitiously -when people begin to combat the habit, and _ask_ for reasons and -intentions. It is here that the great dishonesty of the conservatives of -all times hides:—they are adventitious liars. - - - 30. - -_The Comedy of Celebrated Men._—Celebrated men who _need_ their fame, -as, for instance, all politicians, no longer select their associates and -friends without after-thoughts: from the one they want a portion of the -splendour and reflection of his virtues; from the other they want the -fear-inspiring power of certain dubious qualities in him, of which -everybody is aware; from another they steal his reputation for idleness -and basking in the sun, because it is advantageous for their own ends to -be regarded temporarily as heedless and lazy:—it conceals the fact that -they lie in ambush; they now use the visionaries, now the experts, now -the brooders, now the pedants in their neighbourhood, as their actual -selves for the time, but very soon they do not need them any longer! And -thus while their environment and outside die off continually, everything -seems to crowd into this environment, and wants to become a "character" -of it; they are like great cities in this respect. Their repute is -continually in process of mutation, like their character, for their -changing methods require this change, and they show and _exhibit_ -sometimes this and sometimes that actual or fictitious quality on the -stage; their friends and associates, as we have said, belong to these -stage properties. On the other hand, that which they aim at must remain -so much the more steadfast, and burnished and resplendent in the -distance,—and this also sometimes needs its comedy and its stage-play. - - - 31. - -_Commerce and Nobility._—Buying and selling is now regarded as something -ordinary, like the art of reading and writing; everyone is now trained -to it even when he is not a tradesman, exercising himself daily in the -art; precisely as formerly in the period of uncivilised humanity, -everyone was a hunter and exercised himself day by day in the art of -hunting. Hunting was then something common: but just as this finally -became a privilege of the powerful and noble, and thereby lost the -character of the commonplace and the ordinary—by ceasing to be necessary -and by becoming an affair of fancy and luxury:—so it might become the -same some day with buying and selling. Conditions of society are -imaginable in which there will be no selling and buying, and in which -the necessity for this art will become quite lost; perhaps it may then -happen that individuals who are less subjected to the law of the -prevailing condition of things will indulge in buying and selling as a -_luxury of sentiment_. It is then only that commerce would acquire -nobility, and the noble would then perhaps occupy themselves just as -readily with commerce as they have done hitherto with war and politics: -while on the other hand the valuation of politics might then have -entirely altered. Already even politics ceases to be the business of a -gentleman; and it is possible that one day it may be found to be so -vulgar as to be brought, like all party literature and daily literature, -under the rubric: "Prostitution of the intellect." - - - 32. - -_Undesirable Disciples._—What shall I do with these two youths! called -out a philosopher dejectedly, who "corrupted" youths, as Socrates had -once corrupted them,—they are unwelcome disciples to me. One of them -cannot say "Nay," and the other says "Half and half" to everything. -Provided they grasped my doctrine, the former would _suffer_ too much, -for my mode of thinking requires a martial soul, willingness to cause -pain, delight in denying, and a hard skin,—he would succumb by open -wounds and internal injuries. And the other will choose the mediocre in -everything he represents, and thus make a mediocrity of the whole,—I -should like my enemy to have such a disciple. - - - 33. - -_Outside the Lecture-room._—"In order to prove that man after all -belongs to the good-natured animals, I would remind you how credulous he -has been for so long a time. It is now only, quite late, and after an -immense self-conquest, that he has become a _distrustful_ animal,—yes! -man is now more wicked than ever."—I do not understand this; why should -man now be more distrustful and more wicked?—"Because he now has -science,—because he needs to have it!"— - - - 34. - -_Historia abscondita._—Every great man has a power which operates -backward; all history is again placed on the scales on his account, and -a thousand secrets of the past crawl out of their lurking-places—into -_his_ sunlight. There is absolutely no knowing what history may be some -day. The past is still perhaps undiscovered in its essence! There are -yet so many retroactive powers needed! - - - 35. - -_Heresy and Witchcraft._—To think otherwise than is customary—that is by -no means so much the activity of a better intellect, as the activity of -strong, wicked inclinations,—severing, isolating, refractory, -mischief-loving, malicious inclinations. Heresy is the counterpart of -witchcraft, and is certainly just as little a merely harmless affair, or -a thing worthy of honour in itself. Heretics and sorcerers are two kinds -of bad men; they have it in common that they also feel themselves -wicked; their unconquerable delight is to attack and injure whatever -rules,—whether it be men or opinions. The Reformation, a kind of -duplication of the spirit of the Middle Ages at a time when it had no -longer a good conscience, produced both of these kinds of people in the -greatest profusion. - - - 36. - -_Last Words._—It will be recollected that the Emperor Augustus, that -terrible man, who had himself as much in his own power, and who could be -silent as well as any wise Socrates, became indiscreet about himself in -his last words; for the first time he let his mask fall, when he gave to -understand that he had carried a mask and played a comedy,—he had played -the father of his country and wisdom on the throne well, even to the -point of illusion! _Plaudite amici, comoedia finita est!_—The thought of -the dying Nero: _qualis artifex pereo!_ was also the thought of the -dying Augustus: histrionic conceit! histrionic loquacity! And the very -counterpart to the dying Socrates!—But Tiberius died silently, that most -tortured of all self-torturers,—_he_ was _genuine_ and not a -stage-player! What may have passed through his head in the end! Perhaps -this: "Life—that is a long death. I am a fool, who shortened the lives -of so many! Was _I_ created for the purpose of being a benefactor? I -should have given them eternal life: and then I could have _seen them -dying_ eternally. I had such good eyes _for that_: _qualis spectator -pereo!_" When he seemed once more to regain his powers after a long -death-struggle, it was considered advisable to smother him with -pillows,—he died a double death. - - - 37. - -_Owing to three Errors._—Science has been furthered during recent -centuries, partly because it was hoped that God's goodness and wisdom -would be best understood therewith and thereby—the principal motive in -the soul of great Englishmen (like Newton); partly because the absolute -utility of knowledge was believed in, and especially the most intimate -connection of morality, knowledge, and happiness—the principal motive in -the soul of great Frenchmen (like Voltaire); and partly because it was -thought that in science there was something unselfish, harmless, -self-sufficing, lovable, and truly innocent to be had, in which the evil -human impulses did not at all participate—the principal motive in the -soul of Spinoza, who felt himself divine, as a knowing being:—it is -consequently owing to three errors that science has been furthered. - - - 38. - -_Explosive People._—When one considers how ready are the forces of young -men for discharge, one does not wonder at seeing them decide so -unfastidiously and with so little selection for this or that cause: -_that_ which attracts them is the sight of eagerness about any cause, as -it were the sight of the burning match—not the cause itself. The more -ingenious seducers on that account operate by holding out the prospect -of an explosion to such persons, and do not urge their cause by means of -reasons; these powder-barrels are not won over by means of reasons! - - - 39. - -_Altered Taste._—The alteration of the general taste is more important -than the alteration of opinions; opinions, with all their proving, -refuting, and intellectual masquerade, are merely symptoms of altered -taste, and are certainly _not_ what they are still so often claimed to -be, the causes of the altered taste. How does the general taste alter? -By the fact of individuals, the powerful and influential persons, -expressing and tyrannically enforcing without any feeling of shame, -_their_ _hoc est ridiculum, hoc est absurdum_; the decisions, therefore, -of their taste and their disrelish:—they thereby lay a constraint upon -many people, out of which there gradually grows a habituation for still -more, and finally a _necessity for all_. The fact, however, that these -individuals feel and "taste" differently, has usually its origin in a -peculiarity of their mode of life, nourishment, or digestion, perhaps in -a surplus or deficiency of the inorganic salts in their blood and brain, -in short in their _physis_; they have, however, the courage to avow -their physical constitution, and to lend an ear even to the most -delicate tones of its requirements: their æsthetic and moral judgments -are those "most delicate tones" of their _physis_. - - - 40. - -_The Lack of a noble Presence._—Soldiers and their leaders have always a -much higher mode of comportment toward one another than workmen and -their employers. At present at least, all militarily established -civilisation still stands high above all so-called industrial -civilisation; the latter, in its present form, is in general the meanest -mode of existence that has ever been. It is simply the law of necessity -that operates here: people want to live, and have to sell themselves; -but they despise him who exploits their necessity, and _purchases_ the -workman. It is curious that the subjection to powerful, fear-inspiring, -and even dreadful individuals, to tyrants and leaders of armies, is not -at all felt so painfully as the subjection to such undistinguished and -uninteresting persons as the captains of industry; in the employer the -workman usually sees merely a crafty, blood-sucking dog of a man, -speculating on every necessity, whose name, form, character, and -reputation are altogether indifferent to him. It is probable that the -manufacturers and great magnates of commerce have hitherto lacked too -much all those forms and attributes of a _superior race_, which alone -make persons interesting; if they had had the nobility of the nobly-born -in their looks and bearing, there would perhaps have been no socialism -in the masses of the people. For these are really ready for _slavery_ of -every kind, provided that the superior class above them constantly shows -itself legitimately superior, and _born_ to command—by its noble -presence! The commonest man feels that nobility is not to be improvised, -and that it is his part to honour it as the fruit of protracted -race-culture,—but the absence of superior presence, and the notorious -vulgarity of manufacturers with red, fat hands, brings up the thought to -him that it is only chance and fortune that has here elevated the one -above the other; well then—so he reasons with himself—let _us_ in our -turn tempt chance and fortune! Let us in our turn throw the dice!—and -socialism commences. - - - 41. - -_Against Remorse._—The thinker sees in his own actions attempts and -questionings to obtain information about something or other; success and -failure are _answers_ to him first and foremost. To vex himself, -however, because something does not succeed, or to feel remorse at -all—he leaves that to those who act because they are commanded to do so, -and expect to get a beating when their gracious master is not satisfied -with the result. - - - 42. - -_Work and Ennui._—In respect to seeking work for the sake of the pay, -almost all men are alike at present in civilised countries; to all of -them work is a means, and not itself the end; on which account they are -not very select in the choice of the work, provided it yields an -abundant profit. But still there are rarer men who would rather perish -than work without _delight_ in their labour: the fastidious people, -difficult to satisfy, whose object is not served by an abundant profit, -unless the work itself be the reward of all rewards. Artists and -contemplative men of all kinds belong to this rare species of human -beings; and also the idlers who spend their life in hunting and -travelling, or in love affairs and adventures. They all seek toil and -trouble in so far as these are associated with pleasure, and they want -the severest and hardest labour, if it be necessary. In other respects, -however, they have a resolute indolence, even should impoverishment, -dishonour, and danger to health and life be associated therewith. They -are not so much afraid of ennui as of labour without pleasure; indeed -they require much ennui, if _their_ work is to succeed with them. For -the thinker and for all inventive spirits ennui is the unpleasant "calm" -of the soul which precedes the happy voyage and the dancing breezes; he -must endure it, he must _await_ the effect it has on him:—it is -precisely _this_ which lesser natures cannot at all experience! It is -common to scare away ennui in every way, just as it is common to labour -without pleasure. It perhaps distinguishes the Asiatics above the -Europeans, that they are capable of a longer and profounder repose; even -their narcotics operate slowly and require patience, in contrast to the -obnoxious suddenness of the European poison, alcohol. - - - 43. - -_What the Laws Betray._—One makes a great mistake when one studies the -penal laws of a people, as if they were an expression of its character; -the laws do not betray what a people is, but what appears to them -foreign, strange, monstrous, and outlandish. The laws concern themselves -with the exceptions to the morality of custom; and the severest -punishments fall on acts which conform to the customs of the -neighbouring peoples. Thus among the Wahabites, there are only two -mortal sins: having another God than the Wahabite God, and—smoking (it -is designated by them as "the disgraceful kind of drinking"). "And how -is it with regard to murder and adultery?"—asked the Englishman with -astonishment on learning these things. "Well, God is gracious and -pitiful!" answered the old chief.—Thus among the ancient Romans there -was the idea that a woman could only sin mortally in two ways: by -adultery on the one hand, and—by wine-drinking on the other. Old Cato -pretended that kissing among relatives had only been made a custom in -order to keep women in control on this point; a kiss meant: did her -breath smell of wine? Wives had actually been punished by death who were -surprised taking wine: and certainly not merely because women under the -influence of wine sometimes unlearn altogether the art of saying No; the -Romans were afraid above all things of the orgiastic and Dionysian -spirit with which the women of Southern Europe at that time (when wine -was still new in Europe) were sometimes visited, as by a monstrous -foreignness which subverted the basis of Roman sentiments; it seemed to -them treason against Rome, as the embodiment of foreignness. - - - 44. - -_The Believed Motive._—However important it may be to know the motives -according to which mankind has really acted hitherto, perhaps the -_belief_ in this or that motive, and therefore that which mankind has -assumed and imagined to be the actual mainspring of its activity -hitherto, is something still more essential for the thinker to know. For -the internal happiness and misery of men have always come to them -through their belief in this or that motive,—_not_ however, through that -which was actually the motive! All about the latter has an interest of -secondary rank. - - - 45. - -_Epicurus._—Yes, I am proud of perceiving the character of Epicurus -differently from anyone else perhaps, and of enjoying the happiness of -the afternoon of antiquity in all that I hear and read of him:—I see his -eye gazing out on a broad whitish sea, over the shore-rocks on which the -sunshine rests, while great and small creatures play in its light, -secure and calm like this light and that eye itself. Such happiness -could only have been devised by a chronic sufferer, the happiness of an -eye before which the sea of existence has become calm, and which can no -longer tire of gazing at the surface and at the variegated, tender, -tremulous skin of this sea. Never previously was there such a moderation -of voluptuousness. - - - 46. - -_Our Astonishment._—There is a profound and fundamental satisfaction in -the fact that science ascertains things that _hold their ground_, and -again furnish the basis for new researches:—it could certainly be -otherwise. Indeed, we are so much convinced of all the uncertainty and -caprice of our judgments, and of the everlasting change of all human -laws and conceptions, that we are really astonished _how persistently_ -the results of science hold their ground! In earlier times people knew -nothing of this changeability of all human things; the custom of -morality maintained the belief that the whole inner life of man was -bound to iron necessity by eternal fetters:—perhaps people then felt a -similar voluptuousness of astonishment when they listened to tales and -fairy stories. The wonderful did so much good to those men, who might -well get tired sometimes of the regular and the eternal. To leave the -ground for once! To soar! To stray! To be mad!—that belonged to the -paradise and the revelry of earlier times; while our felicity is like -that of the shipwrecked man who has gone ashore, and places himself with -both feet on the old, firm ground—in astonishment that it does not rock. - - - 47. - -_The Suppression of the Passions._—When one continually prohibits the -expression of the passions as something to be left to the "vulgar," to -coarser, bourgeois, and peasant natures—that is, when one does not want -to suppress the passions themselves, but only their language and -demeanour, one nevertheless realises _therewith_ just what one does not -want: the suppression of the passions themselves, or at least their -weakening and alteration,—as the court of Louis XIV. (to cite the most -instructive instance), and all that was dependent on it, experienced. -The generation _that followed_, trained in suppressing their expression, -no longer possessed the passions themselves, but had a pleasant, -superficial, playful disposition in their place,—a generation which was -so permeated with the incapacity to be ill-mannered, that even an injury -was not taken and retaliated, except with courteous words. Perhaps our -own time furnishes the most remarkable counterpart to this period: I see -everywhere (in life, in the theatre, and not least in all that is -written) satisfaction at all the _coarser_ outbursts and gestures of -passion; a certain convention of passionateness is now desired,—only not -the passion itself! Nevertheless _it_ will thereby be at last reached, -and our posterity will have a _genuine savagery_, and not merely a -formal savagery and unmannerliness. - - - 48. - -_Knowledge of Distress._—Perhaps there is nothing by which men and -periods are so much separated from one another, as by the different -degrees of knowledge of distress which they possess; distress of the -soul as well as of the body. With respect to the latter, owing to lack -of sufficient self-experience, we men of the present day (in spite of -our deficiencies and infirmities), are perhaps all of us blunderers and -visionaries in comparison with the men of the age of fear—the longest of -all ages,—when the individual had to protect himself against violence, -and for that purpose had to be a man of violence himself. At that time a -man went through a long schooling of corporeal tortures and privations, -and found even in a certain kind of cruelty toward himself, in a -voluntary use of pain, a necessary means for his preservation; at that -time a person trained his environment to the endurance of pain; at that -time a person willingly inflicted pain, and saw the most frightful -things of this kind happen to others, without having any other feeling -than for his own security. As regards the distress of the soul, however, -I now look at every man with respect to whether he knows it by -experience or by description; whether he still regards it as necessary -to simulate this knowledge, perhaps as an indication of more refined -culture; or whether, at the bottom of his heart, he does not at all -believe in great sorrows of soul, and at the naming of them has in his -mind a similar experience as at the naming of great corporeal -sufferings, such as tooth-aches, and stomach-aches. It is thus, however, -that it seems to be with most people at present. Owing to the universal -inexperience of both kinds of pain, and the comparative rarity of the -spectacle of a sufferer, an important consequence results: people now -hate pain far more than earlier man did, and calumniate it worse than -ever; indeed people nowadays can hardly endure the _thought_ of pain, -and make out of it an affair of conscience and a reproach to collective -existence. The appearance of pessimistic philosophies is not at all the -sign of great and dreadful miseries; for these interrogative marks -regarding the worth of life appear in periods when the refinement and -alleviation of existence already deem the unavoidable gnat-stings of the -soul and body as altogether too bloody and wicked; and in the poverty of -actual experiences of pain, would now like to make _painful general -ideas_ appear as suffering of the worst kind.—There might indeed be a -remedy for pessimistic philosophies and the excessive sensibility which -seems to me the real "distress of the present":—but perhaps this remedy -already sounds too cruel, and would itself be reckoned among the -symptoms owing to which people at present conclude that "existence is -something evil." Well! the remedy for "the distress" is _distress_. - - - 49. - -_Magnanimity and allied Qualities._—Those paradoxical phenomena, such as -the sudden coldness in the demeanour of good-natured men, the humour of -the melancholy, and above all _magnanimity_, as a sudden renunciation of -revenge or of the gratification of envy—appear in men in whom there is a -powerful inner impulsiveness, in men of sudden satiety and sudden -disgust. Their satisfactions are so rapid and violent that satiety, -aversion, and flight into the antithetical taste, immediately follow -upon them: in this contrast the convulsion of feeling liberates itself, -in one person by sudden coldness, in another by laughter, and in a third -by tears and self-sacrifice. The magnanimous person appears to me—at -least that kind of magnanimous person who has always made most -impression—as a man with the strongest thirst for vengeance, to whom a -gratification presents itself close at hand, and who _already_ drinks it -off _in imagination_ so copiously, thoroughly, and to the last drop, -that an excessive, rapid disgust follows this rapid licentiousness;—he -now elevates himself "above himself," as one says, and forgives his -enemy, yea, blesses and honours him. With this violence done to himself, -however, with this mockery of his impulse to revenge, even still so -powerful, he merely yields to the new impulse, the disgust which has -become powerful, and does this just as impatiently and licentiously, as -a short time previously he _forestalled_, and as it were exhausted, the -joy of revenge with his fantasy. In magnanimity there is the same amount -of egoism as in revenge, but a different quality of egoism. - - - 50. - -_The Argument of Isolation._—The reproach of conscience, even in the -most conscientious, is weak against the feeling: "This and that are -contrary to the good morals of _your_ society." A cold glance or a wry -mouth, on the part of those among whom and for whom one has been -educated, is still _feared_ even by the strongest. What is really feared -there? Isolation! as the argument which demolishes even the best -arguments for a person or cause!—It is thus that the gregarious instinct -speaks in us. - - - 51. - -_Sense for Truth._—Commend me to all scepticism where I am permitted to -answer: "Let us put it to the test!" But I don't wish to hear anything -more of things and questions which do not admit of being tested. That is -the limit of my "sense for truth": for bravery has there lost its right. - - - 52. - -_What others Know of us._—That which we know of ourselves and have in -our memory is not so decisive for the happiness of our life as is -generally believed. One day it flashes upon our mind what _others_ know -of us (or think they know)—and then we acknowledge that it is the more -powerful. We get on with our bad conscience more easily than with our -bad reputation. - - - 53. - -_Where Goodness Begins._—Where bad eyesight can no longer see the evil -impulse as such, on account of its refinement,—there man sets up the -kingdom of goodness; and the feeling of having now gone over into the -kingdom of goodness brings all those impulses (such as the feelings of -security, of comfortableness, of benevolence) into simultaneous -activity, which were threatened and confined by the evil impulses. -Consequently, the duller the eye so much the further does goodness -extend! Hence the eternal cheerfulness of the populace and of children! -Hence the gloominess and grief (allied to the bad conscience) of great -thinkers. - - - 54. - -_The Consciousness of Appearance._—How wonderfully and novelly, and at -the same time how awfully and ironically, do I feel myself situated with -respect to collective existence, with my knowledge! I have _discovered_ -for myself that the old humanity and animality, yea, the collective -primeval age, and the past of all sentient being, continues to meditate, -love, hate, and reason in me,—I have suddenly awoke in the midst of this -dream, but merely to the consciousness that I just dream, and that I -_must_ dream on in order not to perish; just as the sleep-walker must -dream on in order not to tumble down. What is it that is now -"appearance" to me! Verily, not the antithesis of any kind of -essence,—what knowledge can I assert of any kind of essence whatsoever, -except merely the predicates of its appearance! Verily not a dead mask -which one could put upon an unknown X, and which to be sure one could -also remove! Appearance is for me the operating and living thing itself; -which goes so far in its self-mockery as to make me feel that here there -is appearance, and Will o' the Wisp, and spirit-dance, and nothing -more,—that among all these dreamers, I also, the "thinker," dance my -dance, that the thinker is a means of prolonging further the terrestrial -dance, and in so far is one of the masters of ceremony of existence, and -that the sublime consistency and connectedness of all branches of -knowledge is perhaps, and will perhaps, be the best means for -_maintaining_ the universality of the dreaming, the complete, mutual -understandability of all those dreamers, and thereby _the duration of -the dream_. - - - 55. - -_The Ultimate Nobility of Character._—What then makes a person "noble"? -Certainly not that he makes sacrifices; even the frantic libertine makes -sacrifices. Certainly not that he generally follows his passions; there -are contemptible passions. Certainly not that he does something for -others and without selfishness; perhaps the effect of selfishness is -precisely at its greatest in the noblest persons.—But that the passion -which seizes the noble man is a peculiarity, without his knowing that it -is so: the use of a rare and singular measuring-rod, almost a frenzy: -the feeling of heat in things which feel cold to all other persons: a -divining of values for which scales have not yet been invented: a -sacrificing on altars which are consecrated to an unknown God: a bravery -without the desire for honour: a self-sufficiency which has -superabundance, and imparts to men and things. Hitherto, therefore, it -has been the rare in man, and the unconsciousness of this rareness, that -has made men noble. Here, however, let us consider that everything -ordinary, immediate, and indispensable, in short, what has been most -preservative of the species, and generally the _rule_ in mankind -hitherto, has been judged unreasonable and calumniated in its entirety -by this standard, in favour of the exceptions. To become the advocate of -the rule—that may perhaps be the ultimate form and refinement in which -nobility of character will reveal itself on earth. - - - 56. - -_The Desire for Suffering._—When I think of the desire to do something, -how it continually tickles and stimulates millions of young Europeans, -who cannot endure themselves and all their ennui,—I conceive that there -must be a desire in them to suffer something, in order to derive from -their suffering a worthy motive for acting, for doing something. -Distress is necessary! Hence the cry of the politicians, hence the many -false, trumped-up, exaggerated "states of distress" of all possible -kinds, and the blind readiness to believe in them. This young world -desires that there should arrive or appear _from the outside_—not -happiness—but misfortune; and their imagination is already busy -beforehand to form a monster out of it, so that they may afterwards be -able to fight with a monster. If these distress-seekers felt the power -to benefit themselves, to do something for themselves from internal -sources, they would also understand how to create a distress of their -own, specially their own, from internal sources. Their inventions might -then be more refined, and their gratifications might sound like good -music: while at present they fill the world with their cries of -distress, and consequently too often with the _feeling of distress_ in -the first place! They do not know what to make of themselves—and so they -paint the misfortune of others on the wall; they always need others! And -always again other others!—Pardon me, my friends, I have ventured to -paint my _happiness_ on the wall. - ------ - -Footnote 7: - - Allusions to the song of Clara in Goethe's "Egmont."—TR. - - - - - BOOK SECOND - - - 57. - -_To the Realists._—Ye sober beings, who feel yourselves armed against -passion and fantasy, and would gladly make a pride and an ornament out -of your emptiness, ye call yourselves realists and give to understand -that the world is actually constituted as it appears to you; before you -alone reality stands unveiled, and ye yourselves would perhaps be the -best part of it,—oh, ye dear images of Sais! But are not ye also in your -unveiled condition still extremely passionate and dusky beings compared -with the fish, and still all too like an enamoured artist?[8]—and what -is "reality" to an enamoured artist! Ye still carry about with you the -valuations of things which had their origin in the passions and -infatuations of earlier centuries! There is still a secret and -ineffaceable drunkenness embodied in your sobriety! Your love of -"reality," for example—oh, that is an old, primitive "love"! In every -feeling, in every sense-impression, there is a portion of this old love: -and similarly also some kind of fantasy, prejudice, irrationality, -ignorance, fear, and whatever else has become mingled and woven into it. -There is that mountain! There is that cloud! What is "real" in them? -Remove the phantasm and the whole human _element_ therefrom, ye sober -ones! Yes, if ye could do _that_! If ye could forget your origin, your -past, your preparatory schooling,—your whole history as man and beast! -There is no "reality" for us—nor for you either, ye sober ones,—we are -far from being so alien to one another as ye suppose, and perhaps our -good-will to get beyond drunkenness is just as respectable as your -belief that ye are altogether _incapable_ of drunkenness. - - - 58. - -_Only as Creators!_—It has caused me the greatest trouble, and for ever -causes me the greatest trouble, to perceive that unspeakably more -depends upon _what things are called_, than on what they are. The -reputation, the name and appearance, the importance, the usual measure -and weight of things—each being in origin most frequently an error and -arbitrariness thrown over the things like a garment, and quite alien to -their essence and even to their exterior—have gradually, by the belief -therein and its continuous growth from generation to generation, grown -as it were on-and-into things and become their very body; the appearance -at the very beginning becomes almost always the essence in the end, and -_operates_ as the essence! What a fool he would be who would think it -enough to refer here to this origin and this nebulous veil of illusion, -in order to _annihilate_ that which virtually passes for the -world—namely, so-called "reality"! It is only as creators that we can -annihilate!—But let us not forget this: it suffices to create new names -and valuations and probabilities, in order in the long run to create new -"things." - - - 59. - -_We Artists!_—When we love a woman we have readily a hatred against -nature, on recollecting all the disagreeable natural functions to which -every woman is subject; we prefer not to think of them at all, but if -once our soul touches on these things it twitches impatiently, and -glances, as we have said, contemptuously at nature:—we are hurt; nature -seems to encroach upon our possessions, and with the profanest hands. We -then shut our ears against all physiology, and we decree in secret that -"we will hear nothing of the fact that man is something else than _soul -and form_!" "The man under the skin" is an abomination and monstrosity, -a blasphemy of God and of love to all lovers.—Well, just as the lover -still feels with respect to nature and natural functions, so did every -worshipper of God and his "holy omnipotence" formerly feel: in all that -was said of nature by astronomers, geologists, physiologists, and -physicians, he saw an encroachment on his most precious possession, and -consequently an attack,—and moreover also an impertinence of the -assailant! The "law of nature" sounded to him as blasphemy against God; -in truth he would too willingly have seen the whole of mechanics traced -back to moral acts of volition and arbitrariness:—but because nobody -could render him this service, he _concealed_ nature and mechanism from -himself as best he could, and lived in a dream. Oh, those men of former -times understood how to _dream_, and did not need first to go to -sleep!—and we men of the present day also still understand it too well, -with all our good-will for wakefulness and daylight! It suffices to -love, to hate, to desire, and in general to feel,—_immediately_ the -spirit and the power of the dream come over us, and we ascend, with open -eyes and indifferent to all danger, the most dangerous paths, to the -roofs and towers of fantasy, and without any giddiness, as persons born -for climbing—we the night-walkers by day! We artists! We concealers of -naturalness! We moon-struck and God-struck ones! We dead-silent, -untiring wanderers on heights which we do not see as heights, but as our -plains, as our places of safety! - - - 60. - -_Women and their Effect in the Distance._—Have I still ears? Am I only -ear, and nothing else besides? Here I stand in the midst of the surging -of the breakers, whose white flames fork up to my feet;—from all sides -there is howling, threatening, crying, and screaming at me, while in the -lowest depths the old earth-shaker sings his aria, hollow like a roaring -bull; he beats such an earth-shaker's measure thereto, that even the -hearts of these weathered rock-monsters tremble at the sound. Then, -suddenly, as if born out of nothingness, there appears before the portal -of this hellish labyrinth, only a few fathoms distant,—a great -sailing-ship gliding silently along like a ghost. Oh, this ghostly -beauty! With what enchantment it seizes me! What? Has all the repose and -silence in the world embarked here? Does my happiness itself sit in this -quiet place, my happier ego, my second immortalised self? Still not -dead, yet also no longer living? As a ghost-like, calm, gazing, gliding, -sweeping, neutral being? Similar to the ship, which, with its white -sails, like an immense butterfly, passes over the dark sea! Yes! Passing -_over_ existence! That is it! That would be it!——It seems that the noise -here has made me a visionary? All great noise causes one to place -happiness in the calm and the distance. When a man is in the midst of -_his_ hubbub, in the midst of the breakers of his plots and plans, he -there sees perhaps calm, enchanting beings glide past him, for whose -happiness and retirement he longs—_they are women_. He almost thinks -that there with the women dwells his better self; that in these calm -places even the loudest breakers become still as death, and life itself -a dream of life. But still! But still! My noble enthusiast, there is -also in the most beautiful sailing-ship so much noise and bustling, and -alas, so much petty, pitiable bustling! The enchantment and the most -powerful effect of women is, to use the language of philosophers, an -effect at a distance, an _actio in distans_; there belongs thereto, -however, primarily and above all,—_distance_! - - - 61. - -_In Honour of Friendship._—That the sentiment of friendship was regarded -by antiquity as the highest sentiment, higher even than the most vaunted -pride of the self-sufficient and wise, yea as it were its sole and still -holier brotherhood, is very well expressed by the story of the -Macedonian king who made the present of a talent to a cynical Athenian -philosopher from whom he received it back again. "What?" said the king, -"has he then no friend?" He therewith meant to say, "I honour this pride -of the wise and independent man, but I should have honoured his humanity -still higher if the friend in him had gained the victory over his pride. -The philosopher has lowered himself in my estimation, for he showed that -he did not know one of the two highest sentiments—and in fact the higher -of them!" - - - 62. - -_Love._—Love pardons even the passion of the beloved. - - - 63. - -_Woman in Music._—How does it happen that warm and rainy winds bring the -musical mood and the inventive delight in melody with them? Are they not -the same winds that fill the churches and give women amorous thoughts? - - - 64. - -_Sceptics._—I fear women who have become old are more sceptical in the -secret recesses of their hearts than any of the men are; they believe in -the superficiality of existence as in its essence, and all virtue and -profundity is to them only the disguising of this "truth," the very -desirable disguising of a _pudendum_,—an affair, therefore, of decency -and of modesty, and nothing more! - - - 65. - -_Devotedness._—There are noble women with a certain poverty of spirit, -who, in order to _express_ their profoundest devotedness, have no other -alternative but to offer their virtue and modesty: it is the highest -thing they have. And this present is often accepted without putting the -recipient under such deep obligation as the giver supposed,—a very -melancholy story! - - - 66. - -_The Strength of the Weak._—Women are all skilful in exaggerating their -weaknesses, indeed they are inventive in weaknesses, so as to seem quite -fragile ornaments to which even a grain of dust does harm; their -existence is meant to bring home to man's mind his coarseness, and to -appeal to his conscience. They thus defend themselves against the strong -and all "rights of might." - - - 67. - -_Self-dissembling._—She loves him now and has since been looking forth -with as quiet confidence as a cow; but alas! It was precisely his -delight that she seemed so fitful and absolutely incomprehensible! He -had rather too much steady weather in himself already! Would she not do -well to feign her old character? to feign indifference? Does not—love -itself advise her _to do so_? _Vivat comœdia!_ - - - 68. - -_Will and Willingness._—Some one brought a youth to a wise man and said, -"See, this is one who is being corrupted by women!" The wise man shook -his head and smiled. "It is men," he called out, "who corrupt women; and -everything that women lack should be atoned for and improved in men,—for -man creates for himself the ideal of woman, and woman moulds herself -according to this ideal."—"You are too tender-hearted towards women," -said one of the bystanders, "you do not know them!" The wise man -answered: "Man's attribute is will, woman's attribute is -willingness,—such is the law of the sexes, verily! a hard law for woman! -All human beings are innocent of their existence, women, however, are -doubly innocent; who could have enough of salve and gentleness for -them!"—"What about salve! What about gentleness!" called out another -person in the crowd, "we must educate women better!"—"We must educate -men better," said the wise man, and made a sign to the youth to follow -him.—The youth, however, did not follow him. - - - 69. - -_Capacity for Revenge._—That a person cannot and consequently will not -defend himself, does not yet cast disgrace upon him in our eyes; but we -despise the person who has neither the ability nor the good-will for -revenge—whether it be a man or a woman. Would a woman be able to -captivate us (or, as people say, to "fetter" us) whom we did not credit -with knowing how to employ the dagger (any kind of dagger) skilfully -_against us_ under certain circumstances? Or against herself; which in a -certain case might be the severest revenge (the Chinese revenge). - - - 70. - -_The Mistresses of the Masters._—A powerful contralto voice, as we -occasionally hear it in the theatre, raises suddenly for us the curtain -on possibilities in which we usually do not believe; all at once we are -convinced that somewhere in the world there may be women with high, -heroic, royal souls, capable and prepared for magnificent remonstrances, -resolutions, and self-sacrifices, capable and prepared for domination -over men, because in them the best in man, superior to sex, has become a -corporeal ideal. To be sure, it is not the intention of the theatre that -such voices should give such a conception of women; they are usually -intended to represent the ideal male lover, for example, a Romeo; but, -to judge by my experience, the theatre regularly miscalculates here, and -the musician also, who expects such effects from such a voice. People do -not believe in _these_ lovers; these voices still contain a tinge of the -motherly and housewifely character, and most of all when love is in -their tone. - - - 71. - -_On Female Chastity._—There is something quite astonishing and -extraordinary in the education of women of the higher class; indeed, -there is perhaps nothing more paradoxical. All the world is agreed to -educate them with as much ignorance as possible _in eroticis_, and to -inspire their soul with a profound shame of such things, and the -extremest impatience and horror at the suggestion of them. It is really -here only that all the "honour" of woman is at stake; what would one not -forgive them in other respects! But here they are intended to remain -ignorant to the very backbone:—they are intended to have neither eyes, -ears, words, nor thoughts for this, their "wickedness"; indeed knowledge -here is already evil. And then! To be hurled as with an awful -thunderbolt into reality and knowledge with marriage—and indeed by him -whom they most love and esteem: to have to encounter love and shame in -contradiction, yea, to have to feel rapture, abandonment, duty, -sympathy, and fright at the unexpected proximity of God and animal, and -whatever else besides! all at once!—There, in fact, a psychic -entanglement has been effected which is quite unequalled! Even the -sympathetic curiosity of the wisest discerner of men does not suffice to -divine how this or that woman gets along with the solution of this -enigma and the enigma of this solution; what dreadful, far-reaching -suspicions must awaken thereby in the poor unhinged soul; and forsooth, -how the ultimate philosophy and scepticism of the woman casts anchor at -this point!—Afterwards the same profound silence as before: and often -even a silence to herself, a shutting of her eyes to herself.—Young -wives on that account make great efforts to appear superficial and -thoughtless; the most ingenious of them simulate a kind of -impudence.—Wives easily feel their husbands as a question-mark to their -honour, and their children as an apology or atonement,—they require -children, and wish for them in quite another spirit than a husband -wishes for them.—In short, one cannot be gentle enough towards women! - - - 72. - -_Mothers._—Animals think differently from men with respect to females; -with them the female is regarded as the productive being. There is no -paternal love among them, but there is such a thing as love of the -children of a beloved, and habituation to them. In the young, the -females find gratification for their lust of dominion; the young are a -property, an occupation, something quite comprehensible to them, with -which they can chatter: all this conjointly is maternal love,—it is to -be compared to the love of the artist for his work. Pregnancy has made -the females gentler, more expectant, more timid, more submissively -inclined; and similarly intellectual pregnancy engenders the character -of the contemplative, who are allied to women in character:—they are the -masculine mothers.—Among animals the masculine sex is regarded as the -beautiful sex. - - - 73. - -_Saintly Cruelty._—A man holding a newly born child in his hands came to -a saint. "What should I do with the child," he asked, "it is wretched, -deformed, and has not even enough of life to die." "Kill it," cried the -saint with a dreadful voice, "kill it, and then hold it in thy arms for -three days and three nights to brand it on thy memory:—thus wilt thou -never again beget a child when it is not the time for thee to -beget."—When the man had heard this he went away disappointed; and many -found fault with the saint because he had advised cruelty, for he had -advised to kill the child. "But is it not more cruel to let it live?" -asked the saint. - - - 74. - -_The Unsuccessful._—Those poor women always fail of success who become -agitated and uncertain, and talk too much in presence of him whom they -love; for men are most successfully seduced by a certain subtle and -phlegmatic tenderness. - - - 75. - -_The Third Sex._—"A small man is a paradox, but still a man,—but the -small woman seems to me to be of another sex in comparison with -well-grown ones"—said an old dancing-master. A small woman is never -beautiful—said old Aristotle. - - - 76. - -_The greatest Danger._—Had there not at all times been a larger number -of men who regarded the cultivation of their mind—their "rationality"—as -their pride, their obligation, their virtue, and were injured or shamed -by all play of fancy and extravagance of thinking—as lovers of "sound -common sense":—mankind would long ago have perished! Incipient -_insanity_ has hovered, and hovers continually over mankind as its -greatest danger: that is precisely the breaking out of inclination in -feeling, seeing, and hearing; the enjoyment of the unruliness of the -mind; the delight in human unreason. It is not truth and certainty that -is the antithesis of the world of the insane, but the universality and -all-obligatoriness of a belief, in short, non-voluntariness in forming -opinions. And the greatest labour of human beings hitherto has been to -agree with one another regarding a great many things, and to impose upon -themselves a _law of agreement_—indifferent whether these things are -true or false. This is the discipline of the mind which has preserved -mankind;—but the counter-impulses are still so powerful that one can -really speak of the future of mankind with little confidence. The ideas -of things still continually shift and move, and will perhaps alter more -than ever in the future; it is continually the most select spirits -themselves who strive against universal obligatoriness—the investigators -of _truth_ above all! The accepted belief, as the belief of all the -world, continually engenders a disgust and a new longing in the more -ingenious minds; and already the slow _tempo_ which it demands for all -intellectual processes (the imitation of the tortoise, which is here -recognised as the rule) makes the artists and poets runaways:—it is in -these impatient spirits that a downright delight in delirium breaks out, -because delirium has such a joyful _tempo_! Virtuous intellects, -therefore, are needed—ah! I want to use the least ambiguous -word,—_virtuous stupidity_ is needed, imperturbable conductors of the -_slow_ spirits are needed, in order that the faithful of the great -collective belief may remain with one another and dance their dance -further: it is a necessity of the first importance that here enjoins and -demands. _We others are the exceptions and the danger_,—we eternally -need protection!—Well, there can actually be something said in favour of -the exceptions _provided that they never want to become the rule_. - - - 77. - -_The Animal with good Conscience._—It is not unknown to me that there is -vulgarity in everything that pleases Southern Europe—whether it be -Italian opera (for example, Rossini's and Bellini's), or the Spanish -adventure-romance (most readily accessible to us in the French garb of -Gil Blas)—but it does not offend me, any more than the vulgarity which -one encounters in a walk through Pompeii, or even in the reading of -every ancient book: what is the reason of this? Is it because shame is -lacking here, and because the vulgar always comes forward just as sure -and certain of itself as anything noble, lovely, and passionate in the -same kind of music or romance? "The animal has its rights like man, so -let it run about freely; and you, my dear fellow-man, are still this -animal, in spite of all!"—that seems to me the moral of the case, and -the peculiarity of southern humanity. Bad taste has its rights like good -taste, and even a prerogative over the latter when it is the great -requisite, the sure satisfaction, and as it were a universal language, -an immediately intelligible mask and attitude; the excellent, select -taste on the other hand has always something of a seeking, tentative -character, not fully certain that it understands,—it is never, and has -never been popular! The _masque_ is and remains popular! So let all this -masquerade run along in the melodies and cadences, in the leaps and -merriment of the rhythm of these operas! Quite the ancient life! What -does one understand of it, if one does not understand the delight in the -masque, the good conscience of all masquerade! Here is the bath and the -refreshment of the ancient spirit:—and perhaps this bath was still more -necessary for the rare and sublime natures of the ancient world than for -the vulgar.—On the other hand, a vulgar turn in northern works, for -example in German music, offends me unutterably. There is _shame_ in it, -the artist has lowered himself in his own sight, and could not even -avoid blushing: we are ashamed with him, and are so hurt because we -surmise that he believed he had to lower himself on our account. - - - 78. - -_What we should be Grateful for._—It is only the artists, and especially -the theatrical artists who have furnished men with eyes and ears to hear -and see with some pleasure what everyone is in himself, what he -experiences and aims at: it is only _they_ who have taught us how to -estimate the hero that is concealed in each of these common-place men, -and the art of looking at ourselves from a distance as heroes, and as it -were simplified and transfigured,—the art of "putting ourselves on the -stage" before ourselves. It is thus only that we get beyond some of the -paltry details in ourselves! Without that art we should be nothing but -fore-ground, and would live absolutely under the spell of the -perspective which makes the closest and the commonest seem immensely -large and like reality in itself.—Perhaps there is merit of a similar -kind in the religion which commanded us to look at the sinfulness of -every individual man with a magnifying-glass, and to make a great, -immortal criminal out of the sinner; in that it put eternal perspectives -around man, it taught him to see himself from a distance, and as -something past, something entire. - - - 79. - -_The Charm of Imperfection._—I see here a poet, who, like so many men, -exercises a higher charm by his imperfections than by all that is -rounded off and takes perfect shape under his hands,—indeed, he derives -his advantage and reputation far more from his actual limitations than -from his abundant powers. His work never expresses altogether what he -would really like to express, what he _would like to have seen_: he -appears to have had the foretaste of a vision and never the vision -itself:—but an extraordinary longing for this vision has remained in his -soul; and from this he derives his equally extraordinary eloquence of -longing and craving. With this he raises those who listen to him above -his work and above all "works," and gives them wings to rise higher than -hearers have ever risen before, thus making them poets and seers -themselves; they then show an admiration for the originator of their -happiness, as if he had led them immediately to the vision of his -holiest and ultimate verities, as if he had reached his goal, and had -actually _seen_ and communicated his vision. It is to the advantage of -his reputation that he has not really arrived at his goal. - - - 80. - -_Art and Nature._—The Greeks (or at least the Athenians) liked to hear -good talking: indeed they had an eager inclination for it, which -distinguished them more than anything else from non-Greeks. And so they -required good talking even from passion on the stage, and submitted to -the unnaturalness of dramatic verse with delight:—in nature, forsooth, -passion is so sparing of words! so dumb and confused! Or if it finds -words, so embarrassed and irrational and a shame to itself! We have now, -all of us, thanks to the Greeks, accustomed ourselves to this -unnaturalness on the stage, as we endure that other unnaturalness, the -_singing_ passion, and willingly endure it, thanks to the Italians.—It -has become a necessity to us, which we cannot satisfy out of the -resources of actuality, to hear men talk well and in full detail in the -most trying situations: it enraptures us at present when the tragic hero -still finds words, reasons, eloquent gestures, and on the whole a bright -spirituality, where life approaches the abysses, and where the actual -man mostly loses his head, and certainly his fine language. This kind of -_deviation from nature_ is perhaps the most agreeable repast for man's -pride: he loves art generally on account of it, as the expression of -high, heroic unnaturalness and convention. One rightly objects to the -dramatic poet when he does not transform everything into reason and -speech, but always retains a remnant of _silence_:—just as one is -dissatisfied with an operatic musician who cannot find a melody for the -highest emotion, but only an emotional, "natural" stammering and crying. -Here nature _has to_ be contradicted! Here the common charm of illusion -_has to_ give place to a higher charm! The Greeks go far, far in this -direction—frightfully far! As they constructed the stage as narrow as -possible and dispensed with all the effect of deep backgrounds, as they -made pantomime and easy motion impossible to the actor, and transformed -him into a solemn, stiff, masked bogey, so they have also deprived -passion itself of its deep background, and have dictated to it a law of -fine talk; indeed, they have really done everything to counteract the -elementary effect of representations that inspire pity and terror: _they -did not want pity and terror_,—with due deference, with the highest -deference to Aristotle! but he certainly did not hit the nail, to say -nothing of the head of the nail, when he spoke about the final aim of -Greek tragedy! Let us but look at the Grecian tragic poets with respect -to _what_ most excited their diligence, their inventiveness, and their -emulation,—certainly it was not the intention of subjugating the -spectators by emotion! The Athenian went to the theatre _to hear fine -talking_! And fine talking was arrived at by Sophocles!—pardon me this -heresy!—It is very different with _serious opera_: all its masters make -it their business to prevent their personages being understood. "An -occasional word picked up may come to the assistance of the inattentive -listener; but on the whole the situation must be self-explanatory,—the -_talking_ is of no account!"—so they all think, and so they have all -made fun of the words. Perhaps they have only lacked courage to express -fully their extreme contempt for words: a little additional insolence in -Rossini, and he would have allowed la-la-la-la to be sung throughout—and -it might have been the rational course! The personages of the opera are -_not_ meant to be believed "in their words," but in their tones! That is -the difference, that is the fine _unnaturalness_ on account of which -people go to the opera! Even the _recitativo secco_ is not really -intended to be heard as words and text: this kind of half-music is meant -rather in the first place to give the musical ear a little repose (the -repose from _melody_, as from the sublimest, and on that account the -most straining enjoyment of this art),—but very soon something different -results, namely, an increasing impatience, an increasing resistance, a -new longing for _entire_ music, for melody.—How is it with the art of -Richard Wagner as seen from this standpoint? Is it perhaps the same? -Perhaps otherwise? It would often seem to me as if one needed to have -learned by heart both the words _and_ the music of his creations before -the performances; for without that—so it seemed to me—one _may hear_ -neither the words, nor even the music. - - - 81. - -_Grecian Taste._—"What is beautiful in it?"—asked a certain -geometrician, after a performance of the _Iphigenia_—"there is nothing -proved in it!" Could the Greeks have been so far from this taste? In -Sophocles at least "everything is proved." - - - 82. - -_Esprit Un-Grecian._—The Greeks were exceedingly logical and plain in -all their thinking; they did not get tired of it, at least during their -long flourishing period, as is so often the case with the French; who -too willingly made a little excursion into the opposite, and in fact -endure the spirit of logic only when it betrays its _sociable_ courtesy, -its sociable self-renunciation, by a multitude of such little excursions -into its opposite. Logic appears to them as necessary as bread and -water, but also like these as a kind of prison-fare, as soon as it is to -be taken pure and by itself. In good society one must never want to be -in the right absolutely and solely, as all pure logic requires; hence, -the little dose of irrationality in all French _esprit_.—The social -sense of the Greeks was far less developed than that of the French in -the present and the past; hence, so little _esprit_ in their cleverest -men, hence, so little wit, even in their wags, hence—alas! But people -will not readily believe these tenets of mine, and how much of the kind -I have still on my soul!—_Est res magna tacere_—says Martial, like all -garrulous people. - - - 83. - -_Translations._—One can estimate the amount of the historical sense -which an age possesses by the way in which it makes _translations_ and -seeks to embody in itself past periods and literatures. The French of -Corneille, and even the French of the Revolution, appropriated Roman -antiquity in a manner for which we would no longer have the -courage—owing to our superior historical sense. And Roman antiquity -itself: how violently, and at the same time how naïvely, did it lay its -hand on everything excellent and elevated belonging to the older Grecian -antiquity! How they translated these writings into the Roman present! -How they wiped away intentionally and unconcernedly the wing-dust of the -butterfly moment! It is thus that Horace now and then translated Alcæus -or Archilochus, it is thus that Propertius translated Callimachus and -Philetas (poets of equal rank with Theocritus, if we _be allowed_ to -judge): of what consequence was it to them that the actual creator -experienced this and that, and had inscribed the indication thereof in -his poem!—as poets they were averse to the antiquarian, inquisitive -spirit which precedes the historical sense; as poets they did not -respect those essentially personal traits and names, nor anything -peculiar to city, coast, or century, such as its costume and mask, but -at once put the present and the Roman in its place. They seem to us to -ask: "Should we not make the old new for ourselves, and adjust -_ourselves_ to it? Should we not be allowed to inspire this dead body -with our soul? for it is dead indeed: how loathsome is everything -dead!"—They did not know the pleasure of the historical sense; the past -and the alien was painful to them, and as Romans it was an incitement to -a Roman conquest. In fact, they conquered when they translated,—not only -in that they omitted the historical: no, they added also allusions to -the present; above all, they struck out the name of the poet and put -their own in its place—not with the feeling of theft, but with the very -best conscience of the _imperium Romanum_. - - - 84. - -_The Origin of Poetry._—The lovers of the fantastic in man, who at the -same time represent the doctrine of instinctive morality, draw this -conclusion: "Granted that utility has been honoured at all times as the -highest divinity, where then in all the world has poetry come from?—this -rhythmising of speech which thwarts rather than furthers plainness of -communication, and which, nevertheless, has sprung up everywhere on the -earth, and still springs up, as a mockery of all useful purpose! The -wildly beautiful irrationality of poetry refutes you, ye utilitarians! -The wish _to get rid of_ utility in some way—that is precisely what has -elevated man, that is what has inspired him to morality and art!" Well, -I must here speak for once to please the utilitarians,—they are so -seldom in the right that it is pitiful! In the old times which called -poetry into being, people had still utility in view with respect to it, -and a very important utility—at the time when rhythm was introduced into -speech, the force which arranges all the particles of the sentence anew, -commands the choosing of the words, recolours the thought, and makes it -more obscure, more foreign, and more distant: to be sure a -_superstitious utility_! It was intended that a human entreaty should be -more profoundly impressed upon the Gods by virtue of rhythm, after it -had been observed that men could remember a verse better than an -unmetrical speech. It was likewise thought that people could make -themselves audible at greater distances by the rhythmical beat; the -rhythmical prayer seemed to come nearer to the ear of the Gods. Above -all, however, people wanted to have the advantage of the elementary -conquest which man experiences in himself when he hears music: rhythm is -a constraint; it produces an unconquerable desire to yield, to join in; -not only the step of the foot, but also the soul itself follows the -measure,—probably the soul of the Gods also, as people thought! They -attempted, therefore, to _constrain_ the Gods by rhythm and to exercise -a power over them; they threw poetry around the Gods like a magic noose. -There was a still more wonderful idea, and it has perhaps operated most -powerfully of all in the originating of poetry. Among the Pythagoreans -it made its appearance as a philosophical doctrine and as an artifice of -teaching: but long before there were philosophers music was acknowledged -to possess the power of unburdening the emotions, of purifying the soul, -of soothing the _ferocia animi_—and this was owing to the rhythmical -element in music. When the proper tension and harmony of the soul were -lost a person had to _dance_ to the measure of the singer,—that was the -recipe of this medical art. By means of it Terpander quieted a tumult, -Empedocles calmed a maniac, Damon purged a love-sick youth; by means of -it even the maddened, revengeful Gods were treated for the purpose of a -cure. First of all, it was by driving the frenzy and wantonness of their -emotions to the highest pitch, by making the furious mad, and the -revengeful intoxicated with vengeance:—all the orgiastic cults seek to -discharge the _ferocia_ of a deity all at once and thus make an orgy, so -that the deity may feel freer and quieter afterwards, and leave man in -peace. _Melos_, according to its root, signifies a soothing means, not -because the song is gentle itself, but because its after-effect makes -gentle.—And not only in the religious song, but also in the secular song -of the most ancient times the prerequisite is that the rhythm should -exercise a magical influence; for example, in drawing water, or in -rowing: the song is for the enchanting of the spirits supposed to be -active thereby; it makes them obliging, involuntary, and the instruments -of man. And as often as a person acts he has occasion to sing, _every_ -action is dependent on the assistance of spirits: magic song and -incantation appear to be the original form of poetry. When verse also -came to be used in oracles—the Greeks said that the hexameter was -invented at Delphi,—the rhythm was here also intended to exercise a -compulsory influence. To make a prophecy—that means originally -(according to what seems to me the probable derivation of the Greek -word) to determine something; people thought they could determine the -future by winning Apollo over to their side: he who, according to the -most ancient idea, is far more than a foreseeing deity. According as the -formula is pronounced with literal and rhythmical correctness, it -determines the future: the formula, however, is the invention of Apollo, -who as the God of rhythm, can also determine the goddesses of -fate.—Looked at and investigated as a whole, was there ever anything -_more serviceable_ to the ancient superstitious species of human being -than rhythm? People could do everything with it: they could make labour -go on magically; they could compel a God to appear, to be near at hand, -and listen to them; they could arrange the future for themselves -according to their will; they could unburden their own souls of any kind -of excess (of anxiety, of mania, of sympathy, of revenge), and not only -their own soul, but the souls of the most evil spirits,—without verse a -person was nothing, by means of verse a person became almost a God. Such -a fundamental feeling no longer allows itself to be fully -eradicated,—and even now, after millenniums of long labour in combating -such superstition, the very wisest of us occasionally becomes the fool -of rhythm, be it only that one _perceives_ a thought to be _truer_ when -it has a metrical form and approaches with a divine hopping. Is it not a -very funny thing that the most serious philosophers, however anxious -they are in other respects for strict certainty, still appeal to -_poetical sayings_ in order to give their thoughts force and -credibility?—and yet it is more dangerous to a truth when the poet -assents to it than when he contradicts it! For, as Homer says, "The -singers speak much falsehood!"— - - - 85. - -_The Good and the Beautiful._—Artists _glorify_ continually—they do -nothing else,—and indeed they glorify all those conditions and things -that have a reputation, so that man may feel himself good or great, or -intoxicated, or merry, or pleased and wise by it. Those _select_ things -and conditions whose value for human _happiness_ is regarded as secure -and determined, are the objects of artists: they are ever lying in wait -to discover such things, to transfer them into the domain of art. I mean -to say that they are not themselves the valuers of happiness and of the -happy ones, but they always press close to these valuers with the -greatest curiosity and longing, in order immediately to use their -valuations advantageously. As besides their impatience, they have also -the big lungs of heralds and the feet of runners, they are likewise -always among the first to glorify the _new_ excellency, and often _seem_ -to be those who first of all called it good and valued it as good. This, -however, as we have said, is an error; they are only faster and louder -than the actual valuers:—And who then are these?—They are the rich and -the leisurely. - - - 86. - -_The Theatre._—This day has given me once more strong and elevated -sentiments, and if I could have music and art in the evening, I know -well what music and art I should _not_ like to have; namely, none of -that which would fain intoxicate its hearers and _excite_ them to a -crisis of strong and high feeling,—those men with commonplace souls, who -in the evening are not like victors on triumphal cars, but like tired -mules to whom life has rather too often applied the whip. What would -those men at all know of "higher moods," unless there were expedients -for causing ecstasy and idealistic strokes of the whip!—and thus they -have their inspirers as they have their wines. But what is their drink -and their drunkenness to _me_! Does the inspired one need wine? He -rather looks with a kind of disgust at the agency and the agent which -are here intended to produce an effect without sufficient reason,—an -imitation of the high tide of the soul! What? One gives the mole wings -and proud fancies—before going to sleep, before he creeps into his hole? -One sends him into the theatre and puts great magnifying-glasses to his -blind and tired eyes? Men, whose life is not "action" but business, sit -in front of the stage and look at strange beings to whom life is more -than business? "This is proper," you say, "this is entertaining, this is -what culture wants!"—Well then! culture is too often lacking in me, for -this sight is too often disgusting to me. He who has enough of tragedy -and comedy in himself surely prefers to remain away from the theatre; -or, as the exception, the whole procedure—theatre and public and poet -included—becomes for him a truly tragic and comic play, so that the -performed piece counts for little in comparison. He who is something -like Faust and Manfred, what does it matter to him about the Fausts and -Manfreds of the theatre!—while it certainly gives him something to think -about _that_ such figures are brought into the theatre at all. The -_strongest_ thoughts and passions before those who are not capable of -thought and passion—but of _intoxication_ only! And _those_ as a means -to this end! And theatre and music the hashish-smoking and betel-chewing -of Europeans! Oh, who will narrate to us the whole history of -narcotics!—It is almost the history of "culture," the so-called higher -culture! - - - 87. - -_The Conceit of Artists._—I think artists often do not know what they -can do best, because they are too conceited, and have set their minds on -something loftier than those little plants appear to be, which can grow -up to perfection on their soil, fresh, rare, and beautiful. The final -value of their own garden and vineyard is superciliously underestimated -by them, and their love and their insight are not of the same quality. -Here is a musician, who, more than any one else, has the genius for -discovering the tones peculiar to suffering, oppressed, tortured souls, -and who can endow even dumb animals with speech. No one equals him in -the colours of the late autumn, in the indescribably touching happiness -of a last, a final, and all too short enjoyment; he knows a chord for -those secret and weird midnights of the soul when cause and effect seem -out of joint, and when every instant something may originate "out of -nothing." He draws his resources best of all out of the lower depths of -human happiness, and so to speak, out of its drained goblet, where the -bitterest and most nauseous drops have ultimately, for good or for ill, -commingled with the sweetest. He knows the weary shuffling along of the -soul which can no longer leap or fly, yea, not even walk; he has the shy -glance of concealed pain, of understanding without comfort, of -leave-taking without avowal; yea, as the Orpheus of all secret misery, -he is greater than anyone; and in fact much has been added to art by him -which was hitherto inexpressible and not even thought worthy of art, and -which was only to be scared away, by words, and not grasped—many small -and quite microscopic features of the soul: yes, he is the master of -miniature. But he does not _wish_ to be so! His _character_ is more in -love with large walls and daring frescoes! He fails to see that his -_spirit_ has a different taste and inclination, and prefers to sit -quietly in the corners of ruined houses:—concealed in this way, -concealed even from himself, he there paints his proper masterpieces, -all of which are very short, often only one bar in length,—there only -does he become quite good, great, and perfect, perhaps there only.—But -he does not know it! He is too conceited to know it. - - - 88. - -_Earnestness for the Truth._—Earnest for the truth! What different -things men understand by these words! Just the same opinions, and modes -of demonstration and testing which a thinker regards as a frivolity in -himself, to which he has succumbed with shame at one time or other,—just -the same opinions may give to an artist, who comes in contact with them -and accepts them temporarily, the consciousness that the profoundest -earnestness for the truth has now taken hold of him, and that it is -worthy of admiration that, although an artist, he at the same time -exhibits the most ardent desire for the antithesis of the apparent. It -is thus possible that a person may, just by his pathos of earnestness, -betray how superficially and sparingly his intellect has hitherto -operated in the domain of knowledge.—And is not everything that we -consider _important_ our betrayer? It shows where our motives lie, and -where our motives are altogether lacking. - - - 89. - -_Now and Formerly._—Of what consequence is all our art in artistic -products, if that higher art, the art of the festival, be lost by us? -Formerly all artistic products were exhibited on the great festive path -of humanity, as tokens of remembrance, and monuments of high and happy -moments. One now seeks to allure the exhausted and sickly from the great -suffering path of humanity for a wanton moment by means of works of art; -one furnishes them with a little ecstasy and insanity. - - - 90. - -_Lights and Shades._—Books and writings are different with different -thinkers. One writer has collected together in his book all the rays of -light which he could quickly plunder and carry home from an illuminating -experience; while another gives only the shadows, and the grey and black -replicas of that which on the previous day had towered up in his soul. - - - 91. - -_Precaution._—Alfieri, as is well known, told a great many falsehoods -when he narrated the history of his life to his astonished -contemporaries. He told falsehoods owing to the despotism toward himself -which he exhibited, for example, in the way in which he created his own -language, and tyrannised himself into a poet:—he finally found a rigid -form of sublimity into which he _forced_ his life and his memory; he -must have suffered much in the process.—I would also give no credit to a -history of Plato's life written by himself, as little as to Rousseau's, -or to the _Vita nuova_ of Dante. - - - 92. - -_Prose and Poetry._—Let it be observed that the great masters of prose -have almost always been poets as well, whether openly, or only in secret -and for the "closet"; and in truth one only writes good prose _in view -of poetry_! For prose is an uninterrupted, polite warfare with poetry; -all its charm consists in the fact that poetry is constantly avoided, -and contradicted; every abstraction wants to have a gibe at poetry, and -wishes to be uttered with a mocking voice; all dryness and coolness is -meant to bring the amiable goddess into an amiable despair; there are -often approximations and reconciliations for the moment, and then a -sudden recoil and a burst of laughter; the curtain is often drawn up and -dazzling light let in just while the goddess is enjoying her twilights -and dull colours; the word is often taken out of her mouth and chanted -to a melody while she holds her fine hands before her delicate little -ears—and so there are a thousand enjoyments of the warfare, the defeats -included, of which the unpoetic, the so-called prose-men know nothing at -all:—they consequently write and speak only bad prose! _Warfare is the -father of all good things_, it is also the father of good prose!—There -have been four very singular and truly poetical men in this century who -have arrived at mastership in prose, for which otherwise this century is -not suited, owing to lack of poetry, as we have indicated. Not to take -Goethe into account, for he is reasonably claimed by the century that -produced him, I look only on Giacomo Leopardi, Prosper Mérimée, Ralph -Waldo Emerson, and Walter Savage Landor, the author of _Imaginary -Conversations_, as worthy to be called masters of prose. - - - 93. - -_But why, then, do you Write?_—A: I do not belong to those who _think_ -with the wet pen in hand; and still less to those who yield themselves -entirely to their passions before the open ink-bottle, sitting on their -chair and staring at the paper. I am always vexed and abashed by -writing; writing is a necessity for me,—even to speak of it in a simile -is disagreeable. B: But why, then, do you write? A: Well, my dear Sir, -to tell you in confidence, I have hitherto found no other means of -_getting rid of_ my thoughts. B: And why do you wish to get rid of them? -A: Why I wish? Do I really wish! I must.—B: Enough! Enough! - - - 94. - -_Growth after Death._—Those few daring words about moral matters which -Fontenelle threw into his immortal _Dialogues of the Dead_, were -regarded by his age as paradoxes and amusements of a not unscrupulous -wit; even the highest judges of taste and intellect saw nothing more in -them,—indeed, Fontenelle himself perhaps saw nothing more. Then -something incredible takes place: these thoughts become truths! Science -proves them! The game becomes serious! And we read those dialogues with -a feeling different from that with which Voltaire and Helvetius read -them, and we involuntarily raise their originator into another and _much -higher_ class of intellects than they did.—Rightly? Wrongly? - - - 95. - -_Chamfort._—That such a judge of men and of the multitude as Chamfort -should side with the multitude, instead of standing apart in -philosophical resignation and defence—I am at a loss to explain, except -as follows:—There was an instinct in him stronger than his wisdom, and -it had never been gratified: the hatred against all _noblesse_ of blood; -perhaps his mother's old and only too explicable hatred, which was -consecrated in him by love of her,—an instinct of revenge from his -boyhood, which waited for the hour to avenge his mother. But then the -course of his life, his genius, and alas! most of all, perhaps, the -paternal blood in his veins, had seduced him to rank and consider -himself equal to the _noblesse_—for many, many years! In the end, -however, he could not endure the sight of himself, the "old man" under -the old _régime_, any longer; he got into a violent, penitential -passion, and _in this state_ he put on the raiment of the populace as -_his_ special kind of hair-shirt! His bad conscience was the neglect of -revenge.—If Chamfort had then been a little more of the philosopher, the -Revolution would not have had its tragic wit and its sharpest sting; it -would have been regarded as a much more stupid affair, and would have -had no such seductive influence on men's minds. But Chamfort's hatred -and revenge educated an entire generation; and the most illustrious men -passed through his school. Let us but consider that Mirabeau looked up -to Chamfort as to his higher and older self, from whom he expected (and -endured) impulses, warnings, and condemnations,—Mirabeau, who as a man -belongs to an entirely different order of greatness, as the very -foremost among the statesman-geniuses of yesterday and to-day.—Strange, -that in spite of such a friend and advocate—we possess Mirabeau's -letters to Chamfort—this wittiest of all moralists has remained -unfamiliar to the French, quite the same as Stendhal, who has perhaps -had the most penetrating eyes and ears of any Frenchman of _this_ -century. Is it because the latter had really too much of the German and -the Englishman in his nature for the Parisians to endure him?—while -Chamfort, a man with ample knowledge of the profundities and secret -motives of the soul, gloomy, suffering, ardent—a thinker who found -laughter necessary as the remedy of life, and who almost gave himself up -as lost every day that he had not laughed,—seems much more like an -Italian, and related by blood to Dante and Leopardi, than like a -Frenchman. One knows Chamfort's last words: "_Ah! mon ami_," he said to -Sieyès, "_je m'en vais enfin de ce monde, où il faut que le cœur se -brise ou se bronze_—." These were certainly not the words of a dying -Frenchman. - - - 96. - -_Two Orators._—Of these two orators the one arrives at a full -understanding of his case only when he yields himself to emotion; it is -only this that pumps sufficient blood and heat into his brain to compel -his high intellectuality to reveal itself. The other attempts, indeed, -now and then to do the same: to state his case sonorously, vehemently, -and spiritedly with the aid of emotion,—but usually with bad success. He -then very soon speaks obscurely and confusedly; he exaggerates, makes -omissions, and excites suspicion of the justice of his case: indeed, he -himself feels this suspicion, and the sudden changes into the coldest -and most repulsive tones (which raise a doubt in the hearer as to his -passionateness being genuine) are thereby explicable. With him emotion -always drowns the spirit; perhaps because it is stronger than in the -former. But he is at the height of his power when he resists the -impetuous storm of his feeling, and as it were scorns it; it is then -only that his spirit emerges fully from its concealment, a spirit -logical, mocking, and playful, but nevertheless awe-inspiring. - - - 97. - -_The Loquacity of Authors._—There is a loquacity of anger—frequent in -Luther, also in Schopenhauer. A loquacity which comes from too great a -store of conceptual formulæ, as in Kant. A loquacity which comes from -delight in ever new modifications of the same idea: one finds it in -Montaigne. A loquacity of malicious natures: whoever reads writings of -our period will recollect two authors in this connection. A loquacity -which comes from delight in fine words and forms of speech: by no means -rare in Goethe's prose. A loquacity which comes from pure satisfaction -in noise and confusion of feelings: for example in Carlyle. - - - 98. - -_In Honour of Shakespeare._—The best thing I could say in honour of -Shakespeare, _the man_, is that he believed in Brutus and cast not a -shadow of suspicion on the kind of virtue which Brutus represents! It is -to him that Shakespeare consecrated his best tragedy—it is at present -still called by a wrong name,—to him and to the most terrible essence of -lofty morality. Independence of soul!—that is the question at issue! No -sacrifice can be too great there: one must be able to sacrifice to it -even one's dearest friend, though he be also the grandest of men, the -ornament of the world, the genius without peer,—if one really loves -freedom as the freedom of great souls, and if _this_ freedom be -threatened by him:—it is thus that Shakespeare must have felt! The -elevation in which he places Cæsar is the most exquisite honour he could -confer upon Brutus; it is thus only that he lifts into vastness the -inner problem of his hero, and similarly the strength of soul which -could cut _this knot_!—And was it actually political freedom that -impelled the poet to sympathy with Brutus,—and made him the accomplice -of Brutus? Or was political freedom merely a symbol for something -inexpressible? Do we perhaps stand before some sombre event or adventure -of the poet's own soul, which has remained unknown, and of which he only -cared to speak symbolically? What is all Hamlet-melancholy in comparison -with the melancholy of Brutus!—and perhaps Shakespeare also knew this, -as he knew the other, by experience! Perhaps he also had his dark hour -and his bad angel, just as Brutus had them!—But whatever similarities -and secret relationships of that kind there may have been, Shakespeare -cast himself on the ground and felt unworthy and alien in presence of -the aspect and virtue of Brutus:—he has inscribed the testimony thereof -in the tragedy itself. He has twice brought in a poet in it, and twice -heaped upon him such an impatient and extreme contempt, that it sounds -like a cry,—like the cry of self-contempt. Brutus, even Brutus loses -patience when the poet appears, self-important, pathetic, and obtrusive, -as poets usually are,—persons who seem to abound in the possibilities of -greatness, even moral greatness, and nevertheless rarely attain even to -ordinary uprightness in the philosophy of practice and of life. "He may -know the times, _but I know his temper_,—away with the jigging -fool!"—shouts Brutus. We may translate this back into the soul of the -poet that composed it. - - - 99. - -_The Followers of Schopenhauer._—What one sees at the contact of -civilized peoples with barbarians,—namely, that the lower civilization -regularly accepts in the first place the vices, weaknesses, and excesses -of the higher; then, from that point onward, feels the influence of a -charm; and finally, by means of the appropriated vices and weaknesses, -also allows something of the valuable influence of the higher culture to -leaven it:—one can also see this close at hand and without journeys to -barbarian peoples, to be sure, somewhat refined and spiritualised, and -not so readily palpable. What are the German followers of _Schopenhauer_ -still accustomed to receive first of all from their master:—those who, -when placed beside his superior culture, must deem themselves -sufficiently barbarous to be first of all barbarously fascinated and -seduced by him. Is it his hard matter-of-fact sense, his inclination to -clearness and rationality, which often makes him appear so English, and -so unlike Germans? Or the strength of his intellectual conscience, which -_endured_ a life-long contradiction of "being" and "willing," and -compelled him to contradict himself constantly even in his writings on -almost every point? Or his purity in matters relating to the Church and -the Christian God?—for here he was pure as no German philosopher had -been hitherto, so that he lived and died "as a Voltairian." Or his -immortal doctrines of the intellectuality of intuition, the apriority of -the law of causality, the instrumental nature of the intellect, and the -non-freedom of the will? No, nothing of this enchants, nor is felt as -enchanting; but Schopenhauer's mystical embarrassments and shufflings in -those passages where the matter-of-fact thinker allowed himself to be -seduced and corrupted by the vain impulse to be the unraveller of the -world's riddle: his undemonstrable doctrine of _one will_ ("all causes -are merely occasional causes of the phenomenon of the will at such a -time and at such a place," "the will to live, whole and undivided, is -present in every being, even in the smallest, as perfectly as in the sum -of all that was, is, and will be"); his _denial of the individual_ ("all -lions are really only one lion," "plurality of individuals is an -appearance," as also _development_ is only an appearance: he calls the -opinion of Lamarck "an ingenious, absurd error"); his fantasy about -_genius_ ("in æsthetic contemplation the individual is no longer an -individual, but a pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject of -knowledge," "the subject, in that it entirely merges in the contemplated -object, has become this object itself"); his nonsense about _sympathy_, -and about the outburst of the _principium individuationis_ thus rendered -possible, as the source of all morality; including also such assertions -as, "dying is really the design of existence," "the possibility should -not be absolutely denied that a magical effect could proceed from a -person already dead":—these, and similar _extravagances_ and vices of -the philosopher, are always first accepted and made articles of faith; -for vices and extravagances are always easiest to imitate, and do not -require a long preliminary practice. But let us speak of the most -celebrated of the living Schopenhauerians, Richard Wagner.—It has -happened to him as it has already happened to many an artist: he made a -mistake in the interpretation of the characters he created, and -misunderstood the unexpressed philosophy of the art peculiarly his own. -Richard Wagner allowed himself to be misled by Hegel's influence till -the middle of his life; and he did the same again when later on he read -Schopenhauer's doctrine between the lines of his characters, and began -to express himself with such terms as "will," "genius," and "sympathy." -Nevertheless it will remain true that nothing is more counter to -Schopenhauer's spirit than the essentially Wagnerian element in Wagner's -heroes: I mean the innocence of the supremest selfishness, the belief in -strong passion as the good in itself, in a word, the Siegfried trait in -the countenances of his heroes. "All that still smacks more of Spinoza -than of me,"—Schopenhauer would probably have said. Whatever good -reasons, therefore, Wagner might have had to be on the outlook for other -philosophers than Schopenhauer, the enchantment to which he succumbed in -respect to this thinker, not only made him blind towards all other -philosophers, but even towards science itself; his entire art is more -and more inclined to become the counterpart and complement of the -Schopenhauerian philosophy, and it always renounces more emphatically -the higher ambition to become the counterpart and complement of human -knowledge and science. And not only is he allured thereto by the whole -mystic pomp of this philosophy (which would also have allured a -Cagliostro), the peculiar airs and emotions of the philosopher have all -along been seducing him as well! For example, Wagner's indignation about -the corruption of the German language is Schopenhauerian; and if one -should commend his imitation in this respect, it is nevertheless not to -be denied that Wagner's style itself suffers in no small degree from all -the tumours and turgidities, the sight of which made Schopenhauer so -furious; and that, in respect to the German-writing Wagnerians, -Wagneromania is beginning to be as dangerous as only some kinds of -Hegelomania have been. Schopenhauerian is Wagner's hatred of the Jews, -to whom he is unable to do justice, even in their greatest exploit: are -not the Jews the inventors of Christianity! The attempt of Wagner to -construe Christianity as a seed blown away from Buddhism, and his -endeavour to initiate a Buddhistic era in Europe, under a temporary -approximation to Catholic-Christian formulas and sentiments, are both -Schopenhauerian. Wagner's preaching in favour of pity in dealing with -animals is Schopenhauerian; Schopenhauer's predecessor here, as is well -known, was Voltaire, who already perhaps, like his successors, knew how -to disguise his hatred of certain men and things as pity towards -animals. At least Wagner's hatred of science, which manifests itself in -his preaching, has certainly not been inspired by the spirit of -charitableness and kindness—nor by the _spirit_ at all, as is -sufficiently obvious.—Finally, it is of little importance what the -philosophy of an artist is, provided it is only a supplementary -philosophy, and does not do any injury to his art itself. We cannot be -sufficiently on our guard against taking a dislike to an artist on -account of an occasional, perhaps very unfortunate and presumptuous -masquerade; let us not forget that the dear artists are all of them -something of actors—and must be so; it would be difficult for them to -hold out in the long run without stage-playing. Let us be loyal to -Wagner in that which is _true_ and original in him,—and especially in -this point, that we, his disciples, remain loyal to ourselves in that -which is true and original in us. Let us allow him his intellectual -humours and spasms, let us in fairness rather consider what strange -nutriments and necessaries an art like his _is entitled to_, in order to -be able to live and grow! It is of no account that he is often wrong as -a thinker; justice and patience are not _his_ affair. It is sufficient -that his life is right in his own eyes, and maintains its right,—the -life which calls to each of us: "Be a man, and do not follow me—but -thyself! thyself!" _Our_ life, also ought to maintain its right in our -own eyes! We also are to grow and blossom out of ourselves, free and -fearless, in innocent selfishness! And so, on the contemplation of such -a man, these thoughts still ring in my ears to-day, as formerly: "That -passion is better than stoicism or hypocrisy; that straightforwardness, -even in evil, is better than losing oneself in trying to observe -traditional morality; that the free man is just as able to be good as -evil, but that the unemancipated man is a disgrace to nature, and has no -share in heavenly or earthly bliss; finally, that _all who wish to be -free must become so through themselves_, and that freedom falls to -nobody's lot as a gift from Heaven." (_Richard Wagner in Bayreuth_, Vol. -I. of this Translation, pp. 199-200). - - - 100. - -_Learning to do Homage._—One must learn the art of homage, as well as -the art of contempt. Whoever goes in new paths and has led many persons -therein, discovers with astonishment how awkward and incompetent all of -them are in the expression of their gratitude, and indeed how rarely -gratitude _is able_ even to express itself. It is always as if something -comes into people's throats when their gratitude wants to speak, so that -it only hems and haws, and becomes silent again. The way in which a -thinker succeeds in tracing the effect of his thoughts, and their -transforming and convulsing power, is almost a comedy: it sometimes -seems as if those who have been operated upon felt profoundly injured -thereby, and could only assert their independence, which they suspect to -be threatened, by all kinds of improprieties. It needs whole generations -in order merely to devise a courteous convention of gratefulness; it is -only very late that the period arrives when something of spirit and -genius enters into gratitude. Then there is usually some one who is the -great receiver of thanks, not only for the good he himself has done, but -mostly for that which has been gradually accumulated by his -predecessors, as a treasure of what is highest and best. - - - 101. - -_Voltaire._—Wherever there has been a court, it has furnished the -standard of good-speaking, and with this also the standard of style for -writers. The court language, however, is the language of the courtier -who _has no profession_, and who even in conversations on scientific -subjects avoids all convenient, technical expressions, because they -smack of the profession; on that account the technical expression, and -everything that betrays the specialist, is a _blemish of style_ in -countries which have a court culture. At present, when all courts have -become caricatures of past and present times, one is astonished to find -even Voltaire unspeakably reserved and scrupulous on this point (for -example, in his judgments concerning such stylists as Fontenelle and -Montesquieu),—we are now, all of us, emancipated from court taste, while -Voltaire was its _perfecter_! - - - 102. - -_A Word for Philologists._—It is thought that there are books so -valuable and royal that whole generations of scholars are well employed -when through their efforts these books are kept genuine and -intelligible,—to confirm this belief again and again is the purpose of -philology. It presupposes that the rare men are not lacking (though they -may not be visible), who actually know how to use such valuable -books:—those men perhaps who write such books themselves, or could write -them. I mean to say that philology presupposes a noble belief,—that for -the benefit of some few who are always "to come," and are not there, a -very great amount of painful, and even dirty labour has to be done -beforehand: it is all labour _in usum Delphinorum_. - - - 103. - -_German Music._—German music, more than any other, has now become -European music; because the changes which Europe experienced through the -Revolution have therein alone found expression: it is only German music -that knows how to express the agitation of popular masses, the -tremendous artificial uproar, which does not even need to be very -noisy,—while Italian opera, for example, knows only the choruses of -domestics or soldiers, but not "the people." There is the additional -fact that in all German music a profound _bourgeois_ jealousy of the -_noblesse_ can be traced, especially a jealousy of _esprit_ and -_élégance_, as the expressions of a courtly, chivalrous, ancient, and -self-confident society. It is not music like that of Goethe's musician -at the gate, which was pleasing also "in the hall," and to the king as -well; it is not here said: "The knights looked on with martial air; with -bashful eyes the ladies." Even the Graces are not allowed in German -music without a touch of remorse; it is only with Pleasantness, the -country sister of the Graces that the German begins to feel morally at -ease—and from this point up to his enthusiastic, learned, and often -gruff "sublimity" (the Beethoven-like sublimity), he feels more and more -so. If we want to imagine the man of _this_ music,—well, let us just -imagine Beethoven as he appeared beside Goethe, say, at their meeting at -Teplitz: as semi-barbarism beside culture, as the masses beside the -nobility, as the good-natured man beside the good and more than "good" -man, as the visionary beside the artist, as the man needing comfort -beside the comforted, as the man given to exaggeration and distrust -beside the man of reason, as the crank and self-tormenter, as the -foolish, enraptured, blessedly unfortunate, sincerely immoderate man, as -the pretentious and awkward man,—and altogether as the "untamed man": it -was thus that Goethe conceived and characterised him, Goethe, the -exceptional German, for whom a music of equal rank has not yet been -found!—Finally, let us consider whether the present, continually -extending contempt of melody and the stunting of the sense for melody -among Germans should not be understood as a democratic impropriety and -an after-effect of the Revolution? For melody has such an obvious -delight in conformity to law, and such an aversion to everything -evolving, unformed and arbitrary, that it sounds like a note out of the -_ancient_ European regime, and as a seduction and re-duction back to it. - - - 104. - -_The Tone of the German Language._—We know whence the German originated -which for several centuries has been the universal, literary language of -Germany. The Germans, with their reverence for everything that came from -the _court_, intentionally took the chancery style as their pattern in -all that they had to _write_, especially in their letters, records, -wills, &c. To write in the chancery style, that was to write in court -and government style,—that was regarded as something select compared -with the language of the city in which a person lived. People gradually -drew this inference, and spoke also as they wrote,—they thus became -still more select in the forms of their words, in the choice of their -terms and modes of expression, and finally also in their tones: they -affected a court tone when they spoke, and the affectation at last -became natural. Perhaps nothing quite similar has ever happened -elsewhere:—the predominance of the literary style over the talk, and the -formality and affectation of an entire people, becoming the basis of a -common and no longer dialectical language. I believe that the sound of -the German language in the Middle Ages, and especially after the Middle -Ages, was extremely rustic and vulgar; it has ennobled itself somewhat -during the last centuries, principally because it was found necessary to -imitate so many French, Italian, and Spanish sounds, and particularly on -the part of the German (and Austrian) nobility, who could not at all -content themselves with their mother-tongue. But notwithstanding this -practice, German must have sounded intolerably vulgar to Montaigne, and -even to Racine: even at present, in the mouths of travellers among the -Italian populace, it still sounds very coarse, sylvan, and hoarse, as if -it had originated in smoky rooms and outlandish districts.—Now I notice -that at present a similar striving after selectness of tone is spreading -among the former admirers of the chancery style, and that the Germans -are beginning to accommodate themselves to a peculiar "witchery of -sound," which might in the long run become an actual danger to the -German language,—for one may seek in vain for more execrable sounds in -Europe. Something mocking, cold, indifferent, and careless in the voice: -that is what at present sounds "noble" to the Germans—and I hear the -approval of this nobleness in the voices of young officials, teachers, -women, and trades-people; indeed, even the little girls already imitate -this German of the officers. For the officer, and in fact the Prussian -officer is the inventor of these tones: this same officer, who, as -soldier and professional man possesses that admirable tact for modesty -which the Germans as a whole might well imitate (German professors and -musicians included!). But as soon as he speaks and moves he is the most -immodest and inelegant figure in old Europe—no doubt unconsciously to -himself! And unconsciously also to the good Germans, who gaze at him as -the man of the foremost and most select society, and willingly let him -"give them his tone." And indeed he gives it to them!—in the first place -it is the sergeant-majors and non-commissioned officers that imitate his -tone and coarsen it. One should note the roars of command, with which -the German cities are absolutely surrounded at present, when there is -drilling at all the gates: what presumption, furious imperiousness, and -mocking coldness speaks in this uproar! Could the Germans actually be a -musical people?—It is certain that the Germans martialise themselves at -present in the tone of their language: it is probable that, being -exercised to speak martially, they will finally write martially also. -For habituation to definite tones extends deeply into the -character:—people soon have the words and modes of expression, and -finally also the thoughts which just suit these tones! Perhaps they -already write in the officers' style; perhaps I only read too little of -what is at present written in Germany to know this. But one thing I know -all the surer: the German public declarations which also reach places -abroad, are not inspired by German music, but just by that new tone of -tasteless arrogance. Almost in every speech of the foremost German -statesman, and even when he makes himself heard through his imperial -mouth-piece, there is an accent which the ear of a foreigner repudiates -with aversion: but the Germans endure it,—they endure themselves. - - - 105. - -_The Germans as Artists._—When once a German actually experiences -passion (and not only, as is usual, the mere inclination to it), he then -behaves just as he must do in passion, and does not think further of his -behaviour. The truth is, however, that he then behaves very awkwardly -and uglily, and as if destitute of rhythm and melody; so that onlookers -are pained or moved thereby, but nothing more—_unless_ he elevate -himself to the sublimity and enrapturedness of which certain passions -are capable. Then even the German becomes _beautiful_. The perception of -the _height at which_ beauty begins to shed its charm even over Germans, -raises German artists to the height, to the supreme height, and to the -extravagances of passion: they have an actual, profound longing, -therefore, to get beyond, or at least to look beyond the ugliness and -awkwardness—into a better, easier, more southern, more sunny world. And -thus their convulsions are often merely indications that they would like -to _dance_: these poor bears in whom hidden nymphs and satyrs, and -sometimes still higher divinities, carry on their game! - - - 106. - -_Music as Advocate._—"I have a longing for a master of the musical art," -said an innovator to his disciple, "that he may learn from me my ideas -and speak them more widely in his language: I shall thus be better able -to reach men's ears and hearts. For by means of tones one can seduce men -to every error and every truth: who could _refute_ a tone?"—"You would, -therefore, like to be regarded as irrefutable?" said his disciple. The -innovator answered: "I should like the germ to become a tree. In order -that a doctrine may become a tree, it must be believed in for a -considerable period; in order that it may be believed in it must be -regarded as irrefutable. Storms and doubts and worms and wickedness are -necessary to the tree, that it may manifest its species and the strength -of its germ; let it perish if it is not strong enough! But a germ is -always merely annihilated,—not refuted!"—When he had said this, his -disciple called out impetuously: "But I believe in your cause, and -regard it as so strong that I will say everything against it, everything -that I still have in my heart."—The innovator laughed to himself and -threatened the disciple with his finger. "This kind of discipleship," -said he then, "is the best, but it is dangerous, and not every kind of -doctrine can stand it." - - - 107. - -_Our Ultimate Gratitude to Art._—If we had not approved of the Arts and -invented this sort of cult of the untrue, the insight into the general -untruth and falsity of things now given us by science—an insight into -delusion and error as conditions of intelligent and sentient -existence—would be quite unendurable. _Honesty_ would have disgust and -suicide in its train. Now, however, our honesty has a counterpoise which -helps us to escape such consequences;—namely, Art, as the _good-will_ to -illusion. We do not always restrain our eyes from rounding off and -perfecting in imagination: and then it is no longer the eternal -imperfection that we carry over the river of Becoming—for we think we -carry a _goddess_, and are proud and artless in rendering this service. -As an æsthetic phenomenon existence is still _endurable_ to us; and by -Art, eye and hand and above all the good conscience are given to us, _to -be able_ to make such a phenomenon out of ourselves. We must rest from -ourselves occasionally by contemplating and looking down upon ourselves, -and by laughing or weeping _over_ ourselves from an artistic remoteness: -we must discover the _hero_, and likewise the _fool_, that is hidden in -our passion for knowledge; we must now and then be joyful in our folly, -that we may continue to be joyful in our wisdom! And just because we are -heavy and serious men in our ultimate depth, and are rather weights than -men, there is nothing that does us so much good as the _fool's cap and -bells_: we need them in presence of ourselves—we need all arrogant, -soaring, dancing, mocking, childish and blessed Art, in order not to -lose the _free dominion over things_ which our ideal demands of us. It -would be _backsliding_ for us, with our susceptible integrity, to lapse -entirely into morality, and actually become virtuous monsters and -scarecrows, on account of the over-strict requirements which we here lay -down for ourselves. We ought also to _be able_ to stand _above_ -morality, and not only stand with the painful stiffness of one who every -moment fears to slip and fall, but we should also be able to soar and -play above it! How could we dispense with Art for that purpose, how -could we dispense with the fool?—And as long as you are still _ashamed_ -of yourselves in any way, you still do not belong to us! - ------ - -Footnote 8: - - Schiller's poem, "The Veiled Image of Sais," is again referred to - here.—TR. - - - - - BOOK THIRD - - - 108. - -_New Struggles._—After Buddha was dead people showed his shadow for -centuries afterwards in a cave,—an immense frightful shadow. God is -dead: but as the human race is constituted, there will perhaps be caves -for millenniums yet, in which people will show his shadow,—And we—we -have still to overcome his shadow! - - - 109. - -_Let us be on our Guard._—Let us be on our guard against thinking that -the world is a living being. Where could it extend itself? What could it -nourish itself with? How could it grow and increase? We know tolerably -well what the organic is; and we are to reinterpret the emphatically -derivative, tardy, rare and accidental, which we only perceive on the -crust of the earth, into the essential, universal and eternal, as those -do who call the universe an organism? That disgusts me. Let us now be on -our guard against believing that the universe is a machine; it is -assuredly not constructed with a view to _one_ end; we invest it with -far too high an honour with the word "machine." Let us be on our guard -against supposing that anything so methodical as the cyclic motions of -our neighbouring stars obtains generally and throughout the universe; -indeed a glance at the Milky Way induces doubt as to whether there are -not many cruder and more contradictory motions there, and even stars -with continuous, rectilinearly gravitating orbits, and the like. The -astral arrangement in which we live is an exception; this arrangement, -and the relatively long durability which is determined by it, has again -made possible the exception of exceptions, the formation of organic -life. The general character of the world, on the other hand, is to all -eternity chaos; not by the absence of necessity, but in the sense of the -absence of order, structure, form, beauty, wisdom, and whatever else our -æsthetic humanities are called. Judged by our reason, the unlucky casts -are far oftenest the rule, the exceptions are not the secret purpose; -and the whole musical box repeats eternally its air, which can never be -called a melody,—and finally the very expression, "unlucky cast" is -already an anthropomorphising which involves blame. But how could we -presume to blame or praise the universe! Let us be on our guard against -ascribing to it heartlessness and unreason, or their opposites; it is -neither perfect, nor beautiful, nor noble; nor does it seek to be -anything of the kind, it does not at all attempt to imitate man! It is -altogether unaffected by our æsthetic and moral judgments! Neither has -it any self-preservative instinct, nor instinct at all; it also knows no -law. Let us be on our guard against saying that there are laws in -nature. There are only necessities: there is no one who commands, no one -who obeys, no one who transgresses. When you know that there is no -design, you know also that there is no chance: for it is only where -there is a world of design that the word "chance" has a meaning. Let us -be on our guard against saying that death is contrary to life. The -living being is only a species of dead being, and a very rare -species.—Let us be on our guard against thinking that the world -eternally creates the new. There are no eternally enduring substances; -matter is just another such error as the God of the Eleatics. But when -shall we be at an end with our foresight and precaution! When will all -these shadows of God cease to obscure us? When shall we have nature -entirely undeified! When shall we be permitted to _naturalise_ ourselves -by means of the pure, newly discovered, newly redeemed nature? - - - 110. - -_Origin of Knowledge._—Throughout immense stretches of time the -intellect has produced nothing but errors; some of them proved to be -useful and preservative of the species: he who fell in with them, or -inherited them, waged the battle for himself and his offspring with -better success. Those erroneous articles of faith which were -successively transmitted by inheritance, and have finally become almost -the property and stock of the human species, are, for example, the -following:—that there are enduring things, that there are equal things, -that there are things, substances, and bodies, that a thing is what it -appears, that our will is free, that what is good for me is also good -absolutely. It was only very late that the deniers and doubters of such -propositions came forward,—it was only very late that truth made its -appearance as the most impotent form of knowledge. It seemed as if it -were impossible to get along with truth, our organism was adapted for -the very opposite; all its higher functions, the perceptions of the -senses, and in general every kind of sensation co-operated with those -primevally embodied, fundamental errors. Moreover, those propositions -became the very standards of knowledge according to which the "true" and -the "false" were determined—throughout the whole domain of pure logic. -The _strength_ of conceptions does not, therefore, depend on their -degree of truth, but on their antiquity, their embodiment, their -character as conditions of life. Where life and knowledge seemed to -conflict, there has never been serious contention; denial and doubt have -there been regarded as madness. The exceptional thinkers like the -Eleatics, who, in spite of this, advanced and maintained the antitheses -of the natural errors, believed that it was possible also _to live_ -these counterparts: it was they who devised the sage as the man of -immutability, impersonality and universality of intuition, as one and -all at the same time, with a special faculty for that reverse kind of -knowledge; they were of the belief that their knowledge was at the same -time the principle of _life_. To be able to affirm all this, however, -they had to _deceive_ themselves concerning their own condition: they -had to attribute to themselves impersonality and unchanging permanence, -they had to mistake the nature of the philosophic individual, deny the -force of the impulses in cognition, and conceive of reason generally as -an entirely free and self-originating activity; they kept their eyes -shut to the fact that they also had reached their doctrines in -contradiction to valid methods, or through their longing for repose or -for exclusive possession or for domination. The subtler development of -sincerity and of scepticism finally made these men impossible; their -life also and their judgments turned out to be dependent on the primeval -impulses and fundamental errors of all sentient being.—The subtler -sincerity and scepticism arose whenever two antithetical maxims appeared -to be _applicable_ to life, because both of them were compatible with -the fundamental errors; where, therefore, there could be contention -concerning a higher or lower degree of _utility_ for life; and likewise -where new maxims proved to be, not in fact useful, but at least not -injurious, as expressions of an intellectual impulse to play a game that -was, like all games, innocent and happy. The human brain was gradually -filled with such judgments and convictions; and in this tangled skein -there arose ferment, strife and lust for power. Not only utility and -delight, but every kind of impulse took part in the struggle for -"truths": the intellectual struggle became a business, an attraction, a -calling, a duty, an honour—: cognizing and striving for the true finally -arranged themselves as needs among other needs. From that moment, not -only belief and conviction, but also examination, denial, distrust and -contradiction became _forces_; all "evil" instincts were subordinated to -knowledge, were placed in its service, and acquired the prestige of the -permitted, the honoured, the useful, and finally the appearance and -innocence of the _good_. Knowledge, thus became a portion of life -itself, and as life it became a continually growing power: until finally -the cognitions and those primeval, fundamental, errors clashed with each -other, both as life, both as power, both in the same man. The thinker is -now the being in whom the impulse to truth and those life-preserving -errors wage their first conflict, now that the impulse to truth has also -_proved_ itself to be a life-preserving power. In comparison with the -importance of this conflict everything else is indifferent; the final -question concerning the conditions of life is here raised, and the first -attempt is here made to answer it by experiment. How far is truth -susceptible of embodiment?—that is the question, that is the experiment. - - - 111. - -_Origin of the Logical._—Where has logic originated in men's heads? -Undoubtedly out of the illogical, the domain of which must originally -have been immense. But numberless beings who reasoned otherwise than we -do at present, perished; albeit that they may have come nearer to truth -than we! Whoever, for example, could not discern the "like" often enough -with regard to food, and with regard to animals dangerous to him, -whoever, therefore, deduced too slowly, or was too circumspect in his -deductions, had smaller probability of survival than he who in all -similar things immediately divined the equality. The preponderating -inclination, however, to deal with the similar as the equal—an illogical -inclination, for there is nothing equal in itself—first created the -whole basis of logic. It was just so (in order that the conception of -substance might originate, this being indispensable to logic, although -in the strictest sense nothing actual corresponds to it) that for a long -period the changing process in things had to be overlooked, and remain -unperceived; the beings not seeing correctly had an advantage over those -who saw everything "in flux." In itself every high degree of -circumspection in conclusions, every sceptical inclination, is a great -danger to life. No living being would have been preserved unless the -contrary inclination—to affirm rather than suspend judgment, to mistake -and fabricate rather than wait, to assent rather than deny, to decide -rather than be in the right—had been cultivated with extraordinary -assiduity.—The course of logical thought and reasoning in our modern -brain corresponds to a process and struggle of impulses, which singly -and in themselves are all very illogical and unjust; we experience -usually only the result of the struggle, so rapidly and secretly does -this primitive mechanism now operate in us. - - - 112. - -_Cause and Effect._—We say it is "explanation"; but it is only in -"description" that we are in advance of the older stages of knowledge -and science. We describe better,—we explain just as little as our -predecessors. We have discovered a manifold succession where the naïve -man and investigator of older cultures saw only two things, "cause" and -"effect," as it was said; we have perfected the conception of becoming, -but have not got a knowledge of what is above and behind the conception. -The series of "causes" stands before us much more complete in every -case; we conclude that this and that must first precede in order that -that other may follow—but we have not _grasped_ anything thereby. The -peculiarity, for example, in every chemical process seems a "miracle," -the same as before, just like all locomotion; nobody has "explained" -impulse. How could we ever explain! We operate only with things which do -not exist, with lines, surfaces, bodies, atoms, divisible times, -divisible spaces—how can explanation ever be possible when we first make -everything a _conception_, our conception! It is sufficient to regard -science as the exactest humanising of things that is possible; we always -learn to describe ourselves more accurately by describing things and -their successions. Cause and effect: there is probably never any such -duality; in fact there is a _continuum_ before us, from which we isolate -a few portions;—just as we always observe a motion as isolated points, -and therefore do not properly see it, but infer it. The abruptness with -which many effects take place leads us into error; it is however only an -abruptness for us. There is an infinite multitude of processes in that -abrupt moment which escape us. An intellect which could see cause and -effect as a _continuum_, which could see the flux of events not -according to our mode of perception, as things arbitrarily separated and -broken—would throw aside the conception of cause and effect, and would -deny all conditionality. - - - 113. - -_The Theory of Poisons._—So many things have to be united in order that -scientific thinking may arise, and all the necessary powers must have -been devised, exercised, and fostered singly! In their isolation, -however, they have very often had quite a different effect than at -present, when they are confined within the limits of scientific thinking -and kept mutually in check:—they have operated as poisons; for example, -the doubting impulse, the denying impulse, the waiting impulse, the -collecting impulse, the disintegrating impulse. Many hecatombs of men -were sacrificed ere these impulses learned to understand their -juxtaposition and regard themselves as functions of one organising force -in one man! And how far are we still from the point at which the -artistic powers and the practical wisdom of life shall co-operate with -scientific thinking, so that a higher organic system may be formed, in -relation to which the scholar, the physician, the artist, and the -lawgiver, as we know them at present, will seem sorry antiquities! - - - 114. - -_The Extent of the Moral._—We construct a new picture, which we see -immediately with the aid of all the old experiences which we have had, -_always according to the degree_ of our honesty and justice. The only -events are moral events, even in the domain of sense-perception. - - - 115. - -_The Four Errors._—Man has been reared by his errors: firstly, he saw -himself always imperfect; secondly, he attributed to himself imaginary -qualities; thirdly, he felt himself in a false position in relation to -the animals and nature; fourthly, he always devised new tables of -values, and accepted them for a time as eternal and unconditioned, so -that at one time this, and at another time that human impulse or state -stood first, and was ennobled in consequence. When one has deducted the -effect of these four errors, one has also deducted humanity, humaneness, -and "human dignity." - - - 116. - -_Herd-Instinct._—Wherever we meet with a morality we find a valuation -and order of rank of the human impulses and activities. These valuations -and orders of rank are always the expression of the needs of a community -or herd: that which is in the first place to _its_ advantage—and in the -second place and third place—is also the authoritative standard for the -worth of every individual. By morality the individual is taught to -become a function of the herd, and to ascribe to himself value only as a -function. As the conditions for the maintenance of one community have -been very different from those of another community, there have been -very different moralities; and in respect to the future essential -transformations of herds and communities, states and societies, one can -prophesy that there will still be very divergent moralities. Morality is -the herd-instinct in the individual. - - - 117. - -_The Herd's Sting of Conscience._—In the longest and remotest ages of -the human race there was quite a different sting of conscience from that -of the present day. At present one only feels responsible for what one -intends and for what one does, and we have our pride in ourselves. All -our professors of jurisprudence start with this sentiment of individual -independence and pleasure, as if the source of right had taken its rise -here from the beginning. But throughout the longest period in the life -of mankind there was nothing more terrible to a person than to feel -himself independent. To be alone, to feel independent, neither to obey -nor to rule, to represent an individual—that was no pleasure to a person -then, but a punishment; he was condemned "to be an individual." Freedom -of thought was regarded as discomfort personified. While we feel law and -regulation as constraint and loss, people formerly regarded egoism as a -painful thing, and a veritable evil. For a person to be himself, to -value himself according to his own measure and weight—that was then -quite distasteful. The inclination to such a thing would have been -regarded as madness; for all miseries and terrors were associated with -being alone. At that time the "free will" had bad conscience in close -proximity to it; and the less independently a person acted, the more the -herd-instinct, and not his personal character, expressed itself in his -conduct, so much the more moral did he esteem himself. All that did -injury to the herd, whether the individual had intended it or not, then -caused him a sting of conscience—and his neighbour likewise, indeed the -whole herd!—It is in this respect that we have most changed our mode of -thinking. - - - 118. - -_Benevolence._—Is it virtuous when a cell transforms itself into the -function of a stronger cell? It must do so. And is it wicked when the -stronger one assimilates the other? It must do so likewise: it is -necessary, for it has to have abundant indemnity and seeks to regenerate -itself. One has therefore to distinguish the instinct of appropriation, -and the instinct of submission, in benevolence, according as the -stronger or the weaker feels benevolent. Gladness and covetousness are -united in the stronger person, who wants to transform something to his -function: gladness and desire-to-be-coveted in the weaker person, who -would like to become a function.—The former case is essentially pity, a -pleasant excitation of the instinct of appropriation at the sight of the -weaker: it is to be remembered, however, that "strong" and "weak" are -relative conceptions. - - - 119. - -_No Altruism!_—I see in many men an excessive impulse and delight in -wanting to be a function; they strive after it, and have the keenest -scent for all those positions in which precisely _they_ themselves can -be functions. Among such persons are those women who transform -themselves into just that function of a man that is but weakly developed -in him, and then become his purse, or his politics, or his social -intercourse. Such beings maintain themselves best when they insert -themselves in an alien organism; if they do not succeed they become -vexed, irritated, and eat themselves up. - - - 120. - -_Health of the Soul._—The favourite medico-moral formula (whose -originator was Ariston of Chios), "Virtue is the health of the soul," -would, at least in order to be used, have to be altered to this: "Thy -virtue is the health of thy soul." For there is no such thing as health -in itself, and all attempts to define a thing in that way have -lamentably failed. It is necessary to know thy aim, thy horizon, thy -powers, thy impulses, thy errors, and especially the ideals and -fantasies of thy soul, in order to determine _what_ health implies even -for thy _body_. There are consequently innumerable kinds of physical -health; and the more one again permits the unique and unparalleled to -raise its head, the more one unlearns the dogma of the "Equality of -men," so much the more also must the conception of a normal health, -together with a normal diet and a normal course of disease, be abrogated -by our physicians. And then only would it be time to turn our thoughts -to the health and disease of the _soul_ and make the special virtue of -everyone consist in its health; but, to be sure, what appeared as health -in one person might appear as the contrary of health in another. In the -end the great question might still remain open: whether we could _do -without_ sickness, even for the development of our virtue, and whether -our thirst for knowledge and self-knowledge would not especially need -the sickly soul as well as the sound one; in short, whether the mere -will to health is not a prejudice, a cowardice, and perhaps an instance -of the subtlest barbarism and unprogressiveness. - - - 121. - -_Life no Argument._—We have arranged for ourselves a world in which we -can live—by the postulating of bodies, lines, surfaces, causes and -effects, motion and rest, form and content: without these articles of -faith no one could manage to live at present! But for all that they are -still unproved. Life is no argument; error might be among the conditions -of life. - - - 122. - -_The Element of Moral Scepticism in Christianity._—Christianity also has -made a great contribution to enlightenment, and has taught moral -scepticism in a very impressive and effective manner—accusing and -embittering, but with untiring patience and subtlety; it annihilated in -every individual the belief in his virtues: it made the great virtuous -ones, of whom antiquity had no lack, vanish for ever from the earth, -those popular men, who, in the belief in their perfection, walked about -with the dignity of a hero of the bull-fight. When, trained in this -Christian school of scepticism, we now read the moral books of the -ancients, for example those of Seneca and Epictetus, we feel a -pleasurable superiority, and are full of secret insight and -penetration,—it seems to us as if a child talked before an old man, or a -pretty, gushing girl before La Rochefoucauld:—we know better what virtue -is! After all, however, we have applied the same scepticism to all -_religious_ states and processes, such as sin, repentance, grace, -sanctification, &c., and have allowed the worm to burrow so well, that -we have now the same feeling of subtle superiority and insight even in -reading all Christian books:—we know also the religious feelings better! -And it is time to know them well and describe them well, for the pious -ones of the old belief die out also; let us save their likeness and -type, at least for the sake of knowledge. - - - 123. - -_Knowledge more than a Means._—Also _without_ this passion—I refer to -the passion for knowledge—science would be furthered: science has -hitherto increased and grown up without it. The good faith in science, -the prejudice in its favour, by which States are at present dominated -(it was even the Church formerly), rests fundamentally on the fact that -the absolute inclination and impulse has so rarely revealed itself in -it, and that science is regarded _not_ as a passion, but as a condition -and an "ethos." Indeed, _amour-plaisir_ of knowledge (curiosity) often -enough suffices, _amour-vanité_ suffices, and habituation to it, with -the afterthought of obtaining honour and bread; it even suffices for -many that they do not know what to do with a surplus of leisure, except -to continue reading, collecting, arranging, observing and narrating; -their "scientific impulse" is their ennui. Pope Leo X. once (in the -brief to Beroaldus) sang the praise of science; he designated it as the -finest ornament and the greatest pride of our life, a noble employment -in happiness and in misfortune; "without it," he says finally, "all -human undertakings would be without a firm basis,—even with it they are -still sufficiently mutable and insecure!" But this rather sceptical -Pope, like all other ecclesiastical panegyrists of science, suppressed -his ultimate judgment concerning it. If one may deduce from his words -what is remarkable enough for such a lover of art, that he places -science above art, it is after all, however, only from politeness that -he omits to speak of that which he places high above all science: the -"revealed truth," and the "eternal salvation of the soul,"—what are -ornament, pride, entertainment and security of life to him, in -comparison thereto? "Science is something of secondary rank, nothing -ultimate or unconditioned, no object of passion"—this judgment was kept -back in Leo's soul: the truly Christian judgment concerning science! In -antiquity its dignity and appreciation were lessened by the fact that, -even among its most eager disciples, the striving after _virtue_ stood -foremost, and that people thought they had given the highest praise to -knowledge when they celebrated it as the best means to virtue. It is -something new in history that knowledge claims to be more than a means. - - - 124. - -_In the Horizon of the Infinite._—We have left the land and have gone -aboard ship! We have broken down the bridge behind us,—nay, more, the -land behind us! Well, little ship! look out! Beside thee is the ocean; -it is true it does not always roar, and sometimes it spreads out like -silk and gold and a gentle reverie. But times will come when thou wilt -feel that it is infinite, and that there is nothing more frightful than -infinity. Oh, the poor bird that felt itself free, and now strikes -against the walls of this cage! Alas, if homesickness for the land -should attack thee, as if there had been more _freedom_ there,—and there -is no "land" any longer! - - - 125. - -_The Madman._—Have you ever heard of the madman who on a bright morning -lighted a lantern and ran to the market-place calling out unceasingly: -"I seek God! I seek God!"—As there were many people standing about who -did not believe in God, he caused a great deal of amusement. Why! is he -lost? said one. Has he strayed away like a child? said another. Or does -he keep himself hidden? Is he afraid of us? Has he taken a sea-voyage? -Has he emigrated?—the people cried out laughingly, all in a hubbub. The -insane man jumped into their midst and transfixed them with his glances. -"Where is God gone?" he called out. "I mean to tell you! _We have killed -him_,—you and I! We are all his murderers! But how have we done it? How -were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away -the whole horizon? What did we do when we loosened this earth from its -sun? Whither does it now move? Whither do we move? Away from all suns? -Do we not dash on unceasingly? Backwards, sideways, forwards, in all -directions? Is there still an above and below? Do we not stray, as -through infinite nothingness? Does not empty space breathe upon us? Has -it not become colder? Does not night come on continually, darker and -darker? Shall we not have to light lanterns in the morning? Do we not -hear the noise of the grave-diggers who are burying God? Do we not smell -the divine putrefaction?—for even Gods putrefy! God is dead! God remains -dead! And we have killed him! How shall we console ourselves, the most -murderous of all murderers? The holiest and the mightiest that the world -has hitherto possessed, has bled to death under our knife,—who will wipe -the blood from us? With what water could we cleanse ourselves? What -lustrums, what sacred games shall we have to devise? Is not the -magnitude of this deed too great for us? Shall we not ourselves have to -become Gods, merely to seem worthy of it? There never was a greater -event,—and on account of it, all who are born after us belong to a -higher history than any history hitherto!"—Here the madman was silent -and looked again at his hearers; they also were silent and looked at him -in surprise. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, so that it -broke in pieces and was extinguished. "I come too early," he then said, -"I am not yet at the right time. This prodigious event is still on its -way, and is travelling,—it has not yet reached men's ears. Lightning and -thunder need time, the light of the stars needs time, deeds need time, -even after they are done, to be seen and heard. This deed is as yet -further from them than the furthest star,—_and yet they have done -it!_"—It is further stated that the madman made his way into different -churches on the same day, and there intoned his _Requiem aeternam deo_. -When led out and called to account, he always gave the reply: "What are -these churches now, if they are not the tombs and monuments of God?"— - - - 126. - -_Mystical Explanations._—Mystical explanations are regarded as profound; -the truth is that they do not even go the length of being superficial. - - - 127. - -_After-Effect of the most Ancient Religiousness._—The thoughtless man -thinks that the Will is the only thing that operates, that willing is -something simple, manifestly given, underived, and comprehensible in -itself. He is convinced that when he does anything, for example, when he -delivers a blow, it is _he_ who strikes, and he has struck because he -_willed_ to strike. He does not notice anything of a problem therein, -but the feeling of _willing_ suffices to him, not only for the -acceptance of cause and effect, but also for the belief that he -_understands_ their relationship. Of the mechanism of the occurrence and -of the manifold subtle operations that must be performed in order that -the blow may result, and likewise of the incapacity of the Will in -itself to effect even the smallest part of those operations—he knows -nothing. The Will is to him a magically operating force; the belief in -the Will as the cause of effects is the belief in magically operating -forces. In fact, whenever he saw anything happen, man originally -believed in a Will as cause, and in personally _willing_ beings -operating in the background,—the conception of mechanism was very remote -from him. Because, however, man for immense periods of time believed -only in persons (and not in matter, forces, things, &c.), the belief in -cause and effect has become a fundamental belief with him, which he -applies everywhere when anything happens,—and even still uses -instinctively as a piece of atavism of remotest origin. The -propositions, "No effect without a cause," and "Every effect again -implies a cause," appear as generalisations of several less general -propositions:—"Where there is operation there has been _willing_," -"Operating is only possible on _willing_ beings." "There is never a -pure, resultless experience of activity, but every experience involves -stimulation of the Will" (to activity, defence, revenge or retaliation). -But in the primitive period of the human race, the latter and the former -propositions were identical, the first were not generalisations of the -second, but the second were explanations of the first.—Schopenhauer, -with his assumption that all that exists is something _volitional_, has -set a primitive mythology on the throne; he seems never to have -attempted an analysis of the Will, because he _believed_ like everybody -in the simplicity and immediateness of all volition:—while volition is -in fact such a cleverly practised mechanical process that it almost -escapes the observing eye. I set the following propositions against -those of Schopenhauer:—Firstly, in order that Will may arise, an idea of -pleasure and pain is necessary. Secondly, that a vigorous excitation may -be felt as pleasure or pain, is the affair of the _interpreting_ -intellect, which, to be sure, operates thereby for the most part -unconsciously to us, and one and the same excitation _may_ be -interpreted as pleasure or pain. Thirdly, it is only in an intellectual -being that there is pleasure, displeasure and Will; the immense majority -of organisms have nothing of the kind. - - - 128. - -_The Value of Prayer._—Prayer has been devised for such men as have -never any thoughts of their own, and to whom an elevation of the soul is -unknown, or passes unnoticed; what shall these people do in holy places -and in all important situations in life which require repose and some -kind of dignity? In order at least that they may not _disturb_, the -wisdom of all the founders of religions, the small as well as the great, -has commended to them the formula of prayer, as a long mechanical labour -of the lips, united with an effort of the memory, and with a uniform, -prescribed attitude of hands and feet—_and_ eyes! They may then, like -the Tibetans, chew the cud of their "_om mane padme hum_," innumerable -times, or, as in Benares, count the name of God Ram-Ram-Ram (and so on, -with or without grace) on their fingers; or honour Vishnu with his -thousand names of invocation, Allah with his ninety-nine; or they may -make use of the prayer-wheels and the rosary: the main thing is that -they are settled down for a time at this work, and present a tolerable -appearance; their mode of prayer is devised for the advantage of the -pious who have thought and elevation of their own. But even these have -their weary hours when a series of venerable words and sounds and a -mechanical, pious ritual does them good. But supposing that these rare -men—in every religion the religious man is an exception—know how to help -themselves, the poor in spirit do not know, and to forbid them the -prayer-babbling would mean to take their religion from them, a fact -which Protestantism brings more and more to light. All that religion -wants with such persons is that they should _keep still_ with their -eyes, hands, legs, and all their organs: they thereby become temporarily -beautified and—more human-looking! - - - 129. - -_The Conditions for God._—"God himself cannot subsist without wise men," -said Luther, and with good reason; but "God can still less subsist -without unwise men,"—good Luther did not say that! - - - 130. - -_A Dangerous Resolution._—The Christian resolution to find the world -ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad. - - - 131. - -_Christianity and Suicide._—Christianity made use of the excessive -longing for suicide at the time of its origin as a lever for its power: -it left only two forms of suicide, invested them with the highest -dignity and the highest hopes, and forbade all others in a dreadful -manner. But martyrdom and the slow self-annihilation of the ascetic were -permitted. - - - 132. - -_Against Christianity._—It is now no longer our reason, but our taste -that decides against Christianity. - - - 133. - -_Axioms._—An unavoidable hypothesis on which mankind must always fall -back again, is, in the long run, _more powerful_ than the most firmly -believed belief in something untrue (like the Christian belief). In the -long run: that means a hundred thousand years from now. - - - 134. - -_Pessimists as Victims._—When a profound dislike of existence gets the -upper hand, the after-effect of a great error in diet of which a people -has been long guilty comes to light. The spread of Buddhism (_not_ its -origin) is thus to a considerable extent dependent on the excessive and -almost exclusive rice-fare of the Indians, and on the universal -enervation that results therefrom. Perhaps the modern, European -discontentedness is to be looked upon as caused by the fact that the -world of our forefathers, the whole Middle Ages, was given to drink, -owing to the influence of German tastes in Europe: the Middle Ages, that -means the alcoholic poisoning of Europe.—The German dislike of life -(including the influence of the cellar-air and stove-poison in German -dwellings), is essentially a cold-weather complaint. - - - 135. - -_Origin of Sin._—Sin, as it is at present felt wherever Christianity -prevails or has prevailed, is a Jewish feeling and a Jewish invention; -and in respect to this background of all Christian morality, -Christianity has in fact aimed at "Judaising" the whole world. To what -an extent this has succeeded in Europe is traced most accurately in the -extent of our alienness to Greek antiquity—a world without the feeling -of sin—in our sentiments even at present; in spite of all the good will -to approximation and assimilation, which whole generations and many -distinguished individuals have not failed to display. "Only when thou -_repentest_ is God gracious to thee"—that would arouse the laughter or -the wrath of a Greek: he would say, "Slaves may have such sentiments." -Here a mighty being, an almighty being, and yet a revengeful being, is -presupposed; his power is so great that no injury whatever can be done -to him, except in the point of honour. Every sin is an infringement of -respect, a _crimen læsæ majestatis divinæ_—and nothing more! Contrition, -degradation, rolling-in-the-dust,—these are the first and last -conditions on which his favour depends: the restoration, therefore, of -his divine honour! If injury be caused otherwise by sin, if a profound, -spreading evil be propagated by it, an evil which, like a disease, -attacks and strangles one man after another—that does not trouble this -honour-craving Oriental in heaven; sin is an offence against him, not -against mankind!—to him on whom he has bestowed his favour he bestows -also this indifference to the natural consequences of sin. God and -mankind are here thought of as separated, as so antithetical that sin -against the latter cannot be at all possible,—all deeds are to be looked -upon _solely with respect to their supernatural consequences_, and not -with respect to their natural results: it is thus that the Jewish -feeling, to which all that is natural seems unworthy in itself, would -have things. The _Greeks_, on the other hand, were more familiar with -the thought that transgression also may have dignity,—even theft, as in -the case of Prometheus, even the slaughtering of cattle as the -expression of frantic jealousy, as in the case of Ajax; in their need to -attribute dignity to transgression and embody it therein, they invented -_tragedy_,—an art and a delight, which in its profoundest essence has -remained alien to the Jew, in spite of all his poetic endowment and -taste for the sublime. - - - 136. - -_The Chosen People._—The Jews, who regard themselves as the chosen -people among the nations, and that too because they are the moral genius -among the nations (in virtue of their capacity for _despising_ the human -in themselves _more_ than any other people)—the Jews have a pleasure in -their divine monarch and saint similar to that which the French nobility -had in Louis XIV. This nobility had allowed its power and autocracy to -be taken from it, and had become contemptible: in order not to feel -this, in order to be able to forget it, an _unequalled_ royal -magnificence, royal authority and plenitude of power was needed, to -which there was access only for the nobility. As in accordance with this -privilege they raised themselves to the elevation of the court, and from -that elevation saw everything under them,—saw everything -contemptible,—they got beyond all uneasiness of conscience. They thus -elevated intentionally the tower of the royal power more and more into -the clouds, and set the final coping-stone of their own power thereon. - - - 137. - -_Spoken in Parable._—A Jesus Christ was only possible in a Jewish -landscape—I mean in one over which the gloomy and sublime thunder-cloud -of the angry Jehovah hung continually. Here only was the rare, sudden -flashing of a single sunbeam through the dreadful, universal and -continuous nocturnal-day regarded as a miracle of "love," as a beam of -the most unmerited "grace." Here only could Christ dream of his rainbow -and celestial ladder on which God descended to man; everywhere else the -clear weather and the sun were considered the rule and the commonplace. - - - 138. - -_The Error of Christ._—The founder of Christianity thought there was -nothing from which men suffered so much as from their sins:—it was his -error, the error of him who felt himself without sin, to whom experience -was lacking in this respect! It was thus that his soul filled with that -marvellous, fantastic pity which had reference to a trouble that even -among his own people, the inventors of sin, was rarely a great trouble! -But Christians understood subsequently how to do justice to their -master, and to sanctify his error into a "truth." - - - 139. - -_Colour of the Passions._—Natures such as the apostle Paul, have an evil -eye for the passions; they learn to know only the filthy, the -distorting, and the heart-breaking in them,—their ideal aim, therefore, -is the annihilation of the passions; in the divine they see complete -purification from passion. The Greeks, quite otherwise than Paul and the -Jews, directed their ideal aim precisely to the passions, and loved, -elevated, embellished and deified them: in passion they evidently not -only felt themselves happier, but also purer and diviner than -otherwise.—And now the Christians? Have they wished to become Jews in -this respect? Have they perhaps become Jews! - - - 140. - -_Too Jewish._—If God had wanted to become an object of love, he would -first of all have had to forgo judging and justice:—a judge, and even a -gracious judge, is no object of love. The founder of Christianity showed -too little of the finer feelings in this respect—being a Jew. - - - 141. - -_Too Oriental._—What? A God who loves men, provided that they believe in -him, and who hurls frightful glances and threatenings at him who does -not believe in this love! What? A conditioned love as the feeling of an -almighty God! A love which has not even become master of the sentiment -of honour and of the irritable desire for vengeance! How Oriental is all -that! "If I love thee, what does it concern thee?"[9] is already a -sufficient criticism of the whole of Christianity. - - - 142. - -_Frankincense._—Buddha says: "Do not flatter thy benefactor!" Let one -repeat this saying in a Christian church:—it immediately purifies the -air of all Christianity. - - - 143. - -_The Greatest Utility of Polytheism._—For the individual to set up his -_own_ ideal and derive from it his laws, his pleasures and his -rights—_that_ has perhaps been hitherto regarded as the most monstrous -of all human aberrations, and as idolatry in itself; in fact, the few -who have ventured to do this have always needed to apologise to -themselves, usually in this wise: "Not I! not I! but _a God_, through my -instrumentality!" It was in the marvellous art and capacity for creating -Gods—in polytheism—that this impulse was permitted to discharge itself, -it was here that it became purified, perfected, and ennobled; for it was -originally a commonplace and unimportant impulse, akin to stubbornness, -disobedience and envy. To be _hostile_ to this impulse towards the -individual ideal,—that was formerly the law of every morality. There was -then only one norm, "the man"—and every people believed that it _had_ -this one and ultimate norm. But above himself, and outside of himself, -in a distant over-world, a person could see a _multitude of norms_: the -one God was not the denial or blasphemy of the other Gods! It was here -that individuals were first permitted, it was here that the right of -individuals was first respected. The inventing of Gods, heroes and -supermen of all kinds, as well as co-ordinate men and undermen—dwarfs, -fairies, centaurs, satyrs, demons, devils—was the inestimable -preliminary to the justification of the selfishness and sovereignty of -the individual: the freedom which was granted to one God in respect to -other Gods, was at last given to the individual himself in respect to -laws, customs and neighbours. Monotheism, on the contrary, the rigid -consequence of the doctrine of one normal human being—consequently the -belief in a normal God, beside whom there are only false, spurious -Gods—has perhaps been the greatest danger of mankind in the past: man -was then threatened by that premature state of inertia, which, so far as -we can see, most of the other species of animals reached long ago, as -creatures who all believe in one normal animal and ideal in their -species, and definitely translated their morality of custom into flesh -and blood. In polytheism man's free-thinking and many-sided thinking had -a prototype set up: the power to create for himself new and individual -eyes, always newer and more individualised: so that it is for man alone, -of all the animals, that there are no _eternal_ horizons and -perspectives. - - - 144. - -_Religious Wars._—The greatest advance of the masses hitherto has been -religious war, for it proves that the masses have begun to deal -reverently with conceptions of things. Religious wars only result, when -human reason generally has been refined by the subtle disputes of sects; -so that even the populace becomes punctilious and regards trifles as -important, actually thinking it possible that the "eternal salvation of -the soul" may depend upon minute distinctions of concepts. - - - 145. - -_Danger of Vegetarians._—The immense prevalence of rice-eating impels to -the use of opium and narcotics, in like manner as the immense prevalence -of potato-eating impels to the use of brandy:—it also impels, however, -in its more subtle after-effects to modes of thought and feeling which -operate narcotically. This is in accord with the fact that those who -promote narcotic modes of thought and feeling, like those Indian -teachers, praise a purely vegetable diet, and would like to make it a -law for the masses: they want thereby to call forth and augment the need -which _they_ are in a position to satisfy. - - - 146. - -_German Hopes._—Do not let us forget that the names of peoples are -generally names of reproach. The Tartars, for example, according to -their name, are "the dogs"; they were so christened by the Chinese. -"_Deutschen_" (Germans) means originally "heathen": it is thus that the -Goths after their conversion named the great mass of their unbaptized -fellow-tribes, according to the indication in their translation of the -Septuagint, in which the heathen are designated by the word which in -Greek signifies "the nations." (See Ulfilas.)—It might still be possible -for the Germans to make an honourable name ultimately out of their old -name of reproach, by becoming the first _non-Christian_ nation of -Europe; for which purpose Schopenhauer, to their honour, regarded them -as highly qualified. The work of _Luther_ would thus be consummated,—he -who taught them to be anti-Roman and to say: "Here _I_ stand! _I_ cannot -do otherwise!"— - - - 147. - -_Question and Answer._—What do savage tribes at present accept first of -all from Europeans? Brandy and Christianity, the European narcotics.—And -by what means are they fastest ruined?—By the European narcotics. - - - 148. - -_Where Reformations Originate._—At the time of the great corruption of -the church it was least of all corrupt in Germany: it was on that -account that the Reformation originated _here_, as a sign that even the -beginnings of corruption were felt to be unendurable. For, comparatively -speaking, no people was ever more Christian than the Germans at the time -of Luther; their Christian culture was just about to burst into bloom -with a hundred-fold splendour,—one night only was still lacking; but -that night brought the storm which put an end to all. - - - 149. - -_The Failure of Reformations._—It testifies to the higher culture of the -Greeks, even in rather early ages, that attempts to establish new -Grecian religions frequently failed; it testifies that quite early there -must have been a multitude of dissimilar individuals in Greece, whose -dissimilar troubles were not cured by a single recipe of faith and hope. -Pythagoras and Plato, perhaps also Empedocles, and already much earlier -the Orphic enthusiasts, aimed at founding new religions; and the two -first-named were so endowed with the qualifications for founding -religions, that one cannot be sufficiently astonished at their failure: -they just reached the point of founding sects. Every time that the -Reformation of an entire people fails and only sects raise their heads, -one may conclude that the people already contains many types, and has -begun to free itself from the gross herding instincts and the morality -of custom,—a momentous state of suspense, which one is accustomed to -disparage as decay of morals and corruption, while it announces the -maturing of the egg and the early rupture of the shell. That Luther's -Reformation succeeded in the north, is a sign that the north had -remained backward in comparison with the south of Europe, and still had -requirements tolerably uniform in colour and kind; and there would have -been no Christianising of Europe at all, if the culture of the old world -of the south had not been gradually barbarized by an excessive admixture -of the blood of German barbarians, and thus lost its ascendency. The -more universally and unconditionally an individual, or the thought of an -individual, can operate, so much more homogeneous and so much lower must -be the mass that is there operated upon; while counter-strivings betray -internal counter-requirements, which also want to gratify and realise -themselves. Reversely, one may always conclude with regard to an actual -elevation of culture, when powerful and ambitious natures only produce a -limited and sectarian effect: this is true also for the separate arts, -and for the provinces of knowledge. Where there is ruling there are -masses: where there are masses there is need of slavery. Where there is -slavery the individuals are but few, and have the instincts and -conscience of the herd opposed to them. - - - 150. - -_Criticism of Saints._—Must one then, in order to have a virtue, be -desirous of having it precisely in its most brutal form?—as the -Christian saints desired and needed;—those who only _endured_ life with -the thought that at the sight of their virtue self-contempt might seize -every man. A virtue with such an effect I call brutal. - - - 151. - -_The Origin of Religion._—The metaphysical requirement is not the origin -of religions, as Schopenhauer claims, but only a _later sprout_ from -them. Under the dominance of religious thoughts we have accustomed -ourselves to the idea of "another (back, under, or upper) world," and -feel an uncomfortable void and privation through the annihilation of the -religious illusion;—and then "another world" grows out of this feeling -once more, but now it is only a metaphysical world, and no longer a -religious one. That however which in general led to the assumption of -"another world" in primitive times, was _not_ an impulse or requirement, -but an _error_ in the interpretation of certain natural phenomena, a -difficulty of the intellect. - - - 152. - -_The greatest Change._—The lustre and the hues of all things have -changed! We no longer quite understand how earlier men conceived of the -most familiar and frequent things,—for example, of the day, and the -awakening in the morning: owing to their belief in dreams the waking -state seemed to them differently illuminated. And similarly of the whole -of life, with its reflection of death and its significance: our "death" -is an entirely different death. All events were of a different lustre, -for a God shone forth in them; and similarly of all resolutions and -peeps into the distant future: for people had oracles, and secret hints, -and believed in prognostication. "Truth" was conceived in quite a -different manner, for the insane could formerly be regarded as its -mouthpiece—a thing which makes _us_ shudder, or laugh. Injustice made a -different impression on the feelings: for people were afraid of divine -retribution, and not only of legal punishment and disgrace. What joy was -there in an age when men believed in the devil and tempter! What passion -was there when people saw demons lurking close at hand! What philosophy -was there when doubt was regarded as sinfulness of the most dangerous -kind, and in fact as an outrage on eternal love, as distrust of -everything good, high, pure, and compassionate!—We have coloured things -anew, we paint them over continually,—but what have we been able to do -hitherto in comparison with the _splendid colouring_ of that old -master!—I mean ancient humanity. - - - 153. - -_Homo poeta._—"I myself who have made this tragedy of tragedies -altogether independently, in so far as it is completed; I who have first -entwined the perplexities of morality about existence, and have -tightened them so that only a God could unravel them—so Horace -demands!—I have already in the fourth act killed all the Gods—for the -sake of morality! What is now to be done about the fifth act? Where -shall I get the tragic _dénouement_! Must I now think about a comic -_dénouement_?" - - - 154. - -_Differences in the Dangerousness of Life._—You don't know at all what -you experience; you run through life as if intoxicated, and now and then -fall down a stair. Thanks however to your intoxication you still do not -break your limbs: your muscles are too languid and your head too -confused to find the stones of the staircase as hard as we others do! -For us life is a greater danger: we are made of glass—alas, if we should -_strike against_ anything! And all is lost if we should _fall_! - - - 155. - -_What we Lack._—We love the _grandeur_ of Nature and have discovered it; -that is because human grandeur is lacking in our minds. It was the -reverse with the Greeks: their feeling towards Nature was quite -different from ours. - - - 156. - -_The most Influential Person._—The fact that a person resists the whole -spirit of his age, stops it at the door, and calls it to account, _must_ -exert an influence! It is indifferent whether he wishes to exert an -influence; the point is that he _can_. - - - 157. - -_Mentiri._—Take care!—he reflects: he will have a lie ready immediately. -This is a stage in the civilisation of whole nations. Consider only what -the Romans expressed by _mentiri_! - - - 158. - -_An Inconvenient Peculiarity._—To find everything deep is an -inconvenient peculiarity: it makes one constantly strain one's eyes, so -that in the end one always finds more than one wishes. - - - 159. - -_Every Virtue has its Time._—The honesty of him who is at present -inflexible often causes him remorse; for inflexibility is the virtue of -a time different from that in which honesty prevails. - - - 160. - -_In Intercourse with Virtues._—One can also be undignified and -flattering towards a virtue. - - - 161. - -_To the Admirers of the Age._—The runaway priest and the liberated -criminal are continually making grimaces; what they want is a look -without a past.—But have you ever seen men who know that their looks -reflect the future, and who are so courteous to you, the admirers of the -"age," that they assume a look without a future. - - - 162. - -_Egoism._—Egoism is the _perspective_ law of our sentiment, according to -which the near appears large and momentous, while in the distance the -magnitude and importance of all things diminish. - - - 163. - -_After a Great Victory._—The best thing in a great victory is that it -deprives the conqueror of the fear of defeat. "Why should I not be -worsted for once?" he says to himself, "I am now rich enough to stand -it." - - - 164. - -_Those who Seek Repose._—I recognise the minds that seek repose by the -many _dark_ objects with which they surround themselves: those who want -to sleep darken their chambers, or creep into caverns. A hint to those -who do not know what they really seek most, and would like to know! - - - 165. - -_The Happiness of Renunciation._—He who has absolutely dispensed with -something for a long time will almost imagine, when he accidentally -meets with it again, that he has discovered it,—and what happiness every -discoverer has! Let us be wiser than the serpents that lie too long in -the same sunshine. - - - 166. - -_Always in our own Society._—All that is akin to me in nature and -history speaks to me, praises me, urges me forward and comforts me—: -other things are unheard by me, or immediately forgotten. We are only in -our own society always. - - - 167. - -_Misanthropy and Philanthropy._—We only speak about being sick of men -when we can no longer digest them, and yet have the stomach full of -them. Misanthropy is the result of a far too eager philanthropy and -"cannibalism,"—but who ever bade you swallow men like oysters, my Prince -Hamlet! - - - 168. - -_Concerning an Invalid._—"Things go badly with him!"—What is wrong?—"He -suffers from the longing to be praised, and finds no sustenance for -it."—Inconceivable! All the world does honour to him, and he is -reverenced not only in deed but in word!—"Certainly, but he is dull of -hearing for the praise. When a friend praises him it sounds to him as if -the friend praised himself; when an enemy praises him, it sounds to him -as if the enemy wanted to be praised for it; when, finally, some one -else praises him—there are by no means so many of these, he is so -famous!—he is offended because they neither want him for a friend nor -for an enemy; he is accustomed to say: 'What do I care for those who can -still pose as the all-righteous towards me!'" - - - 169. - -_Avowed Enemies._—Bravery in presence of an enemy is a thing by itself: -a person may possess it and still be a coward and an irresolute -numskull. That was Napoleon's opinion concerning the "bravest man" he -knew, Murat:—whence it follows that avowed enemies are indispensable to -some men, if they are to attain to _their_ virtue, to their manliness, -to their cheerfulness. - - - 170. - -_With the Multitude._—He has hitherto gone with the multitude and is its -panegyrist; but one day he will be its opponent! For he follows it in -the belief that his laziness will find its advantage thereby; he has not -yet learned that the multitude is not lazy enough for him! that it -always presses forward! that it does not allow any one to stand -still!—And he likes so well to stand still! - - - 171. - -_Fame._—When the gratitude of many to one casts aside all shame, then -fame originates. - - - 172. - -_The Perverter of Taste._—A: "You are a perverter of taste—they say so -everywhere!" B: "Certainly! I pervert every one's taste for his -party:—no party forgives me for that." - - - 173. - -_To be Profound and to Appear Profound._—He who knows that he is -profound strives for clearness; he who would like to appear profound to -the multitude strives for obscurity. The multitude thinks everything -profound of which it cannot see the bottom; it is so timid and goes so -unwillingly into the water. - - - 174. - -_Apart._—Parliamentarism, that is to say, the public permission to -choose between five main political opinions, insinuates itself into the -favour of the numerous class who would fain _appear_ independent and -individual, and like to fight for their opinions. After all, however, it -is a matter of indifference whether one opinion is imposed upon the -herd, or five opinions are permitted to it.—He who diverges from the -five public opinions and goes apart, has always the whole herd against -him. - - - 175. - -_Concerning Eloquence._—What has hitherto had the most convincing -eloquence? The rolling of the drum: and as long as kings have this at -their command, they will always be the best orators and popular leaders. - - - 176. - -_Compassion._—The poor, ruling princes! All their rights now change -unexpectedly into claims, and all these claims immediately sound like -pretensions! And if they but say "we," or "my people," wicked old Europe -begins laughing. Verily, a chief-master-of-ceremonies of the modern -world would make little ceremony with them; perhaps he would decree that -"_les souverains rangent aux parvenus_." - - - 177. - -_On "Educational Matters."_—In Germany an important educational means is -lacking for higher men; namely, the laughter of higher men; these men do -not laugh in Germany. - - - 178. - -_For Moral Enlightenment._—The Germans must be talked out of their -Mephistopheles—and out of their Faust also. These are two moral -prejudices against the value of knowledge. - - - 179. - -_Thoughts._—Thoughts are the shadows of our sentiments—always, however, -obscurer, emptier, and simpler. - - - 180. - -_The Good Time for Free Spirits._—Free Spirits take liberties even with -regard to Science—and meanwhile they are allowed to do so,—while the -Church still remains!—In so far they have now their good time. - - - 181. - -_Following and Leading._—A: "Of the two, the one will always follow, the -other will always lead, whatever be the course of their destiny. _And -yet_ the former is superior to the other in virtue and intellect." B: -"And yet? And yet? That is spoken for the others; not for me, not for -us!—_Fit secundum regulam._" - - - 182. - -_In Solitude._—When one lives alone one does not speak too loudly, and -one does not write too loudly either, for one fears the hollow -reverberation—the criticism of the nymph Echo.—And all voices sound -differently in solitude! - - - 183. - -_The Music of the Best Future._—The first musician for me would be he -who knew only the sorrow of the profoundest happiness, and no other -sorrow: there has not hitherto been such a musician. - - - 184. - -_Justice._—Better allow oneself to be robbed than have scarecrows around -one—that is my taste. And under all circumstances it is just a matter of -taste—and nothing more! - - - 185. - -_Poor._—He is now poor, but not because everything has been taken from -him, but because he has thrown everything away:—what does he care? He is -accustomed to find new things.—It is the poor who misunderstand his -voluntary poverty. - - - 186. - -_Bad Conscience._—All that he now does is excellent and proper—and yet -he has a bad conscience with it all. For the exceptional is his task. - - - 187. - -_Offensiveness in Expression._—This artist offends me by the way in -which he expresses his ideas, his very excellent ideas: so diffusely and -forcibly, and with such gross rhetorical artifices, as if he were -speaking to the mob. We feel always as if "in bad company" when devoting -some time to his art. - - - 188. - -_Work._—How close work and the workers now stand even to the most -leisurely of us! The royal courtesy in the words: "We are all workers," -would have been a cynicism and an indecency even under Louis XIV. - - - 189. - -_The Thinker._—He is a thinker: that is to say, he knows how to take -things more simply than they are. - - - 190. - -_Against Eulogisers._—A: "One is only praised by one's equals!" B: "Yes! -And he who praises you says: 'You are my equal!'" - - - 191. - -_Against many a Vindication._—The most perfidious manner of injuring a -cause is to vindicate it intentionally with fallacious arguments. - - - 192. - -_The Good-natured._—What is it that distinguishes the good-natured, -whose countenances beam kindness, from other people? They feel quite at -ease in presence of a new person, and are quickly enamoured of him; they -therefore wish him well; their first opinion is: "He pleases me." With -them there follow in succession the wish to appropriate (they make -little scruple about the person's worth), rapid appropriation, joy in -the possession, and actions in favour of the person possessed. - - - 193. - -_Kant's Joke._—Kant tried to prove, in a way that dismayed "everybody," -that "everybody" was in the right:—that was his secret joke. He wrote -against the learned, in favour of popular prejudice; he wrote, however, -for the learned and not for the people. - - - 194. - -_The "Open-hearted" Man._—That man acts probably always from concealed -motives; for he has always communicable motives on his tongue, and -almost in his open hand. - - - 195. - -_Laughable!_—See! See! He runs _away_ from men—: they follow him, -however, because he runs _before_ them,—they are such a gregarious lot! - - - 196. - -_The Limits of our Sense of Hearing._—We hear only the questions to -which we are capable of finding an answer. - - - 197. - -_Caution therefore!_—There is nothing we are fonder of communicating to -others than the seal of secrecy—together with what is under it. - - - 198. - -_Vexation of the Proud Man._—The proud man is vexed even with those who -help him forward: he looks angrily at his carriage-horses! - - - 199. - -_Liberality._—Liberality is often only a form of timidity in the rich. - - - 200. - -_Laughing._—To laugh means to love mischief, but with a good conscience. - - - 201. - -_In Applause._—In applause there is always some kind of noise: even in -self-applause. - - - 202. - -_A Spendthrift._—He has not yet the poverty of the rich man who has -counted all his treasure,—he squanders his spirit with the -irrationalness of the spendthrift Nature. - - - 203. - -_Hic niger est._—Usually he has no thoughts,—but in exceptional cases -bad thoughts come to him. - - - 204. - -_Beggars and Courtesy._—"One is not discourteous when one knocks at a -door with a stone when the bell-pull is awanting"—so think all beggars -and necessitous persons, but no one thinks they are in the right. - - - 205. - -_Need._—Need is supposed to be the cause of things; but in truth it is -often only the effect of the things themselves. - - - 206. - -_During the Rain._—It rains, and I think of the poor people who now -crowd together with their many cares, which they are unaccustomed to -conceal; all of them, therefore, ready and anxious to give pain to one -another, and thus provide themselves with a pitiable kind of comfort, -even in bad weather. This, this only, is the poverty of the poor! - - - 207. - -_The Envious Man._—That is an envious man—it is not desirable that he -should have children; he would be envious of them, because he can no -longer be a child. - - - 208. - -_A Great Man!_—Because a person is "a great man," we are not authorised -to infer that he is a man. Perhaps he is only a boy, or a chameleon of -all ages, or a bewitched girl. - - - 209. - -_A Mode of Asking for Reasons._—There is a mode of asking for our -reasons which not only makes us forget our best reasons, but also -arouses in us a spite and repugnance against reason generally:—a very -stupefying mode of questioning, and properly an artifice of tyrannical -men! - - - 210. - -_Moderation in Diligence._—One must not be anxious to surpass the -diligence of one's father—that would make one ill. - - - 211. - -_Secret Enemies._—To be able to keep a secret enemy—that is a luxury -which the morality even of the highest-minded persons can rarely afford. - - - 212. - -_Not Letting oneself be Deluded._—His spirit has bad manners, it is -hasty and always stutters with impatience; so that one would hardly -suspect the deep breathing and the large chest of the soul in which it -resides. - - - 213. - -_The Way to Happiness._—A sage asked of a fool the way to happiness. The -fool answered without delay, like one who had been asked the way to the -next town: "Admire yourself, and live on the street!" "Hold," cried the -sage, "you require too much; it suffices to admire oneself!" The fool -replied: "But how can one constantly admire without constantly -despising?" - - - 214. - -_Faith Saves._—Virtue gives happiness and a state of blessedness only to -those who have a strong faith in their virtue:—not, however, to the more -refined souls whose virtue consists of a profound distrust of themselves -and of all virtue. After all, therefore, it is "faith that saves" here -also!—and be it well observed, _not_ virtue! - - - 215. - -_The Ideal and the Material._—You have a noble ideal before your eyes: -but are you also such a noble stone that such a divine image could be -formed out of you? And without that—is not all your labour barbaric -sculpturing? A blasphemy of your ideal! - - - 216. - -_Danger in the Voice._—With a very loud voice a person is almost -incapable of reflecting on subtle matters. - - - 217. - -_Cause and Effect._—Before the effect one believes in other causes than -after the effect. - - - 218. - -_My Antipathy._—I do not like those people who, in order to produce an -effect, have to burst like bombs, and in whose neighbourhood one is -always in danger of suddenly losing one's hearing—or even something -more. - - - 219. - -_The Object of Punishment._—The object of punishment is to improve him -_who punishes_,—that is the ultimate appeal of those who justify -punishment. - - - 220. - -_Sacrifice._—The victims think otherwise than the spectators about -sacrifice and sacrificing: but they have never been allowed to express -their opinion. - - - 221. - -_Consideration._—Fathers and sons are much more considerate of one -another than mothers and daughters. - - - 222. - -_Poet and Liar._—The poet sees in the liar his foster-brother whose milk -he has drunk up; the latter has thus remained wretched, and has not even -attained to a good conscience. - - - 223. - -_Vicariousness of the Senses._—"We have also eyes in order to hear with -them,"—said an old confessor who had grown deaf; "and among the blind he -that has the longest ears is king." - - - 224. - -_Animal Criticism._—I fear the animals regard man as a being like -themselves, very seriously endangered by a loss of sound animal -understanding;—they regard him perhaps as the absurd animal, the -laughing animal, the crying animal, the unfortunate animal. - - - 225. - -_The Natural._—"Evil has always had the great effect! And Nature is -evil! Let us therefore be natural!"—so reason secretly the great -aspirants after effect, who are too often counted among great men. - - - 226. - -_The Distrustful and their Style._—We say the strongest things simply, -provided people are about us who believe in our strength:—such an -environment educates to "simplicity of style." The distrustful, on the -other hand, speak emphatically; they make things emphatic. - - - 227. - -_Fallacy, Fallacy._—He cannot rule himself; therefore that woman -concludes that it will be easy to rule him, and throws out her lines to -catch him;—the poor creature, who in a short time will be his slave. - - - 228. - -_Against Mediators._—He who attempts to mediate between two decided -thinkers is rightly called mediocre: he has not an eye for seeing the -unique; similarising and equalising are signs of weak eyes. - - - 229. - -_Obstinacy and Loyalty._—Out of obstinacy he holds fast to a cause of -which the questionableness has become obvious,—he calls that, however, -his "loyalty." - - - 230. - -_Lack of Reserve._—His whole nature fails to _convince_—that results -from the fact that he has never been reticent about a good action he has -performed. - - - 231. - -_The "Plodders."_—Persons slow of apprehension think that slowness forms -part of knowledge. - - - 232. - -_Dreaming._—Either one does not dream at all, or one dreams in an -interesting manner. One must learn to be awake in the same -fashion:—either not at all, or in an interesting manner. - - - 233. - -_The most Dangerous Point of View._—What I now do, or neglect to do, is -as important _for all that is to come_, as the greatest event of the -past: in this immense perspective of effects all actions are equally -great and small. - - - 234. - -_Consolatory Words of a Musician._—"Your life does not sound into -people's ears: for them you live a dumb life, and all refinements of -melody, all fond resolutions in following or leading the way, are -concealed from them. To be sure you do not parade the thoroughfares with -regimental music,—but these good people have no right to say on that -account that your life is lacking in music. He that hath ears let him -hear." - - - 235. - -_Spirit and Character._—Many a one attains his full height of character, -but his spirit is not adapted to the elevation,—and many a one -reversely. - - - 236. - -_To Move the Multitude._—Is it not necessary for him who wants to move -the multitude to give a stage representation of himself? Has he not -first to translate himself into the grotesquely obvious, and then _set -forth_ his whole personality and cause in that vulgarised and simplified -fashion! - - - 237. - -_The Polite Man._—"He is so polite!"—Yes, he has always a sop for -Cerberus with him, and is so timid that he takes everybody for Cerberus, -even you and me,—that is his "politeness." - - - 238. - -_Without Envy._—He is wholly without envy, but there is no merit -therein: for he wants to conquer a land which no one has yet possessed -and hardly any one has even seen. - - - 239. - -_The Joyless Person._—A single joyless person is enough to make constant -displeasure and a clouded heaven in a household; and it is only by a -miracle that such a person is lacking!—Happiness is not nearly such a -contagious disease;—how is that! - - - 240. - -_On the Sea-Shore._—I would not build myself a house (it is an element -of my happiness not to be a house-owner!). If I had to do so, however, I -should build it, like many of the Romans, right into the sea,—I should -like to have some secrets in common with that beautiful monster. - - - 241. - -_Work and Artist._—This artist is ambitious and nothing more; -ultimately, however, his work is only a magnifying glass, which he -offers to every one who looks in his direction. - - - 242. - -_Suum cuique._—However great be my greed of knowledge, I cannot -appropriate aught of things but what already belongs to me,—the property -of others still remains in the things. How is it possible for a man to -be a thief or a robber! - - - 243. - -_Origin of "Good" and "Bad."_—He only will devise an improvement who can -feel that "this is not good." - - - 244. - -_Thoughts and Words._—Even our thoughts we are unable to render -completely in words. - - - 245. - -_Praise in Choice._—The artist chooses his subjects; that is his mode of -praising. - - - 246. - -_Mathematics._—We want to carry the refinement and rigour of mathematics -into all the sciences, as far as it is in any way possible, not in the -belief that we shall apprehend things in this way, but in order thereby -to _assert_ our human relation to things. Mathematics is only a means to -general and ultimate human knowledge. - - - 247. - -_Habits._—All habits make our hand wittier and our wit unhandier. - - - 248. - -_Books._—Of what account is a book that never carries us away beyond all -books! - - - 249. - -_The Sigh of the Seeker of Knowledge._—"Oh, my covetousness! In this -soul there is no disinterestedness—but an all-desiring self, which, by -means of many individuals, would fain see as with _its own_ eyes, and -grasp as with _its own_ hands—a self bringing back even the entire past, -and wanting to lose nothing that could in any way belong to it! Oh, this -flame of my covetousness! Oh, that I were reincarnated in a hundred -individuals!"—He who does not know this sigh by experience, does not -know the passion of the seeker of knowledge either. - - - 250. - -_Guilt._—Although the most intelligent judges of the witches, and even -the witches themselves, were convinced of the guilt of witchcraft, the -guilt, nevertheless, was not there. So it is with all guilt. - - - 251. - -_Misunderstood Sufferers._—Great natures suffer otherwise than their -worshippers imagine; they suffer most severely from the ignoble, petty -emotions of certain evil moments; in short, from doubt of their own -greatness;—not however from the sacrifices and martyrdoms which their -tasks require of them. As long as Prometheus sympathises with men and -sacrifices himself for them, he is happy and proud in himself; but on -becoming envious of Zeus and of the homage which mortals pay him—then -Prometheus suffers! - - - 252. - -_Better to be in Debt._—"Better to remain in debt than to pay with money -which does not bear our stamp!"—that is what our sovereignty prefers. - - - 253. - -_Always at Home._—One day we attain our _goal_—and then refer with pride -to the long journeys we have made to reach it. In truth, we did not -notice that we travelled. We got into the habit of thinking that we were -_at home_ in every place. - - - 254. - -_Against Embarrassment._—He who is always thoroughly occupied is rid of -all embarrassment. - - - 255. - -_Imitators._—A: "What? You don't want to have imitators?" B: "I don't -want people to do anything _after_ me; I want every one to do something -_before_ himself (as a pattern to himself)—just as _I_ do." A: -"Consequently—?" - - - 256. - -_Skinniness._—All profound men have their happiness in imitating the -flying-fish for once, and playing on the crests of the waves; they think -that what is best of all in things is their surface: their -skinniness—_sit venia verbo_. - - - 257. - -_From Experience._—A person often does not know how rich he is, until he -learns from experience what rich men even play the thief on him. - - - 258. - -_The Deniers of Chance._—No conqueror believes in chance. - - - 259. - -_From Paradise._—"Good and Evil are God's prejudices"—said the serpent. - - - 260. - -_One times One._—One only is always in the wrong, but with two truth -begins.—One only cannot prove himself right; but two are already beyond -refutation. - - - 261. - -_Originality._—What is originality? To _see_ something that does not yet -bear a name, that cannot yet be named, although it is before everybody's -eyes. As people are usually constituted, it is the name that first makes -a thing generally visible to them.—Original persons have also for the -most part been the namers of things. - - - 262. - -_Sub specie aeterni._—A: "You withdraw faster and faster from the -living; they will soon strike you out of their lists!"—B: "It is the -only way to participate in the privilege of the dead." A: "In what -privilege?"—B: "No longer having to die." - - - 263. - -_Without Vanity._—When we love we want our defects to remain -concealed,—not out of vanity, but lest the person loved should suffer -therefrom. Indeed, the lover would like to appear as a God,—and not out -of vanity either. - - - 264. - -_What we Do._—What we do is never understood, but only praised and -blamed. - - - 265. - -_Ultimate Scepticism._—But what after all are man's truths?—They are his -_irrefutable_ errors. - - - 266. - -_Where Cruelty is Necessary._—He who is great is cruel to his -second-rate virtues and judgments. - - - 267. - -_With a high Aim._—With a high aim a person is superior even to justice, -and not only to his deeds and his judges. - - - 268. - -_What makes Heroic?_—To face simultaneously one's greatest suffering and -one's highest hope. - - - 269. - -_What dost thou Believe in?_—In this: That the weights of all things -must be determined anew. - - - 270. - -_What Saith thy Conscience?_—"Thou shalt become what thou art." - - - 271. - -_Where are thy Greatest Dangers?_—In pity. - - - 272. - -_What dost thou Love in others?_—My hopes. - - - 273. - -_Whom dost thou call Bad?_—Him who always wants to put others to shame. - - - 274. - -_What dost thou think most humane?_—To spare a person shame. - - - 275. - -_What is the Seal of Liberty Attained?_—To be no longer ashamed of -oneself. - ------ - -Footnote 9: - - This means that true love does not look for reciprocity.—TR. - - - - - BOOK FOURTH - - SANCTUS JANUARIUS - - - Thou who with cleaving fiery lances - The stream of my soul from its ice dost free, - Till with a rush and a roar it advances - To enter with glorious hoping the sea: - Brighter to see and purer ever, - Free in the bonds of thy sweet constraint,— - So it praises thy wondrous endeavour, - January, thou beauteous saint! - -_Genoa_, January 1882. - - - 276. - -_For the New Year._—I still live, I still think; I must still live, for -I must still think. _Sum, ergo cogito: cogito, ergo sum._ To-day -everyone takes the liberty of expressing his wish and his favourite -thought: well, I also mean to tell what I have wished for myself to-day, -and what thought first crossed my mind this year,—a thought which ought -to be the basis, the pledge and the sweetening of all my future life! I -want more and more to perceive the necessary characters in things as the -beautiful:—I shall thus be one of those who beautify things. _Amor -fati_: let that henceforth be my love! I do not want to wage war with -the ugly. I do not want to accuse, I do not want even to accuse the -accusers. _Looking aside_, let that be my sole negation! And all in all, -to sum up: I wish to be at any time hereafter only a yea-sayer! - - - 277. - -_Personal Providence._—There is a certain climax in life, at which, -notwithstanding all our freedom, and however much we may have denied all -directing reason and goodness in the beautiful chaos of existence, we -are once more in great danger of intellectual bondage, and have to face -our hardest test. For now the thought of a personal Providence first -presents itself before us with its most persuasive force, and has the -best of advocates, apparentness, in its favour, now when it is obvious -that all and everything that happens to us always _turns out for the -best_. The life of every day and of every hour seems to be anxious for -nothing else but always to prove this proposition anew; let it be what -it will, bad or good weather, the loss of a friend, a sickness, a -calumny, the non-receipt of a letter, the spraining of one's foot, a -glance into a shop-window, a counter-argument, the opening of a book, a -dream, a deception:—it shows itself immediately, or very soon afterwards -as something "not permitted to be absent,"—it is full of profound -significance and utility precisely _for us_! Is there a more dangerous -temptation to rid ourselves of the belief in the Gods of Epicurus, those -careless, unknown Gods, and believe in some anxious and mean Divinity, -who knows personally every little hair on our heads, and feels no -disgust in rendering the most wretched services? Well—I mean in spite of -all this! we want to leave the Gods alone (and the serviceable genii -likewise), and wish to content ourselves with the assumption that our -own practical and theoretical skilfulness in explaining and suitably -arranging events has now reached its highest point. We do not want -either to think too highly of this dexterity of our wisdom, when the -wonderful harmony which results from playing on our instrument sometimes -surprises us too much: a harmony which sounds too well for us to dare to -ascribe it to ourselves. In fact, now and then there is one who plays -_with_ us—beloved Chance: he leads our hand occasionally, and even the -all-wisest Providence could not devise any finer music than that of -which our foolish hand is then capable. - - - 278. - -_The Thought of Death._—It gives me a melancholy happiness to live in -the midst of this confusion of streets, of necessities, of voices: how -much enjoyment, impatience and desire, how much thirsty life and -drunkenness of life comes to light here every moment! And yet it will -soon be so still for all these shouting, lively, life-loving people! How -everyone's shadow, his gloomy travelling-companion stands behind him! It -is always as in the last moment before the departure of an -emigrant-ship: people have more than ever to say to one another, the -hour presses, the ocean with its lonely silence waits impatiently behind -all the noise—so greedy, so certain of its prey! And all, all, suppose -that the past has been nothing, or a small matter, that the near future -is everything: hence this haste, this crying, this self-deafening and -self-overreaching! Everyone wants to be foremost in this future,—and yet -death and the stillness of death are the only things certain and common -to all in this future! How strange that this sole thing that is certain -and common to all, exercises almost no influence on men, and that they -are the _furthest_ from regarding themselves as the brotherhood of -death! It makes me happy to see that men do not want to think at all of -the idea of death! I would fain do something to make the idea of life -even a hundred times _more worthy of their attention_. - - - 279. - -_Stellar Friendship._—We were friends, and have become strangers to each -other. But this is as it ought to be, and we do not want either to -conceal or obscure the fact, as if we had to be ashamed of it. We are -two ships, each of which has its goal and its course; we may, to be -sure, cross one another in our paths, and celebrate a feast together as -we did before,—and then the gallant ships lay quietly in one harbour, -and in one sunshine, so that it might have been thought they were -already at their goal, and that they had had one goal. But then the -almighty strength of our tasks forced us apart once more into different -seas and into different zones, and perhaps we shall never see one -another again,—or perhaps we may see one another, but not know one -another again; the different seas and suns have altered us! That we had -to become strangers to one another is the law to which we are _subject_: -just by that shall we become more sacred to one another! Just by that -shall the thought of our former friendship become holier! There is -probably some immense, invisible curve and stellar orbit in which our -courses and goals, so widely different, may be _comprehended_ as small -stages of the way,—let us raise ourselves to this thought! But our life -is too short, and our power of vision too limited for us to be more than -friends in the sense of that sublime possibility.—And so we will -_believe_ in our stellar friendship, though we should have to be -terrestrial enemies to one another. - - - 280. - -_Architecture for Thinkers._—An insight is needed (and that probably -very soon) as to what is specially lacking in our great cities—namely, -quiet, spacious, and widely extended places for reflection, places with -long, lofty colonnades for bad weather, or for too sunny days, where no -noise of wagons or of shouters would penetrate, and where a more refined -propriety would prohibit loud praying even to the priest: buildings and -situations which as a whole would express the sublimity of -self-communion and seclusion from the world. The time is past when the -Church possessed the monopoly of reflection, when the _vita -contemplativa_ had always in the first place to be the _vita religiosa_: -and everything that the Church has built expresses this thought. I know -not how we could content ourselves with their structures, even if they -should be divested of their ecclesiastical purposes: these structures -speak a far too pathetic and too biassed speech, as houses of God and -places of splendour for supernatural intercourse, for us godless ones to -be able to think _our thoughts_ in them. We want to have _ourselves_ -translated into stone and plant, we want to go for a walk in _ourselves_ -when we wander in these halls and gardens. - - - 281. - -_Knowing how to Find the End._—Masters of the first rank are recognised -by knowing in a perfect manner how to find the end, in the whole as well -as in the part; be it the end of a melody or of a thought, be it the -fifth act of a tragedy or of a state affair. The masters of the second -degree always become restless towards the end, and seldom dip down into -the sea with such proud, quiet equilibrium as, for example, the -mountain-ridge at _Porto fino_—where the Bay of Genoa sings its melody -to an end. - - - 282. - -_The Gait._—There are mannerisms of the intellect by which even great -minds betray that they originate from the populace, or from the -semi-populace:—it is principally the gait and step of their thoughts -which betray them; they cannot _walk_. It was thus that even Napoleon, -to his profound chagrin, could not walk "legitimately" and in princely -fashion on occasions when it was necessary to do so properly, as in -great coronation processions and on similar occasions: even there he was -always just the leader of a column—proud and brusque at the same time, -and very self-conscious of it all.—It is something laughable to see -those writers who make the folding robes of their periods rustle around -them: they want to cover their _feet_. - - - 283. - -_Pioneers._—I greet all the signs indicating that a more manly and -warlike age is commencing, which will, above all, bring heroism again -into honour! For it has to prepare the way for a yet higher age, and -gather the force which the latter will one day require,—the age which -will carry heroism into knowledge, and _wage war_ for the sake of ideas -and their consequences. For that end many brave pioneers are now needed, -who, however, cannot originate out of nothing,—and just as little out of -the sand and slime of present-day civilisation and the culture of great -cities: men silent, solitary and resolute, who know how to be content -and persistent in invisible activity: men who with innate disposition -seek in all things that which is _to be overcome_ in them: men to whom -cheerfulness, patience, simplicity, and contempt of the great vanities -belong just as much as do magnanimity in victory and indulgence to the -trivial vanities of all the vanquished: men with an acute and -independent judgment regarding all victors, and concerning the part -which chance has played in the winning of victory and fame: men with -their own holidays, their own work-days, and their own periods of -mourning; accustomed to command with perfect assurance, and equally -ready, if need be, to obey, proud in the one case as in the other, -equally serving their own interests: men more imperilled, more -productive, more happy! For believe me!—the secret of realising the -largest productivity and the greatest enjoyment of existence is _to live -in danger_! Build your cities on the slope of Vesuvius! Send your ships -into unexplored seas! Live in war with your equals and with yourselves! -Be robbers and spoilers, ye knowing ones, as long as ye cannot be rulers -and possessor! The time will soon pass when you can be satisfied to live -like timorous deer concealed in the forests. Knowledge will finally -stretch out her hand for that which belongs to her:—she means to _rule_ -and _possess_, and you with her! - - - 284. - -_Belief in Oneself._—In general, few men have belief in themselves:—and -of those few some are endowed with it as a useful blindness or partial -obscuration of intellect (what would they perceive if they could see _to -the bottom of themselves_!). The others must first acquire the belief -for themselves: everything good, clever, or great that they do, is first -of all an argument against the sceptic that dwells in them: the question -is how to convince or persuade _this sceptic_, and for that purpose -genius almost is needed. They are signally dissatisfied with themselves. - - - 285. - -_Excelsior!_—"Thou wilt never more pray, never more worship, never more -repose in infinite trust—thou refusest to stand still and dismiss thy -thoughts before an ultimate wisdom, an ultimate virtue, an ultimate -power,—thou hast no constant guardian and friend in thy seven -solitudes—thou livest without the outlook on a mountain that has snow on -its head and fire in its heart—there is no longer any requiter for thee, -nor any amender with his finishing touch—there is no longer any reason -in that which happens, or any love in that which will happen to -thee—there is no longer any resting-place for thy weary heart, where it -has only to find and no longer to seek, thou art opposed to any kind of -ultimate peace, thou desirest the eternal recurrence of war and -peace:—man of renunciation, wilt thou renounce in all these things? Who -will give thee the strength to do so? No one has yet had this -strength!"—There is a lake which one day refused to flow away, and threw -up a dam at the place where it had hitherto flowed away: since then this -lake has always risen higher and higher. Perhaps the very renunciation -will also furnish us with the strength with which the renunciation -itself can be borne; perhaps man will ever rise higher and higher from -that point onward, when he no longer _flows out_ into a God. - - - 286. - -_A Digression._—Here are hopes; but what will you see and hear of them, -if you have not experienced glance and glow and dawn of day in your own -souls? I can only suggest—I cannot do more! To move the stones, to make -animals men—would you have me do that? Alas, if you are yet stones and -animals, seek first your Orpheus! - - - 287. - -_Love of Blindness._—"My thoughts," said the wanderer to his shadow, -"ought to show me where I stand, but they should not betray to me -_whither I go_. I love ignorance of the future, and do not want to come -to grief by impatience and anticipatory tasting of promised things." - - - 288. - -_Lofty Moods._—It seems to me that most men do not believe in lofty -moods, unless it be for the moment, or at the most for a quarter of an -hour,—except the few who know by experience a longer duration of high -feeling. But to be absolutely a man with a single lofty feeling, the -incarnation of a single lofty mood—that has hitherto been only a dream -and an enchanting possibility: history does not yet give us any -trustworthy example of it. Nevertheless it could some day produce such -men also—when a multitude of favourable conditions have been created and -established, which at present even the happiest chance is unable to -throw together. Perhaps that very state which has hitherto entered into -our soul as an exception, felt with horror now and then, may be the -usual condition of those future souls: a continuous movement between -high and low, and the feeling of high and low, a constant state of -mounting as on steps, and at the same time reposing as on clouds. - - - 289. - -_Aboard Ship!_—When one considers how a full philosophical -justification of his mode of living and thinking operates upon every -individual—namely, as a warming, blessing, and fructifying sun, -specially shining on him; how it makes him independent of praise and -blame, self-sufficient, rich and generous in the bestowal of happiness -and kindness; how it unceasingly transforms the evil to the good, -brings all the energies to bloom and maturity, and altogether hinders -the growth of the greater and lesser weeds of chagrin and -discontent:—one at last cries out importunately: Oh, that many such -new suns were created! The evil man, also, the unfortunate man, and -the exceptional man, shall each have his philosophy, his rights, and -his sunshine! It is not sympathy with them that is necessary!—we must -unlearn this arrogant fancy, notwithstanding that humanity has so long -learned it and used it exclusively—we have not to set up any -confessor, exorcist, or pardoner for them! It is a new _justice_, -however, that is necessary! And a new solution! And new philosophers! -The moral earth also is round! The moral earth also has its antipodes! -The antipodes also have their right to exist! there is still another -world to discover—and more than one! Aboard ship! ye philosophers! - - - 290. - -_One Thing is Needful._—To "give style" to one's character—that is a -grand and a rare art! He who surveys all that his nature presents in its -strength and in its weakness, and then fashions it into an ingenious -plan, until everything appears artistic and rational, and even the -weaknesses enchant the eye—exercises that admirable art. Here there has -been a great amount of second nature added, there a portion of first -nature has been taken away:—in both cases with long exercise and daily -labour at the task. Here the ugly, which does not permit of being taken -away, has been concealed, there it has been re-interpreted into the -sublime. Much of the vague, which refuses to take form, has been -reserved and utilised for the perspectives:—it is meant to give a hint -of the remote and immeasurable. In the end, when the work has been -completed, it is revealed how it was the constraint of the same taste -that organised and fashioned it in whole or in part: whether the taste -was good or bad is of less importance than one thinks,—it is sufficient -that it was _a taste_!—It will be the strong imperious natures which -experience their most refined joy in such constraint, in such -confinement and perfection under their own law; the passion of their -violent volition lessens at the sight of all disciplined nature, all -conquered and ministering nature: even when they have palaces to build -and gardens to lay out, it is not to their taste to allow nature to be -free.—It is the reverse with weak characters who have not power over -themselves, and _hate_ the restriction of style: they feel that if this -repugnant constraint were laid upon them, they would necessarily become -_vulgarised_ under it: they become slaves as soon as they serve, they -hate service. Such intellects—they may be intellects of the first -rank—are always concerned with fashioning or interpreting themselves and -their surroundings as _free_ nature—wild, arbitrary, fantastic, confused -and surprising: and it is well for them to do so, because only in this -manner can they please themselves! For one thing is needful: namely, -that man should _attain to_ satisfaction with himself—be it but through -this or that fable and artifice: it is only then that man's aspect is at -all endurable! He who is dissatisfied with himself is ever ready to -avenge himself on that account: we others will be his victims, if only -in having always to endure his ugly aspect. For the aspect of the ugly -makes one mean and sad. - - - 291. - -_Genoa._—I have looked upon this city, its villas and pleasure-grounds -and the wide circuit of its inhabited heights and slopes, for a -considerable time: in the end I must say that I see _countenances_ out -of past generations,—this district is strewn with the images of bold and -autocratic men. They have _lived_ and have wanted to live on—they say so -with their houses, built and decorated for centuries, and not for the -passing hour: they were well disposed to life, however ill-disposed they -may often have been towards themselves. I always see the builder, how he -casts his eye on all that is built around him far and near, and likewise -on the city, the sea, and the chain of mountains; how he expresses power -and conquest in his gaze: all this he wishes to fit into _his_ plan, and -in the end make it his _property_, by its becoming a portion of the -same. The whole district is overgrown with this superb, insatiable -egoism of the desire to possess and exploit; and as these men when -abroad recognised no frontiers, and in their thirst for the new placed a -new world beside the old, so also at home everyone rose up against -everyone else, and devised some mode of expressing his superiority, and -of placing between himself and his neighbour his personal -illimitableness. Everyone won for himself his home once more by -over-powering it with his architectural thoughts, and by transforming it -into a delightful sight for his race. When we consider the mode of -building cities in the north, the law and the general delight in -legality and obedience, impose upon us: we thereby divine the propensity -to equality and submission which must have ruled in those builders. -Here, however, on turning every corner you find a man by himself, who -knows the sea, knows adventure, and knows the Orient, a man who is -averse to law and to neighbour, as if it bored him to have to do with -them, a man who scans all that is already old and established, with -envious glances: with a wonderful craftiness of fantasy, he would like, -at least in thought, to establish all this anew, to lay his hand upon -it, and introduce his meaning into it—if only for the passing hour of a -sunny afternoon, when for once his insatiable and melancholy soul feels -satiety, and when only what is his own, and nothing strange, may show -itself to his eye. - - - 292. - -_To the Preachers of Morality._—I do not mean to moralise, but to those -who do, I would give this advice: if you mean ultimately to deprive the -best things and the best conditions of all honour and worth, continue to -speak of them in the same way as heretofore! Put them at the head of -your morality, and speak from morning till night of the happiness of -virtue, of repose of soul, of righteousness, and of reward and -punishment in the nature of things: according as you go on in this -manner, all these good things will finally acquire a popularity and a -street-cry for themselves: but then all the gold on them will also be -worn off, and more besides: all the gold _in them_ will have changed -into lead. Truly, you understand the reverse art of alchemy, the -depreciating of the most valuable things! Try, just for once, another -recipe, in order not to realise as hitherto the opposite of what you -mean to attain: _deny_ those good things, withdraw from them the -applause of the populace and discourage the spread of them, make them -once more the concealed chastities of solitary souls, say that _morality -is something forbidden_! Perhaps you will thus win over for those things -the sort of men who are only of any account, I mean the _heroic_. But -then there must be something formidable in them, and not as hitherto -something disgusting! Might one not be inclined to say at present with -reference to morality what Master Eckardt says: "I pray God to deliver -me from God!" - - - 293. - -_Our Atmosphere._—We know it well: to him who only casts a glance now -and then at science, as in taking a walk (in the manner of women, and -alas! also like many artists), the strictness in its service, its -inexorability in small matters as well as in great, its rapidity in -weighing, judging and condemning, produce something of a feeling of -giddiness and fright. It is especially terrifying to him that the -hardest is here demanded, that the best is done without the reward of -praise or distinction; it is rather as among soldiers—almost nothing but -blame and sharp reprimand _is heard_; for doing well prevails here as -the rule, doing ill as the exception; the rule, however, has, here as -everywhere, a silent tongue. It is the same with this "severity of -science" as with the manners and politeness of the best society: it -frightens the uninitiated. He, however, who is accustomed to it, does -not like to live anywhere but in this clear, transparent, powerful, and -highly electrified atmosphere, this _manly_ atmosphere. Anywhere else it -is not pure and airy enough for him: he suspects that _there_ his best -art would neither be properly advantageous to anyone else, nor a delight -to himself, that through misunderstandings half of his life would slip -through his fingers, that much foresight, much concealment, and -reticence would constantly be necessary,—nothing but great and useless -losses of power! In _this_ keen and clear element, however, he has his -entire power: here he can fly! Why should he again go down into those -muddy waters where he has to swim and wade and soil his wings!—No! There -it is too hard for us to live! we cannot help it that we are born for -the atmosphere, the pure atmosphere, we rivals of the ray of light; and -that we should like best to ride like it on the atoms of ether, not away -from the sun, but _towards the sun_! That, however, we cannot do:—so we -want to do the only thing that is in our power: namely, to bring light -to the earth, we want to be "the light of the earth!" And for that -purpose we have our wings and our swiftness and our severity, on that -account we are manly, and even terrible like the fire. Let those fear -us, who do not know how to warm and brighten themselves by our -influence! - - - 294. - -_Against the Disparagers of Nature._—They are disagreeable to me, those -men in whom every natural inclination forthwith becomes a disease, -something disfiguring, or even disgraceful. _They_ have seduced us to -the opinion that the inclinations and impulses of men are evil; _they_ -are the cause of our great injustice to our own nature, and to all -nature! There are enough of men who _may_ yield to their impulses -gracefully and carelessly: but they do not do so, for fear of that -imaginary "evil thing" in nature! _That is the cause_ why there is so -little nobility to be found among men: the indication of which will -always be to have no fear of oneself, to expect nothing disgraceful from -oneself, to fly without hesitation whithersoever we are impelled—we -free-born birds! Wherever we come, there will always be freedom and -sunshine around us. - - - 295. - -_Short-lived Habits._—I love short-lived habits, and regard them as an -invaluable means for getting a knowledge of _many_ things and various -conditions, to the very bottom of their sweetness and bitterness; my -nature is altogether arranged for short-lived habits, even in the needs -of its bodily health, and in general, _as far as_ I can see, from the -lowest up to the highest matters. I always think that _this_ will at -last satisfy me permanently (the short-lived habit has also that -characteristic belief of passion, the belief in everlasting duration; I -am to be envied for having found it and recognised it), and then it -nourishes me at noon and at eve, and spreads a profound satisfaction -around me and in me, so that I have no longing for anything else, not -needing to compare, or despise, or hate. But one day the habit has had -its time: the good thing separates from me, not as something which then -inspires disgust in me—but peaceably and as though satisfied with me, as -I am with it; as if we had to be mutually thankful, and _thus_ shook -hands for farewell. And already the new habit waits at the door, and -similarly also my belief—indestructible fool and sage that I am!—that -this new habit will be the right one, the ultimate right one. So it is -with me as regards foods, thoughts, men, cities, poems, music, -doctrines, arrangements of the day, and modes of life.—On the other -hand, I hate _permanent_ habits, and feel as if a tyrant came into my -neighbourhood, and as if my life's breath _condensed_, when events take -such a form that permanent habits seem necessarily to grow out of them: -for example, through an official position, through constant -companionship with the same persons, through a settled abode, or through -a uniform state of health. Indeed, from the bottom of my soul I am -gratefully disposed to all my misery and sickness, and to whatever is -imperfect in me, because such things leave me a hundred back-doors -through which I can escape from permanent habits. The most unendurable -thing, to be sure, the really terrible thing, would be a life without -habits, a life which continually required improvisation:—that would be -my banishment and my Siberia. - - - 296. - -_A Fixed Reputation._—A fixed reputation was formerly a matter of the -very greatest utility; and wherever society continues to be ruled by the -herd-instinct, it is still most suitable for every individual _to give_ -to his character and business _the appearance_ of unalterableness,—even -when they are not so in reality. "One can rely on him, he remains the -same"—that is the praise which has most significance in all dangerous -conditions of society. Society feels with satisfaction that it has a -reliable _tool_ ready at all times in the virtue of this one, in the -ambition of that one, and in the reflection and passion of a third -one,—it honours this _tool-like nature_, this self-constancy, this -unchangeableness in opinions, efforts, and even in faults, with the -highest honours. Such a valuation, which prevails and has prevailed -everywhere simultaneously with the morality of custom, educates -"characters," and brings all changing, re-learning, and -self-transforming into _disrepute_. Be the advantage of this mode of -thinking ever so great otherwise, it is in any case the mode of judging -which is most injurious _to knowledge_: for precisely the good-will of -the knowing one ever to declare himself unhesitatingly as _opposed_ to -his former opinions, and in general to be distrustful of all that wants -to be fixed in him—is here condemned and brought into disrepute. The -disposition of the thinker, as incompatible with a "fixed reputation," -is regarded as _dishonourable_, while the petrifaction of opinions has -all the honour to itself:—we have at present still to live under the -interdict of such rules! How difficult it is to live when one feels that -the judgment of many millenniums is around one and against one. It is -probable that for many millenniums knowledge was afflicted with a bad -conscience, and that there must have been much self-contempt and secret -misery in the history of the greatest intellects. - - - 297. - -_Ability to Contradict._—Everyone knows at present that the ability to -endure contradiction is a high indication of culture. Some people even -know that the higher man courts opposition, and provokes it, so as to -get a cue to his hitherto unknown partiality. But the _ability_ to -contradict, the attainment of _good_ conscience in hostility to the -accustomed, the traditional and the hallowed,—that is more than both the -above-named abilities, and is the really great, new and astonishing -thing in our culture, the step of all steps of the emancipated -intellect: who knows that?— - - - 298. - -_A Sigh._—I caught this notion on the way, and rapidly took the -readiest, poor words to hold it fast, so that it might not again fly -away. And now it has died in these dry words, and hangs and flaps about -in them—and I hardly know now, when I look upon it, how I could have had -such happiness when I caught this bird. - - - 299. - -_What one should Learn from Artists._—What means have we for making -things beautiful, attractive, and desirable, when they are not so?—and I -suppose they are never so in themselves! We have here something to learn -from physicians, when, for example, they dilute what is bitter, or put -wine and sugar into their mixing-bowl; but we have still more to learn -from artists, who in fact, are continually concerned in devising such -inventions and artifices. To withdraw from things until one no longer -sees much of them, until one has even to see things into them, _in order -to see them at all_—or to view them from the side, and as in a frame—or -to place them so that they partly disguise themselves and only permit of -perspective views—or to look at them through coloured glasses, or in the -light of the sunset—or to furnish them with a surface or skin which is -not fully transparent: we should learn all that from artists, and -moreover be wiser than they. For this fine power of theirs usually -ceases with them where art ceases and life begins; _we_, however, want -to be the poets of our life, and first of all in the smallest and most -commonplace matters. - - - 300. - -_Prelude to Science._—Do you believe then that the sciences would have -arisen and grown up if the sorcerers, alchemists, astrologers and -witches had not been their forerunners; those who, with their promisings -and foreshadowings, had first to create a thirst, a hunger, and a taste -for _hidden and forbidden_ powers? Yea, that infinitely more had to be -_promised_ than could ever be fulfilled, in order that something might -be fulfilled in the domain of knowledge? Perhaps the whole of -_religion_, also, may appear to some distant age as an exercise and a -prelude, in like manner as the prelude and preparation of science here -exhibit themselves, though _not_ at all practised and regarded as such. -Perhaps religion may have been the peculiar means for enabling -individual men to enjoy but once the entire self-satisfaction of a God -and all his self-redeeming power. Indeed!—one may ask—would man have -learned at all to get on the tracks of hunger and thirst for _himself_, -and to extract satiety and fullness out of _himself_, without that -religious schooling and preliminary history? Had Prometheus first to -_fancy_ that he had _stolen_ the light, and that he did penance for the -theft—in order finally to discover that he had created the light, _in -that he had longed for the light_, and that not only man, but also _God_ -had been the work of _his_ hands and the clay in his hands? All mere -creations of the creator?—just as the illusion, the theft, the Caucasus, -the vulture, and the whole tragic Prometheia of all thinkers! - - - 301. - -_Illusion of the Contemplative._—Higher men are distinguished from -lower, by seeing and hearing immensely more, and in a thoughtful -manner—and it is precisely this that distinguishes man from the animal, -and the higher animal from the lower. The world always becomes fuller -for him who grows up into the full stature of humanity; there are always -more interesting fishing-hooks, thrown out to him; the number of his -stimuli is continually on the increase, and similarly the varieties of -his pleasure and pain,—the higher man becomes always at the same time -happier and unhappier. An _illusion_, however, is his constant -accompaniment all along: he thinks he is placed as a _spectator_ and -_auditor_ before the great pantomime and concert of life; he calls his -nature a _contemplative nature_, and thereby overlooks the fact that he -himself is also a real creator, and continuous poet of life,—that he no -doubt differs greatly from the _actor_ in this drama, the so-called -practical man, but differs still more from a mere onlooker or spectator -_before_ the stage. There is certainly _vis contemplativa_, and -re-examination of his work peculiar to him as poet, but at the same -time, and first and foremost, he has the _vis creativa_, which the -practical man or doer _lacks_, whatever appearance and current belief -may say to the contrary. It is we, we who think and feel, that actually -and unceasingly _make_ something which does not yet exist: the whole -eternally increasing world of valuations, colours, weights, -perspectives, gradations, affirmations and negations. This composition -of ours is continually learnt, practised, and translated into flesh and -actuality, and even into the commonplace, by the so-called practical men -(our actors, as we have said). Whatever has _value_ in the present -world, has it not in itself, by its nature,—nature is always -worthless:—but a value was once given to it, bestowed upon it, and it -was _we_ who gave and bestowed! We only have created the world _which is -of any account to man_!—But it is precisely this knowledge that we lack, -and when we get hold of it for a moment we have forgotten it the next: -we misunderstand our highest power, we contemplative men, and estimate -ourselves at too low a rate,—we are neither as _proud nor as happy_ as -we might be. - - - 302. - -_The Danger of the Happiest Ones._—To have fine senses and a fine taste; -to be accustomed to the select and the intellectually best as our proper -and readiest fare; to be blessed with a strong, bold, and daring soul; -to go through life with a quiet eye and a firm step, ever ready for the -worst as for a festival, and full of longing for undiscovered worlds and -seas, men and Gods; to listen to all joyous music, as if there, perhaps, -brave men, soldiers and seafarers, took a brief repose and enjoyment, -and in the profoundest pleasure of the moment were overcome with tears -and the whole purple melancholy of happiness: who would not like all -this to be _his_ possession, his condition! It was the _happiness of -Homer_! The condition of him who invented the Gods for the Greeks,—nay, -who invented _his_ Gods for himself! But let us not conceal the fact -that with this happiness of Homer in one's soul, one is more liable to -suffering than any other creature under the sun! And only at this price -do we purchase the most precious pearl that the waves of existence have -hitherto washed ashore! As its possessor one always becomes more -sensitive to pain, and at last too sensitive: a little displeasure and -loathing sufficed in the end to make Homer disgusted with life. He was -unable to solve a foolish little riddle which some young fishers -proposed to him! Yes, the little riddles are the dangers of the happiest -ones!— - - - 303. - -_Two Happy Ones._—Certainly this man, notwithstanding his youth, -understands the _improvisation of life_, and astonishes even the acutest -observers. For it seems that he never makes a mistake, although he -constantly plays the most hazardous games. One is reminded of the -improvising masters of the musical art, to whom even the listeners would -fain ascribe a divine _infallibility_ of the hand, notwithstanding that -they now and then make a mistake, as every mortal is liable to do. But -they are skilled and inventive, and always ready in a moment to arrange -into the structure of the score the most accidental tone (where the jerk -of a finger or a humour brings it about), and to animate the accident -with a fine meaning and a soul.—Here is quite a different man: -everything that he intends and plans fails with him in the long run. -That on which he has now and again set his heart has already brought him -several times to the abyss, and to the very verge of ruin; and if he has -as yet got out of the scrape, it certainly has not been merely with a -"black eye." Do you think he is unhappy over it? He resolved long ago -not to regard his own wishes and plans as of so much importance. "If -this does not succeed with me,"—he says to himself, "perhaps that will -succeed; and on the whole I do not know but that I am under more -obligation to thank my failures than any of my successes. Am I made to -be headstrong, and to wear the bull's horns? That which constitutes the -worth and the sum of life _for me_, lies somewhere else; I know more of -life, because I have been so often on the point of losing it; and just -on that account I _have_ more of life than any of you!" - - - 304. - -_In Doing we Leave Undone._—In the main all those moral systems are -distasteful to me which say: "Do not do this! Renounce! Overcome -thyself!" On the other hand I am favourable to those moral systems which -stimulate me to do something, and to do it again from morning till -evening, and dream of it at night, and think of nothing else but to do -it _well_, as well as it is possible for _me_ alone! From him who so -lives there fall off one after the other the things that do not pertain -to such a life: without hatred or antipathy, he sees _this_ take leave -of him to-day, and _that_ to-morrow, like the yellow leaves which every -livelier breeze strips from the tree: or he does not see at all that -they take leave of him, so firmly is his eye fixed upon his goal, and -generally forward, not sideways, backward, nor downward. "Our doing must -determine what we leave undone; in that we do, we leave undone"—so it -pleases me, so runs _my placitum_. But I do not mean to strive with open -eyes for my impoverishment; I do not like any of the negative virtues -whose very essence is negation and self-renunciation. - - - 305. - -_Self-control._—Those moral teachers who first and foremost order man to -get himself into his own power, induce thereby a curious infirmity in -him,—namely, a constant sensitiveness with reference to all natural -strivings and inclinations, and as it were, a sort of itching. Whatever -may henceforth drive him, draw him, allure or impel him, whether -internally or externally—it always seems to this sensitive being, as if -his self-control were in danger: he is no longer at liberty to trust -himself to any instinct, to any free flight, but stands constantly with -defensive mien, armed against himself, with sharp distrustful eye, the -eternal watcher of his stronghold, to which office he has appointed -himself. Yes, he can be _great_ in that position! But how unendurable he -has now become to others, how difficult even for himself to bear, how -impoverished and cut off from the finest accidents of his soul! Yea, -even from all further _instruction_! For we must be able to lose -ourselves at times, if we want to learn something of what we have not in -ourselves. - - - 306. - -_Stoic and Epicurean._—The Epicurean selects the situations, the -persons, and even the events which suit his extremely sensitive, -intellectual constitution; he renounces the rest—that is to say, by far -the greater part of experience—because it would be too strong and too -heavy fare for him. The Stoic, on the contrary, accustoms himself to -swallow stones and vermin, glass-splinters and scorpions, without -feeling any disgust: his stomach is meant to become indifferent in the -end to all that the accidents of existence cast into it:—he reminds one -of the Arabic sect of the Assaua, with which the French became -acquainted in Algiers; and like those insensible persons, he also likes -well to have an invited public at the exhibition of his insensibility, -the very thing the Epicurean willingly dispenses with:—he has of course -his "garden"! Stoicism may be quite advisable for men with whom fate -improvises, for those who live in violent times and are dependent on -abrupt and changeable individuals. He, however, who _anticipates_ that -fate will permit him to spin "a long thread," does well to make his -arrangements in Epicurean fashion; all men devoted to intellectual -labour have done it hitherto! For it would be a supreme loss to them to -forfeit their fine sensibility, and acquire the hard, stoical hide with -hedgehog prickles in exchange. - - - 307. - -_In Favour of Criticism._—Something now appears to thee as an error -which thou formerly lovedst as a truth, or as a probability: thou -pushest it from thee and imaginest that thy reason has there gained a -victory. But perhaps that error was then, when thou wast still another -person—thou art always another person,—just as necessary to thee as all -thy present "truths," like a skin, as it were, which concealed and -veiled from thee much which thou still mayst not see. Thy new life, and -not thy reason, has slain that opinion for thee: _thou dost not require -it any longer_, and now it breaks down of its own accord, and the -irrationality crawls out of it as a worm into the light. When we make -use of criticism it is not something arbitrary and impersonal,—it is, at -least very often, a proof that there are lively, active forces in us, -which cast a skin. We deny, and must deny, because something in us -_wants_ to live and affirm itself, something which we perhaps do not as -yet know, do not as yet see!—So much in favour of criticism. - - - 308. - -_The History of each Day._—What is it that constitutes the history of -each day for thee? Look at thy habits of which it consists: are they the -product of numberless little acts of cowardice and laziness, or of thy -bravery and inventive reason? Although the two cases are so different, -it is possible that men might bestow the same praise upon thee, and that -thou mightst also be equally useful to them in the one case as in the -other. But praise and utility and respectability may suffice for him -whose only desire is to have a good conscience,—not however for thee, -the "trier of the reins," who hast a _consciousness of the conscience_! - - - 309. - -_Out of the Seventh Solitude._—One day the wanderer shut a door behind -him, stood still, and wept. Then he said: "Oh, this inclination and -impulse towards the true, the real, the non-apparent, the certain! How I -detest it! Why does this gloomy and passionate taskmaster follow just -_me_? I should like to rest, but it does not permit me to do so. Are -there not a host of things seducing me to tarry! Everywhere there are -gardens of Armida for me, and therefore there will always be fresh -separations and fresh bitterness of heart! I must set my foot forward, -my weary wounded foot: and because I feel I must do this, I often cast -grim glances back at the most beautiful things which could not detain -me—_because_ they could not detain me!" - - - 310. - -_Will and Wave._—How eagerly this wave comes hither, as if it were a -question of its reaching something! How it creeps with frightful haste -into the innermost corners of the rocky cliff! It seems that it wants to -forestall some one; it seems that something is concealed there that has -value, high value.—And now it retreats somewhat more slowly, still quite -white with excitement,—is it disappointed? Has it found what it sought? -Does it merely pretend to be disappointed?—But already another wave -approaches, still more eager and wild than the first, and its soul also -seems to be full of secrets and of longing for treasure-seeking. Thus -live the waves,—thus live we who exercise will!—I do not say more.—But -what! Ye distrust me? Ye are angry at me, ye beautiful monsters? Do ye -fear that I will quite betray your secret? Well! Just be angry with me, -raise your green, dangerous bodies as high as ye can, make a wall -between me and the sun—as at present! Verily, there is now nothing more -left of the world save green twilight and green lightning-flashes. Do as -ye will, ye wanton creatures, roar with delight and wickedness—or dive -under again, pour your emeralds down into the depths, and cast your -endless white tresses of foam and spray over them—it is all the same to -me, for all is so well with you, and I am so pleased with you for it -all: how could I betray _you_! For—take this to heart!—I know you and -your secret, I know your race! You and I are indeed of one race! You and -I have indeed one secret! - - - 311. - -_Broken Lights._—We are not always brave, and when we are weary, people -of our stamp are liable to lament occasionally in this wise:—"It is so -hard to cause pain to men—oh, that it should be necessary! What good is -it to live concealed, when we do not want to keep to ourselves that -which causes vexation? Would it not be more advisable to live in the -madding crowd, and compensate individuals for sins that are committed -and must be committed against mankind in general? Foolish with fools, -vain with the vain, enthusiastic with enthusiasts? Would that not be -reasonable when there is such an inordinate amount of divergence in the -main? When I hear of the malignity of others against me—is not my first -feeling that of satisfaction? It is well that it should be so!—I seem to -myself to say to them—I am so little in harmony with you, and have so -much truth on my side: see henceforth that ye be merry at my expense as -often as ye can! Here are my defects and mistakes, here are my -illusions, my bad taste, my confusion, my tears, my vanity, my owlish -concealment, my contradictions! Here you have something to laugh at! -Laugh then, and enjoy yourselves! I am not averse to the law and nature -of things, which is that defects and errors should give pleasure!—To be -sure there were once 'more glorious' times, when as soon as any one got -an idea, however moderately new it might be, he would think himself so -_indispensable_ as to go out into the street with it, and call to -everybody: 'Behold! the kingdom of heaven is at hand!'—I should not miss -myself, if I were a-wanting. We are none of us indispensable!"—As we -have said, however, we do not think thus when we are brave; we do not -think _about it_ at all. - - - 312. - -_My Dog._—I have given a name to my suffering, and call it "dog,"—it is -just as faithful, just as importunate and shameless, just as -entertaining, just as wise, as any other dog—and I can domineer over it, -and vent my bad humour on it, as others do with their dogs, servants, -and wives. - - - 313. - -_No Picture of a Martyr._—I will take my cue from Raphael, and not paint -any more martyr pictures. There are enough of sublime things without its -being necessary to seek sublimity where it is linked with cruelty; -moreover my ambition would not be gratified in the least if I aspired to -be a sublime executioner. - - - 314. - -_New Domestic Animals._—I want to have my lion and my eagle about me, -that I may always have hints and premonitions concerning the amount of -my strength or weakness. Must I look down on them to-day, and be afraid -of them? And will the hour come once more when they will look up to me, -and tremble?— - - - 315. - -_The Last Hour._—Storms are my danger. Shall I have my storm in which I -shall perish, just as Oliver Cromwell perished in his storm? Or shall I -go out as a light does, not first blown out by the wind, but grown tired -and weary of itself—a burnt-out light? Or finally, shall I blow myself -out, so as _not to burn out_! - - - 316. - -_Prophetic Men._—Ye cannot divine how sorely prophetic men suffer: ye -think only that a fine "gift" has been given to them, and would fain -have it yourselves,—but I will express my meaning by a simile. How much -may not the animals suffer from the electricity of the atmosphere and -the clouds! Some of them, as we see, have a prophetic faculty with -regard to the weather, for example, apes (as one can observe very well -even in Europe,—and not only in menageries, but at Gibraltar). But it -never occurs to us that it is their _sufferings_—that are their -prophets! When strong positive electricity, under the influence of an -approaching cloud not at all visible, is suddenly converted into -negative electricity, and an alteration of the weather is imminent, -these animals then behave as if an enemy were approaching them, and -prepare for defence, or flight: they generally hide themselves,—they do -not think of the bad weather as weather, but as an enemy whose hand they -already _feel_! - - - 317. - -_Retrospect._—We seldom become conscious of the real pathos of any -period of life as such, as long as we continue in it, but always think -it is the only possible and reasonable thing for us henceforth, and that -it is altogether _ethos_ and not _pathos_[10]—to speak and distinguish -like the Greeks. A few notes of music to-day recalled a winter and a -house, and a life of utter solitude to my mind, and at the same time the -sentiments in which I then lived: I thought I should be able to live in -such a state always. But now I understand that it was entirely pathos -and passion, something comparable to this painfully bold and truly -comforting music,—it is not one's lot to have these sensations for -years, still less for eternities: otherwise one would become too -"ethereal" for this planet. - - - 318. - -_Wisdom in Pain._—In pain there is as much wisdom as in pleasure: like -the latter it is one of the best self-preservatives of a species. Were -it not so, pain would long ago have been done away with; that it is -hurtful is no argument against it, for to be hurtful is its very -essence. In pain I hear the commanding call of the ship's captain: "Take -in sail!" "Man," the bold seafarer, must have learned to set his sails -in a thousand different ways, otherwise he could not have sailed long, -for the ocean would soon have swallowed him up. We must also know how to -live with reduced energy: as soon as pain gives its precautionary -signal, it is time to reduce the speed—some great danger, some storm, is -approaching, and we do well to "catch" as little wind as possible.—It is -true that there are men who, on the approach of severe pain, hear the -very opposite call of command, and never appear more proud, more -martial, or more happy, than when the storm is brewing; indeed, pain -itself provides them with their supreme moments! These are the heroic -men, the great _pain-bringers_ of mankind: those few and rare ones who -need just the same apology as pain generally,—and verily, it should not -be denied them! They are forces of the greatest importance for -preserving and advancing the species, were it only because they are -opposed to smug ease, and do not conceal their disgust at this kind of -happiness. - - - 319. - -_As Interpreters of our Experiences._—One form of honesty has always -been lacking among founders of religions and their kin:—they have never -made their experiences a matter of the intellectual conscience. "What -did I really experience? What then took place in me and around me? Was -my understanding clear enough? Was my will directly opposed to all -deception of the senses, and courageous in its defence against fantastic -notions?"—None of them ever asked these questions, nor to this day do -any of the good religious people ask them. They have rather a thirst for -things which are _contrary to reason_, and they don't want to have too -much difficulty in satisfying this thirst,—so they experience "miracles" -and "regenerations," and hear the voices of angels! But we who are -different, who are thirsty for reason, want to look as carefully into -our experiences, as in the case of a scientific experiment, hour by -hour, day by day! We ourselves want to be our own experiments, and our -own subjects of experiment. - - - 320. - -_On Meeting Again._—A: Do I quite understand you? You are in search of -something? _Where_, in the midst of the present, actual world, is _your_ -niche and star? Where can _you_ lay yourself in the sun, so that you -also may have a surplus of well-being, that your existence may justify -itself? Let everyone do that for himself—you seem to say, —and let him -put talk about generalities, concern about others and society, out of -his mind!—B: I want more; I am no seeker. I want to create my own sun -for myself. - - - 321. - -_A New Precaution._—Let us no longer think so much about punishing, -blaming, and improving! We shall seldom be able to alter an individual, -and if we should succeed in doing so, something else may also succeed, -perhaps unawares: _we_ may have been altered by him! Let us rather see -to it that our own influence on _all that is to come_ outweighs and -overweighs his influence! Let us not struggle in direct conflict!—all -blaming, punishing, and desire to improve comes under this category. But -let us elevate ourselves all the higher! Let us ever give to our pattern -more shining colours! Let us obscure the other by our light! No! We do -not mean to become _darker_ ourselves on his account, like all that -punish and are discontented! Let us rather go aside! Let us look away! - - - 322. - -_A Simile._—Those thinkers in whom all the stars move in cyclic orbits, -are not the most profound. He who looks into himself, as into an immense -universe, and carries Milky Ways in himself, knows also how irregular -all Milky Ways are; they lead into the very chaos and labyrinth of -existence. - - - 323. - -_Happiness in Destiny._—Destiny confers its greatest distinction upon us -when it has made us fight for a time on the side of our adversaries. We -are thereby _predestined_ to a great victory. - - - 324. - -_In Media Vita._—No! Life has not deceived me! On the contrary, from -year to year I find it richer, more desirable and more mysterious—from -the day on which the great liberator broke my fetters, the thought that -life may be an experiment of the thinker—and not a duty, not a fatality, -not a deceit!—And knowledge itself may be for others something -different; for example, a bed of ease, or the path to a bed of ease, or -an entertainment, or a course of idling,—for me it is a world of dangers -and victories, in which even the heroic sentiments have their arena and -dancing-floor. "_Life as a means to knowledge_"—with this principle in -one's heart, one can not only be brave, but can even _live joyfully and -laugh joyfully_! And who could know how to laugh well and live well, who -did not first understand the full meaning of war and victory! - - - 325. - -_What Belongs to Greatness._—Who can attain to anything great if he does -not feel the force and will in himself _to inflict_ great pain? The -ability to suffer is a small matter: in that line, weak women and even -slaves often attain masterliness. But not to perish from internal -distress and doubt when one inflicts great anguish and hears the cry of -this anguish—that is great, that belongs to greatness. - - - 326. - -_Physicians of the Soul and Pain._—All preachers of morality, as also -all theologians, have a bad habit in common: all of them try to persuade -man that he is very ill, and that a severe, final, radical cure is -necessary. And because mankind as a whole has for centuries listened too -eagerly to those teachers, something of the superstition that the human -race is in a very bad way has actually come over men: so that they are -now far too ready to sigh; they find nothing more in life and make -melancholy faces at each other, as if life were indeed very hard _to -endure_. In truth, they are inordinately assured of their life and in -love with it, and full of untold intrigues and subtleties for -suppressing everything disagreeable and for extracting the thorn from -pain and misfortune. It seems to me that people always speak _with -exaggeration_ about pain and misfortune, as if it were a matter of good -behaviour to exaggerate here: on the other hand people are intentionally -silent in regard to the number of expedients for alleviating pain; as -for instance, the deadening of it, or feverish flurry of thought, or a -peaceful position, or good and bad reminiscences, intentions, -hopes,—also many kinds of pride and fellow-feeling which have almost the -effect of anæsthetics: while in the greatest degree of pain fainting -takes place of itself. We understand very well how to pour sweetness on -our bitterness, especially on the bitterness of our soul; we find a -remedy in our bravery and sublimity, as well as in the nobler delirium -of submission and resignation. A loss scarcely remains a loss for an -hour: in some way or other a gift from heaven has always fallen into our -lap at the same moment—a new form of strength, for example: be it but a -new opportunity for the exercise of strength! What have the preachers of -morality not dreamt concerning the inner "misery" of evil men! What -_lies_ have they not told us about the misfortunes of impassioned men! -Yes, lying is here the right word: they were only too well aware of the -overflowing happiness of this kind of man, but they kept silent as death -about it; because it was a refutation of their theory, according to -which happiness only originates through the annihilation of the passions -and the silencing of the will! And finally, as regards the recipe of all -those physicians of the soul and their recommendation of a severe -radical cure, we may be allowed to ask: Is our life really painful and -burdensome enough for us to exchange it with advantage for a Stoical -mode of life, and Stoical petrification? We do _not_ feel _sufficiently -miserable_ to have to feel ill in the Stoical fashion! - - - 327. - -_Taking Things Seriously._—The intellect is with most people an awkward, -obscure and creaking machine, which is difficult to set in motion: they -call it "_taking a thing seriously_" when they work with this machine, -and want to think well—oh, how burdensome must good thinking be to them! -That delightful animal, man, seems to lose his good-humour whenever he -thinks well; he becomes "serious"! And "where there is laughing and -gaiety, thinking cannot be worth anything:"—so speaks the prejudice of -this serious animal against all "Joyful Wisdom."—Well, then! Let us show -that it is prejudice! - - - 328. - -_Doing Harm to Stupidity._—It is certain that the belief in the -reprehensibility of egoism, preached with such stubbornness and -conviction, has on the whole done harm to egoism (_in favour of the -herd-instinct_, as I shall repeat a hundred times!), especially by -depriving it of a good conscience, and bidding us seek in it the true -source of all misfortune. "Thy selfishness is the bane of thy life"—so -rang the preaching for millenniums: it did harm, as we have said, to -selfishness, and deprived it of much spirit, much cheerfulness, much -ingenuity, and much beauty; it stultified and deformed and poisoned -selfishness!—Philosophical antiquity, on the other hand, taught that -there was another principal source of evil: from Socrates downwards, the -thinkers were never weary of preaching that "your thoughtlessness and -stupidity, your unthinking way of living according to rule, and your -subjection to the opinion of your neighbour, are the reasons why you so -seldom attain to happiness,—we thinkers are, as thinkers, the happiest -of mortals." Let us not decide here whether this preaching against -stupidity was more sound than the preaching against selfishness; it is -certain, however, that stupidity was thereby deprived of its good -conscience:—these philosophers _did harm to stupidity_. - - - 329. - -_Leisure and Idleness._—There is an Indian savagery, a savagery peculiar -to the Indian blood, in the manner in which the Americans strive after -gold: and the breathless hurry of their work—the characteristic vice of -the new world—already begins to infect old Europe, and makes it savage -also, spreading over it a strange lack of intellectuality. One is now -ashamed of repose: even long reflection almost causes remorse of -conscience. Thinking is done with a stop-watch, as dining is done with -the eyes fixed on the financial newspaper; we live like men who are -continually "afraid of letting opportunities slip." "Better do anything -whatever, than nothing"—this principle also is a noose with which all -culture and all higher taste may be strangled. And just as all form -obviously disappears in this hurry of workers, so the sense for form -itself, the ear and the eye for the melody of movement, also disappear. -The proof of this is the _clumsy perspicuity_ which is now everywhere -demanded in all positions where a person would like to be sincere with -his fellows, in intercourse with friends, women, relatives, children, -teachers, pupils, leaders and princes,—one has no longer either time or -energy for ceremonies, for roundabout courtesies, for any _esprit_ in -conversation, or for any _otium_ whatever. For life in the hunt for gain -continually compels a person to consume his intellect, even to -exhaustion, in constant dissimulation, overreaching, or forestalling: -the real virtue nowadays is to do something in a shorter time than -another person. And so there are only rare hours of sincere intercourse -_permitted_: in them, however, people are tired, and would not only like -"to let themselves go," but _to stretch their legs_ out wide in awkward -style. The way people write their _letters_ nowadays is quite in keeping -with the age; their style and spirit will always be the true "sign of -the times." If there be still enjoyment in society and in art, it is -enjoyment such as over-worked slaves provide for themselves. Oh, this -moderation in "joy" of our cultured and uncultured classes! Oh, this -increasing suspiciousness of all enjoyment! _Work_ is winning over more -and more the good conscience to its side: the desire for enjoyment -already calls itself "need of recreation," and even begins to be ashamed -of itself. "One owes it to one's health," people say, when they are -caught at a picnic. Indeed, it might soon go so far that one could not -yield to the desire for the _vita contemplativa_ (that is to say, -excursions with thoughts and friends), without self-contempt and a bad -conscience.—Well! Formerly it was the very reverse: it was "action" that -suffered from a bad conscience. A man of good family _concealed_ his -work when need compelled him to labour. The slave laboured under the -weight of the feeling that he did something contemptible:—the "doing" -itself was something contemptible. "Only in _otium_ and _bellum_ is -there nobility and honour:" so rang the voice of ancient prejudice! - - - 330. - -_Applause._—The thinker does not need applause nor the clapping of -hands, provided he be sure of the clapping of his own hands: the latter, -however, he cannot do without. Are there men who could also do without -this, and in general without any kind of applause? I doubt it: and even -as regards the wisest, Tacitus, who is no calumniator of the wise, says: -_quando etiam sapientibus gloriæ cupido novissima exuitur_—that means -with him: never. - - - 331. - -_Better Deaf than Deafened._—Formerly a person wanted to have a -_calling_, but that no longer suffices to-day, for the market has become -too large,—there has now to be _bawling_. The consequence is that even -good throats outcry each other, and the best wares are offered for sale -with hoarse voices; without market-place bawling and hoarseness there is -now no longer any genius.—It is, sure enough, an evil age for the -thinker: he has to learn to find his stillness betwixt two noises, and -has to pretend to be deaf until he finally becomes so. As long as he has -not learned this, he is in danger of perishing from impatience and -headaches. - - - 332. - -_The Evil Hour._—There has perhaps been an evil hour for every -philosopher, in which he thought: What do I matter, if people should not -believe my poor arguments!—And then some malicious bird has flown past -him and twittered: "What do you matter? What do you matter?" - - - 333. - -_What does Knowing Mean?_—_Non ridere, non lugere, neque detestari, sed -intelligere!_ says Spinoza, so simply and sublimely, as is his wont. -Nevertheless, what else is this _intelligere_ ultimately, but just the -form in which the three other things become perceptible to us all at -once? A result of the diverging and opposite impulses of desiring to -deride, lament and execrate? Before knowledge is possible each of these -impulses must first have brought forward its one-sided view of the -object or event. The struggle of these one-sided views occurs -afterwards, and out of it there occasionally arises a compromise, a -pacification, a recognition of rights on all three sides, a sort of -justice and agreement: for in virtue of the justice and agreement all -those impulses can maintain themselves in existence and retain their -mutual rights. We, to whose consciousness only the closing -reconciliation scenes and final settling of accounts of these long -processes manifest themselves, think on that account that _intelligere_ -is something conciliating, just and good, something essentially -antithetical to the impulses; whereas it is only _a certain relation of -the impulses to one another_. For a very long time conscious thinking -was regarded as thinking proper: it is now only that the truth dawns -upon us that the greater part of our intellectual activity goes on -unconsciously and unfelt by us; I believe, however, that the impulses -which are here in mutual conflict understand right well how to make -themselves felt by _one another_, and how to cause pain:—the violent, -sudden exhaustion which overtakes all thinkers, may have its origin here -(it is the exhaustion of the battle-field). Aye, perhaps in our -struggling interior there is much concealed _heroism_, but certainly -nothing divine, or eternally-reposing-in-itself, as Spinoza supposed. -_Conscious_ thinking, and especially that of the philosopher, is the -weakest, and on that account also the relatively mildest and quietest -mode of thinking: and thus it is precisely the philosopher who is most -easily misled concerning the nature of knowledge. - - - 334. - -_One must Learn to Love._—This is our experience in music: we must first -_learn_ in general _to hear_, to hear fully, and to distinguish a theme -or a melody, we have to isolate and limit it as a life by itself; then -we need to exercise effort and good-will in order _to endure_ it in -spite of its strangeness, we need patience towards its aspect and -expression, and indulgence towards what is odd in it:—in the end there -comes a moment when we are _accustomed_ to it, when we expect it, when -it dawns upon us that we should miss it if it were lacking; and then it -goes on to exercise its spell and charm more and more, and does not -cease until we have become its humble and enraptured lovers, who want -it, and want it again, and ask for nothing better from the world.—It is -thus with us, however, not only in music: it is precisely thus that we -have _learned to love_ all things that we now love. We are always -finally recompensed for our good-will, our patience, reasonableness and -gentleness towards what is unfamiliar, by the unfamiliar slowly throwing -off its veil and presenting itself to us as a new, ineffable -beauty:—that is its _thanks_ for our hospitality. He also who loves -himself must have learned it in this way: there is no other way. Love -also has to be learned. - - - 335. - -_Cheers for Physics!_—How many men are there who know how to observe? -And among the few who do know,—how many observe themselves? "Everyone is -furthest from himself"—all the "triers of the reins" know that to their -discomfort; and the saying, "Know thyself," in the mouth of a God and -spoken to man, is almost a mockery. But that the case of -self-observation is so desperate, is attested best of all by the manner -in which _almost everybody_ talks of the nature of a moral action, that -prompt, willing, convinced, loquacious manner, with its look, its smile, -and its pleasing eagerness! Everyone seems inclined to say to you: "Why, -my dear Sir, that is precisely _my_ affair! You address yourself with -your question to him who _is authorised_ to answer, for I happen to be -wiser with regard to this matter than in anything else. Therefore, when -a man decides that '_this is right_,' when he accordingly concludes that -'_it must therefore be done_,' and thereupon _does_ what he has thus -recognised as right and designated as necessary—then the nature of his -action is _moral_!" But, my friend, you are talking to me about three -actions instead of one: your deciding, for instance, that "this is -right," is also an action,—could one not judge either morally or -immorally? _Why_ do you regard this, and just this, as right?—"Because -my conscience tells me so; conscience never speaks immorally, indeed it -determines in the first place what shall be moral!"—But why do you -_listen_ to the voice of your conscience? And in how far are you -justified in regarding such a judgment as true and infallible? This -_belief_—is there no further conscience for it? Do you know nothing of -an intellectual conscience? A conscience behind your "conscience"? Your -decision, "this is right," has a previous history in your impulses, your -likes and dislikes, your experiences and non-experiences; "_how_ has it -originated?" you must ask, and afterwards the further question: "_what_ -really impels me to give ear to it?" You can listen to its command like -a brave soldier who hears the command of his officer. Or like a woman -who loves him who commands. Or like a flatterer and coward, afraid of -the commander. Or like a blockhead who follows because he has nothing to -say to the contrary. In short, you can give ear to your conscience in a -hundred different ways. But _that_ you hear this or that judgment as the -voice of conscience, consequently, _that_ you feel a thing to be -right—may have its cause in the fact that you have never reflected about -yourself, and have blindly accepted from your childhood what has been -designated to you as _right_: or in the fact that hitherto bread and -honours have fallen to your share with that which you call your duty,—it -is "right" to you, because it seems to be _your_ "condition of -existence" (that you, however, have a _right_ to existence appears to -you as irrefutable!). The _persistency_ of your moral judgment might -still be just a proof of personal wretchedness or impersonality; your -"moral force" might have its source in your obstinacy—or in your -incapacity to perceive new ideals! And to be brief: if you had thought -more acutely, observed more accurately, and had learned more, you would -no longer under all circumstances call this and that your "duty" and -your "conscience": the knowledge _how moral judgments have in general -always originated_, would make you tired of these pathetic words,—as you -have already grown tired of other pathetic words, for instance "sin," -"salvation," and "redemption."—And now, my friend, do not talk to me -about the categorical imperative! That word tickles my ear, and I must -laugh in spite of your presence and your seriousness. In this connection -I recollect old Kant, who, as a punishment for having _gained possession -surreptitiously_ of the "thing in itself"—also a very ludicrous -affair!—was imposed upon by the categorical imperative, and with that in -his heart _strayed back again_ to "God," the "soul," "freedom," and -"immortality," like a fox which strays back into its cage: and it had -been _his_ strength and shrewdness which had _broken open_ this -cage!—What? You admire the categorical imperative in you? This -"persistency" of your so-called moral judgment? This absoluteness of the -feeling that "as I think on this matter, so must everyone think"? Admire -rather your _selfishness_ therein! And the blindness, paltriness, and -modesty of your selfishness! For it is selfishness in a person to regard -_his_ judgment as universal law, and a blind, paltry and modest -selfishness besides, because it betrays that you have not yet discovered -yourself, that you have not yet created for yourself any individual, -quite individual ideal:—for this could never be the ideal of another, to -say nothing of all, of every one!——He who still thinks that "each would -have to act in this manner in this case," has not yet advanced half a -dozen paces in self-knowledge: otherwise he would know that there -neither are nor can be similar actions,—that every action that has been -done, has been done in an entirely unique and inimitable manner, and -that it will be the same with regard to all future actions; that all -precepts of conduct (and even the most esoteric and subtle precepts of -all moralities up to the present), apply only to the coarse -exterior,—that by means of them, indeed, a semblance of equality can be -attained, _but only a semblance_,—that in outlook or retrospect, _every_ -action is and remains an impenetrable affair,—that our opinions of -"good," "noble" and "great" can never be demonstrated by our actions, -because no action is cognisable,—that our opinions, estimates, and -tables of values are certainly among the most powerful levers in the -mechanism of our actions, that in every single case, nevertheless, the -law of their mechanism is untraceable. Let us _confine_ ourselves, -therefore, to the purification of our opinions and appreciations, and to -the _construction of new tables of value of our own_:—we will, however, -brood no longer over the "moral worth of our actions"! Yes, my friends! -As regards the whole moral twaddle of people about one another, it is -time to be disgusted with it! To sit in judgment morally ought to be -opposed to our taste! Let us leave this nonsense and this bad taste to -those who have nothing else to do, save to drag the past a little -distance further through time, and who are never themselves the -present,—consequently to the many, to the majority! We, however, _would -seek to become what we are_,—the new, the unique, the incomparable, -making laws for ourselves and creating ourselves! And for this purpose -we must become the best students and discoverers of all the laws and -necessities in the world. We must be _physicists_ in order to be -_creators_ in that sense,—whereas hitherto all appreciations and ideals -have been based on _ignorance_ of physics, or in _contradiction_ to it. -And therefore, three cheers for physics! And still louder cheers for -that which _impels_ us to it—our honesty. - - - 336. - -_Avarice of Nature._—Why has nature been so niggardly towards humanity -that she has not let human beings shine, this man more and that man -less, according to their inner abundance of light? Why have not great -men such a fine visibility in their rising and setting as the sun? How -much less equivocal would life among men then be! - - - 337. - -_Future "Humanity."_—When I look at this age with the eye of a distant -future, I find nothing so remarkable in the man of the present day as -his peculiar virtue and sickness called "the historical sense." It is a -tendency to something quite new and foreign in history: if this embryo -were given several centuries and more, there might finally evolve out of -it a marvellous plant, with a smell equally marvellous, on account of -which our old earth might be more pleasant to live in than it has been -hitherto. We moderns are just beginning to form the chain of a very -powerful, future sentiment, link by link,—we hardly know what we are -doing. It almost seems to us as if it were not the question of a new -sentiment, but of the decline of all old sentiments:—the historical -sense is still something so poor and cold, and many are attacked by it -as by a frost, and are made poorer and colder by it. To others it -appears as the indication of stealthily approaching age, and our planet -is regarded by them as a melancholy invalid, who, in order to forget his -present condition, writes the history of his youth. In fact, this is one -aspect of the new sentiment. He who knows how to regard the history of -man in its entirety as _his own history_, feels in the immense -generalisation all the grief of the invalid who thinks of health, of the -old man who thinks of the dream of his youth, of the lover who is robbed -of his beloved, of the martyr whose ideal is destroyed, of the hero on -the evening of the indecisive battle which has brought him wounds and -the loss of a friend. But to bear this immense sum of grief of all -kinds, to be able to bear it, and yet still be the hero who at the -commencement of a second day of battle greets the dawn and his -happiness, as one who has an horizon of centuries before and behind him, -as the heir of all nobility, of all past intellect, and the obligatory -heir (as the noblest) of all the old nobles; while at the same time the -first of a new nobility, the equal of which has never been seen nor even -dreamt of: to take all this upon his soul, the oldest, the newest, the -losses, hopes, conquests, and victories of mankind: to have all this at -last in one soul, and to comprise it in one feeling:—this would -necessarily furnish a happiness which man has not hitherto known,—a -God's happiness, full of power and love, full of tears and laughter, a -happiness which, like the sun in the evening, continually gives of its -inexhaustible riches and empties into the sea,—and like the sun, too, -feels itself richest when even the poorest fisherman rows with golden -oars! This divine feeling might then be called—humanity! - - - 338. - -_The Will to Suffering and the Compassionate._—Is it to your advantage -to be above all compassionate? And is it to the advantage of the -sufferers when you are so? But let us leave the first question for a -moment without an answer.—That from which we suffer most profoundly and -personally is almost incomprehensible and inaccessible to every one -else: in this matter we are hidden from our neighbour even when he eats -at the same table with us. Everywhere, however, where we are _noticed_ -as sufferers, our suffering is interpreted in a shallow way; it belongs -to the nature of the emotion of pity to _divest_ unfamiliar suffering of -its properly personal character:—our "benefactors" lower our value and -volition more than our enemies. In most benefits which are conferred on -the unfortunate there is something shocking in the intellectual levity -with which the compassionate person plays the rôle of fate: he knows -nothing of all the inner consequences and complications which are called -misfortune for _me_ or for _you_! The entire economy of my soul and its -adjustment by "misfortune," the uprising of new sources and needs, the -closing up of old wounds, the repudiation of whole periods of the -past—none of these things which may be connected with misfortune -preoccupy the dear sympathiser. He wishes _to succour_, and does not -reflect that there is a personal necessity for misfortune; that terror, -want, impoverishment, midnight watches, adventures, hazards and mistakes -are as necessary to me and to you as their opposites, yea, that, to -speak mystically, the path to one's own heaven always leads through the -voluptuousness of one's own hell. No, he knows nothing thereof. The -"religion of compassion" (or "the heart") bids him help, and he thinks -he has helped best when he has helped most speedily! If you adherents of -this religion actually have the same sentiments towards yourselves which -you have towards your fellows, if you are unwilling to endure your own -suffering even for an hour, and continually forestall all possible -misfortune, if you regard suffering and pain generally as evil, as -detestable, as deserving of annihilation, and as blots on existence, -well, you have then, besides your religion of compassion, yet another -religion in your heart (and this is perhaps the mother of the -former)—_the religion of smug ease_. Ah, how little you know of the -_happiness_ of man, you comfortable and good-natured ones!—for happiness -and misfortune are brother and sister, and twins, who grow tall -together, or, as with you, _remain small_ together! But now let us -return to the first question.—How is it at all possible for a person to -keep to _his_ path! Some cry or other is continually calling one aside: -our eye then rarely lights on anything without it becoming necessary for -us to leave for a moment our own affairs and rush to give assistance. I -know there are hundreds of respectable and laudable methods of making me -stray _from my course_, and in truth the most "moral" of methods! -Indeed, the opinion of the present-day preachers of the morality of -compassion goes so far as to imply that just this, and this alone is -moral:—to stray from _our_ course to that extent and to run to the -assistance of our neighbour. I am equally certain that I need only give -myself over to the sight of one case of actual distress, and I, too, -_am_ lost! And if a suffering friend said to me, "See, I shall soon die, -only promise to die with me"—I might promise it, just as—to select for -once bad examples for good reasons—the sight of a small, mountain people -struggling for freedom, would bring me to the point of offering them my -hand and my life. Indeed, there is even a secret seduction in all this -awakening of compassion, and calling for help: our "own way" is a thing -too hard and insistent, and too far removed from the love and gratitude -of others,—we escape from it and from our most personal conscience, not -at all unwillingly, and, seeking security in the conscience of others, -we take refuge in the lovely temple of the "religion of pity." As soon -now as any war breaks out, there always breaks out at the same time a -certain secret delight precisely in the noblest class of the people: -they rush with rapture to meet the new danger of _death_, because they -believe that in the sacrifice for their country they have finally that -long-sought-for permission—the permission _to shirk their aim_:—war is -for them a detour to suicide, a detour, however, with a good conscience. -And although silent here about some things, I will not, however, be -silent about my morality, which says to me: Live in concealment in order -that thou _mayest_ live to thyself. Live _ignorant_ of that which seems -to thy age to be most important! Put at least the skin of three -centuries betwixt thyself and the present day! And the clamour of the -present day, the noise of wars and revolutions, ought to be a murmur to -thee! Thou wilt also want to help, but only those whose distress thou -entirely _understandest_, because they have _one_ sorrow and _one_ hope -in common with thee—thy _friends_: and only in _the_ way that thou -helpest thyself:—I want to make them more courageous, more enduring, -more simple, more joyful! I want to teach them that which at present so -few understand, and the preachers of fellowship in sorrow least of -all:—namely, _fellowship in joy_! - - - 339. - -_Vita femina._—To see the ultimate beauties in a work—all knowledge and -good-will is not enough; it requires the rarest, good chance for the -veil of clouds to move for once from the summits, and for the sun to -shine on them. We must not only stand at precisely the right place to -see this, our very soul itself must have pulled away the veil from its -heights, and must be in need of an external expression and simile, so as -to have a support and remain master of itself. All these, however, are -so rarely united at the same time that I am inclined to believe that the -highest summit of all that is good, be it work, deed, man, or nature, -has hitherto remained for most people, and even for the best, as -something concealed and shrouded:—that, however, which unveils itself to -us, _unveils itself to us but once_. The Greeks indeed prayed: "Twice -and thrice, everything beautiful!" Ah, they had their good reason to -call on the Gods, for ungodly actuality does not furnish us with the -beautiful at all, or only does so once! I mean to say that the world is -overfull of beautiful things, but it is nevertheless poor, very poor, in -beautiful moments, and in the unveiling of those beautiful things. But -perhaps this is the greatest charm of life: it puts a gold-embroidered -veil of lovely potentialities over itself, promising, resisting, modest, -mocking, sympathetic, seductive. Yes, life is a woman! - - - 340. - -_The Dying Socrates._—I admire the courage and wisdom of Socrates in all -that he did, said—and did not say. This mocking and amorous demon and -rat-catcher of Athens, who made the most insolent youths tremble and sob -was not only the wisest babbler that has ever lived, but was just as -great in his silence. I would that he had also been silent in the last -moment of his life,—perhaps he might then have belonged to a still -higher order of intellects. Whether it was death, or the poison, or -piety, or wickedness—something or other loosened his tongue at that -moment, and he said: "O Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepios." For him who -has ears, this ludicrous and terrible "last word" implies: "O Crito, -_life is a long sickness_!" Is it possible! A man like him, who had -lived cheerfully and to all appearance as a soldier,—was a pessimist! He -had merely put on a good demeanour towards life, and had all along -concealed his ultimate judgment, his profoundest sentiment! Socrates, -Socrates _had suffered from life_! And he also took his revenge for -it—with that veiled, fearful, pious, and blasphemous phrase! Had even a -Socrates to revenge himself? Was there a grain too little of magnanimity -in his superabundant virtue? Ah, my friends! We must surpass even the -Greeks! - - - 341. - -_The Heaviest Burden._—What if a demon crept after thee into thy -loneliest loneliness some day or night, and said to thee: "This life, as -thou livest it at present, and hast lived it, thou must live it once -more, and also innumerable times; and there will be nothing new in it, -but every pain and every joy and every thought and every sigh, and all -the unspeakably small and great in thy life must come to thee again, and -all in the same series and sequence—and similarly this spider and this -moonlight among the trees, and similarly this moment, and I myself. The -eternal sand-glass of existence will ever be turned once more, and thou -with it, thou speck of dust!"—Wouldst thou not throw thyself down and -gnash thy teeth, and curse the demon that so spake? Or hast thou once -experienced a tremendous moment in which thou wouldst answer him: "Thou -art a God, and never did I hear aught more divine!" If that thought -acquired power over thee, as thou art, it would transform thee, and -perhaps crush thee; the question with regard to all and everything: -"Dost thou want this once more, and also for innumerable times?" would -lie as the heaviest burden upon thy activity! Or, how wouldst thou have -to become favourably inclined to thyself and to life, so as _to long for -nothing more ardently_ than for this last eternal sanctioning and -sealing?— - - - 342. - -_Incipit Tragœdia._—When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his -home and the Lake of Urmi, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed -his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But -at last his heart changed,—and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he -went before the sun and spake thus unto it: "Thou great star! What would -be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for whom thou shinest! For ten -years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have wearied -of thy light and of the journey, had it not been for me, mine eagle, and -my serpent. But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine -overflow, and blessed thee for it. Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the -bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take -it. I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more -become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches. -Therefore must I descend into the deep, as thou doest in the evening, -when thou goest behind the sea and givest light also to the -nether-world, thou most rich star! Like thee must I _go down_, as men -say, to whom I shall descend. Bless me then, thou tranquil eye, that -canst behold even the greatest happiness without envy! Bless the cup -that is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden out of it, and -carry everywhere the reflection of thy bliss! Lo! This cup is again -going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again going to be a man."—Thus -began Zarathustra's down-going. - ------ - -Footnote 10: - - The distinction between ethos and pathos in Aristotle is, broadly, - that between internal character and external circumstance.—P. V. C. - - - - - BOOK FIFTH - - WE FEARLESS ONES - - - "Carcasse, tu trembles? Tu - tremblerais bien davantage, si - tu savais, où je te mène."— - _Turenne._ - - - 343. - -_What our Cheerfulness Signifies._—The most important of more recent -events—that "God is dead," that the belief in the Christian God has -become unworthy of belief—already begins to cast its first shadows over -Europe. To the few at least whose eye, whose _suspecting_ glance, is -strong enough and subtle enough for this drama, some sun seems to have -set, some old, profound confidence seems to have changed into doubt: our -old world must seem to them daily more darksome, distrustful, strange -and "old." In the main, however, one may say that the event itself is -far too great, too remote, too much beyond most people's power of -apprehension, for one to suppose that so much as the report of it could -have _reached_ them; not to speak of many who already knew _what_ had -really taken place, and what must all collapse now that this belief had -been undermined,—because so much was built upon it, so much rested on -it, and had become one with it: for example, our entire European -morality. This lengthy, vast and uninterrupted process of crumbling, -destruction, ruin and overthrow which is now imminent: who has realised -it sufficiently to-day to have to stand up as the teacher and herald of -such a tremendous logic of terror, as the prophet of a period of gloom -and eclipse, the like of which has probably never taken place on earth -before?... Even we, the born riddle-readers, who wait as it were on the -mountains posted 'twixt to-day and to-morrow, and engirt by their -contradiction, we, the firstlings and premature children of the coming -century, into whose sight especially the shadows which must forthwith -envelop Europe _should_ already have come—how is it that even we, -without genuine sympathy for this period of gloom, contemplate its -advent without any _personal_ solicitude or fear? Are we still, perhaps, -too much under the _immediate effects_ of the event—and are these -effects, especially as regards _ourselves_, perhaps the reverse of what -was to be expected—not at all sad and depressing, but rather like a new -and indescribable variety of light, happiness, relief, enlivenment, -encouragement, and dawning day?... In fact, we philosophers and "free -spirits" feel ourselves irradiated as by a new dawn by the report that -the "old God is dead"; our hearts overflow with gratitude, astonishment, -presentiment and expectation. At last the horizon seems open once more, -granting even that it is not bright; our ships can at last put out to -sea in face of every danger; every hazard is again permitted to the -discerner; the sea, _our_ sea, again lies open before us; perhaps never -before did such an "open sea" exist.— - - - 344. - -_To what Extent even We are still Pious._—It is said with good reason -that convictions have no civic rights in the domain of science: it is -only when a conviction voluntarily condescends to the modesty of an -hypothesis, a preliminary standpoint for experiment, or a regulative -fiction, that its access to the realm of knowledge, and a certain value -therein, can be conceded,—always, however, with the restriction that it -must remain under police supervision, under the police of our -distrust.—Regarded more accurately, however, does not this imply that -only when a conviction _ceases_ to be a conviction can it obtain -admission into science? Does not the discipline of the scientific spirit -just commence when one no longer harbours any conviction?... It is -probably so: only, it remains to be asked whether, _in order that this -discipline may commence_, it is not necessary that there should already -be a conviction, and in fact one so imperative and absolute, that it -makes a sacrifice of all other convictions. One sees that science also -rests on a belief: there is no science at all "without premises." The -question whether _truth_ is necessary, must not merely be affirmed -beforehand, but must be affirmed to such an extent that the principle, -belief, or conviction finds expression, that "there is _nothing more -necessary_ than truth, and in comparison with it everything else has -only a secondary value."—This absolute will to truth: what is it? Is it -the will _not to allow ourselves to be deceived_? Is it the will _not to -deceive_? For the will to truth could also be interpreted in this -fashion, provided one includes under the generalisation, "I will not -deceive," the special case, "I will not deceive myself." But why not -deceive? Why not allow oneself to be deceived?—Let it be noted that the -reasons for the former eventuality belong to a category quite different -from those for the latter: one does not want to be deceived oneself, -under the supposition that it is injurious, dangerous, or fatal to be -deceived,—in this sense science would be a prolonged process of caution, -foresight and utility; against which, however, one might reasonably make -objections. What? is not-wishing-to-be-deceived really less injurious, -less dangerous, less fatal? What do you know of the character of -existence in all its phases to be able to decide whether the greater -advantage is on the side of absolute distrust, or of absolute -trustfulness? In case, however, of both being necessary, much trusting -_and_ much distrusting, whence then should science derive the absolute -belief, the conviction on which it rests, that truth is more important -than anything else, even than every other conviction? This conviction -could not have arisen if truth _and_ untruth had both continually proved -themselves to be useful: as is the case. Thus—the belief in science, -which now undeniably exists, cannot have had its origin in such a -utilitarian calculation, but rather _in spite of_ the fact of the -inutility and dangerousness of the "Will to truth," of "truth at all -costs," being continually demonstrated. "At all costs": alas, we -understand that sufficiently well, after having sacrificed and -slaughtered one belief after another at this altar!—Consequently, "Will -to truth" does _not_ imply, "I will not allow myself to be deceived," -but—there is no other alternative—"I will not deceive, not even myself": -_and thus we have reached the realm of morality_. For, let one just ask -oneself fairly: "Why wilt thou not deceive?" especially if it should -seem—and it does seem—as if life were laid out with a view to -appearance, I mean, with a view to error, deceit, dissimulation, -delusion, self-delusion; and when on the other hand it is a matter of -fact that the great type of life has always manifested itself on the -side of the most unscrupulous πολύτροποι. Such an intention might -perhaps, to express it mildly, be a piece of Quixotism, a little -enthusiastic craziness; it might also, however, be something worse, -namely, a destructive principle, hostile to life.... "Will to -Truth,"—that might be a concealed Will to Death.—Thus the question, Why -is there science? leads back to the moral problem: _What in general is -the purpose of morality_, if life, nature, and history are "non-moral"? -There is no doubt that the conscientious man in the daring and extreme -sense in which he is presupposed by the belief in science, _affirms -thereby a world other than_ that of life, nature, and history; and in so -far as he affirms this "other world," what? must he not just -thereby—deny its counterpart, this world, _our_ world?... But what I -have in view will now be understood, namely, that it is always a -_metaphysical belief_ on which our belief in science rests,—and that -even we knowing ones of to-day, the godless and anti-metaphysical, still -take _our_ fire from the conflagration kindled by a belief a millennium -old, the Christian belief, which was also the belief of Plato, that God -is truth, that the truth is divine.... But what if this itself always -becomes more untrustworthy, what if nothing any longer proves itself -divine, except it be error, blindness, and falsehood;—what if God -himself turns out to be our most persistent lie?— - - - 345. - -_Morality as a Problem._—A defect in personality revenges itself -everywhere: an enfeebled, lank, obliterated, self-disavowing and -disowning personality is no longer fit for anything good—it is least of -all fit for philosophy. "Selflessness" has no value either in heaven or -on earth; the great problems all demand _great love_, and it is only the -strong, well-rounded, secure spirits, those who have a solid basis, that -are qualified for them. It makes the most material difference whether a -thinker stands personally related to his problems, having his fate, his -need, and even his highest happiness therein; or merely impersonally, -that is to say, if he can only feel and grasp them with the tentacles of -cold, prying thought. In the latter case I warrant that nothing comes of -it: for the great problems, granting that they let themselves be grasped -at all, do not let themselves be _held_ by toads and weaklings: that has -ever been their taste—a taste also which they share with all -high-spirited women.—How is it that I have not yet met with any one, not -even in books, who seems to have stood to morality in this position, as -one who knew morality as a problem, and this problem as _his own_ -personal need, affliction, pleasure and passion? It is obvious that up -to the present morality has not been a problem at all; it has rather -been the very ground on which people have met, after all distrust, -dissension, and contradiction, the hallowed place of peace, where -thinkers could obtain rest even from themselves, could recover breath -and revive. I see no one who has ventured to _criticise_ the estimates -of moral worth. I miss in this connection even the attempts of -scientific curiosity, and the fastidious, groping imagination of -psychologists and historians, which easily anticipates a problem and -catches it on the wing, without rightly knowing what it catches. With -difficulty I have discovered some scanty data for the purpose of -furnishing a _history of the origin_ of these feelings and estimates of -value (which is something different from a criticism of them, and also -something different from a history of ethical systems). In an individual -case, I have done everything to encourage the inclination and talent for -this kind of history—in vain, as it would seem to me at present. There -is little to be learned from those historians of morality (especially -Englishmen): they themselves are usually, quite unsuspiciously, under -the influence of a definite morality, and act unwittingly as its -armour-bearers and followers—perhaps still repeating sincerely the -popular superstition of Christian Europe, that the characteristic of -moral action consists in abnegation, self-denial, self-sacrifice, or in -fellow-feeling and fellow-suffering. The usual error in their premises -is their insistence on a certain _consensus_ among human beings, at -least among civilised human beings, with regard to certain propositions -of morality, and from thence they conclude that these propositions are -absolutely binding even upon you and me; or reversely, they come to the -conclusion that _no_ morality at all is binding, after the truth has -dawned upon them that to different peoples moral valuations are -_necessarily_ different: both of which conclusions are equally childish -follies. The error of the more subtle amongst them is that they discover -and criticise the probably foolish opinions of a people about its own -morality, or the opinions of mankind about human morality generally; -they treat accordingly of its origin, its religious sanctions, the -superstition of free will, and such matters; and they think that just by -so doing they have criticised the morality itself. But the worth of a -precept, "Thou shalt," is still fundamentally different from and -independent of such opinions about it, and must be distinguished from -the weeds of error with which it has perhaps been overgrown: just as the -worth of a medicine to a sick person is altogether independent of the -question whether he has a scientific opinion about medicine, or merely -thinks about it as an old wife would do. A morality could even have -grown _out of_ an error: but with this knowledge the problem of its -worth would not even be touched.—Thus, no one has hitherto tested the -_value_ of that most celebrated of all medicines, called morality: for -which purpose it is first of all necessary for one—_to call it in -question_. Well, that is just our work.— - - - 346. - -_Our Note of Interrogation._—But you don't understand it? As a matter of -fact, an effort will be necessary in order to understand us. We seek for -words; we seek perhaps also for ears. Who are we after all? If we wanted -simply to call ourselves in older phraseology, atheists, unbelievers, or -even immoralists, we should still be far from thinking ourselves -designated thereby: we are all three in too late a phase for people -generally to conceive, for _you_, my inquisitive friends, to be able to -conceive, what is our state of mind under the circumstances. No! we have -no longer the bitterness and passion of him who has broken loose, who -has to make for himself a belief, a goal, and even a martyrdom out of -his unbelief! We have become saturated with the conviction (and have -grown cold and hard in it) that things are not at all divinely ordered -in this world, nor even according to human standards do they go on -rationally, mercifully, or justly: we know the fact that the world in -which we live is ungodly, immoral, and "inhuman,"—we have far too long -interpreted it to ourselves falsely and mendaciously, according to the -wish and will of our veneration, that is to say, according to our -_need_. For man is a venerating animal! But he is also a distrustful -animal: and that the world is _not_ worth what we have believed it to be -worth is about the surest thing our distrust has at last managed to -grasp. So much distrust, so much philosophy! We take good care not to -say that the world is of _less_ value: it seems to us at present -absolutely ridiculous when man claims to devise values _to surpass_ the -values of the actual world,—it is precisely from that point that we have -retraced our steps; as from an extravagant error of human conceit and -irrationality, which for a long period has not been recognised as such. -This error had its last expression in modern Pessimism; an older and -stronger manifestation in the teaching of Buddha; but Christianity also -contains it, more dubiously, to be sure, and more ambiguously, but none -the less seductive on that account. The whole attitude of "man _versus_ -the world," man as world-denying principle, man as the standard of the -value of things, as judge of the world, who in the end puts existence -itself on his scales and finds it too light—the monstrous impertinence -of this attitude has dawned upon us as such, and has disgusted us,—we -now laugh when we find, "Man _and_ World" placed beside one another, -separated by the sublime presumption of the little word "and"! But how -is it? Have we not in our very laughing just made a further step in -despising mankind? And consequently also in Pessimism, in despising the -existence cognisable _by us_? Have we not just thereby become liable to -a suspicion of an opposition between the world in which we have hitherto -been at home with our venerations—for the sake of which we perhaps -_endure_ life—and another world _which we ourselves are_: an inexorable, -radical, most profound suspicion concerning ourselves, which is -continually getting us Europeans more annoyingly into its power, and -could easily face the coming generation with the terrible alternative: -"Either do away with your venerations, or—_with yourselves_!" The latter -would be Nihilism—but would not the former also be Nihilism? This is -_our_ note of interrogation. - - - 347. - -_Believers and their Need of Belief._—How much _faith_ a person requires -in order to flourish, how much "fixed opinion" he requires which he does -not wish to have shaken, because he _holds_ himself thereby—is a measure -of his power (or more plainly speaking, of his weakness). Most people in -old Europe, as it seems to me, still need Christianity at present, and -on that account it still finds belief. For such is man: a theological -dogma might be refuted to him a thousand times,—provided, however, that -he had need of it, he would again and again accept it as -"true,"—according to the famous "proof of power" of which the Bible -speaks. Some have still need of metaphysics; but also the impatient -_longing for certainty_ which at present discharges itself in -scientific, positivist fashion among large numbers of the people, the -longing by all means to get at something stable (while on account of the -warmth of the longing the establishing of the certainty is more -leisurely and negligently undertaken): even this is still the longing -for a hold, a support; in short, the _instinct of weakness_, which, -while not actually creating religions, metaphysics, and convictions of -all kinds, nevertheless—preserves them. In fact, around all these -positivist systems there fume the vapours of a certain pessimistic -gloom, something of weariness, fatalism, disillusionment, and fear of -new disillusionment—or else manifest animosity, ill-humour, anarchic -exasperation, and whatever there is of symptom or masquerade of the -feeling of weakness. Even the readiness with which our cleverest -contemporaries get lost in wretched corners and alleys, for example, in -Vaterländerei (so I designate Jingoism, called _chauvinisme_ in France, -and "_deutsch_" in Germany), or in petty æsthetic creeds in the manner -of Parisian _naturalisme_ (which only brings into prominence and -uncovers _that_ aspect of nature which excites simultaneously disgust -and astonishment—they like at present to call this aspect _la vérité -vraie_), or in Nihilism in the St Petersburg style (that is to say, in -the _belief in unbelief_, even to martyrdom for it):—this shows always -and above all the need of belief, support, backbone, and buttress.... -Belief is always most desired, most pressingly needed where there is a -lack of will: for the will, as emotion of command, is the distinguishing -characteristic of sovereignty and power. That is to say, the less a -person knows how to command, the more urgent is his desire for one who -commands, who commands sternly,—a God, a prince, a caste, a physician, a -confessor, a dogma, a party conscience. From whence perhaps it could be -inferred that the two world-religions, Buddhism and Christianity, might -well have had the cause of their rise, and especially of their rapid -extension, in an extraordinary _malady of the will_. And in truth it has -been so: both religions lighted upon a longing, monstrously exaggerated -by malady of the will, for an imperative, a "Thou-shalt," a longing -going the length of despair; both religions were teachers of fanaticism -in times of slackness of will-power, and thereby offered to innumerable -persons a support, a new possibility of exercising will, an enjoyment in -willing. For in fact fanaticism is the sole "volitional strength" to -which the weak and irresolute can be excited, as a sort of hypnotising -of the entire sensory-intellectual system, in favour of the -over-abundant nutrition (hypertrophy) of a particular point of view and -a particular sentiment, which then dominates—the Christian calls it his -_faith_. When a man arrives at the fundamental conviction that he -_requires_ to be commanded, he becomes "a believer." Reversely, one -could imagine a delight and a power of self-determining, and a _freedom_ -of will whereby a spirit could bid farewell to every belief, to every -wish for certainty, accustomed as it would be to support itself on -slender cords and possibilities, and to dance even on the verge of -abysses. Such a spirit would be the _free spirit par excellence_. - - - 348. - -_The Origin of the Learned._—The learned man in Europe grows out of all -the different ranks and social conditions, like a plant requiring no -specific soil: on that account he belongs essentially and involuntarily -to the partisans of democratic thought. But this origin betrays itself. -If one has trained one's glance to some extent to recognise in a learned -book or scientific treatise the intellectual _idiosyncrasy_ of the -learned man—all of them have such idiosyncrasy,—and if we take it by -surprise, we shall almost always get a glimpse behind it of the -"antecedent history" of the learned man and his family, especially of -the nature of their callings and occupations. Where the feeling finds -expression, "That is at last proved, I am now done with it," it is -commonly the ancestor in the blood and instincts of the learned man that -approves of the "accomplished work" in the nook from which he sees -things;—the belief in the proof is only an indication of what has been -looked upon for ages by a laborious family as "good work." Take an -example: the sons of registrars and office-clerks of every kind, whose -main task has always been to arrange a variety of material, distribute -it in drawers, and systematise it generally, evince, when they become -learned men, an inclination to regard a problem as almost solved when -they have systematised it. There are philosophers who are at bottom -nothing but systematising brains—the formal part of the paternal -occupation has become its essence to them. The talent for -classifications, for tables of categories, betrays something; it is not -for nothing that a person is the child of his parents. The son of an -advocate will also have to be an advocate as investigator: he seeks as a -first consideration, to carry the point in his case, as a second -consideration, he perhaps seeks to be in the right. One recognises the -sons of Protestant clergymen and schoolmasters by the naïve assurance -with which as learned men they already assume their case to be proved, -when it has but been presented by them staunchly and warmly: they are -thoroughly accustomed to people _believing_ in them,—it belonged to -their fathers' "trade"! A Jew, contrariwise, in accordance with his -business surroundings and the past of his race, is least of all -accustomed—to people believing him. Observe Jewish scholars with regard -to this matter,—they all lay great stress on logic, that is to say, on -_compelling_ assent by means of reasons; they know that they must -conquer thereby, even when race and class antipathy is against them, -even where people are unwilling to believe them. For in fact, nothing is -more democratic than logic: it knows no respect of persons, and takes -even the crooked nose as straight. (In passing we may remark that in -respect to logical thinking, in respect to _cleaner_ intellectual -habits, Europe is not a little indebted to the Jews; above all the -Germans, as being a lamentably _déraisonnable_ race, who, even at the -present day, must always have their "heads washed"[11] in the first -place. Wherever the Jews have attained to influence, they have taught to -analyse more subtly, to argue more acutely, to write more clearly and -purely: it has always been their problem to bring a people "to -_raison_.") - - - 349. - -_The Origin of the Learned once more._—To seek self-preservation merely, -is the expression of a state of distress, or of limitation of the true, -fundamental instinct of life, which aims at the _extension of power_, -and with this in view often enough calls in question self-preservation -and sacrifices it. It should be taken as symptomatic when individual -philosophers, as for example, the consumptive Spinoza, have seen and -have been obliged to see the principal feature of life precisely in the -so-called self-preservative instinct:—they have just been men in states -of distress. That our modern natural sciences have entangled themselves -so much with Spinoza's dogma (finally and most grossly in Darwinism, -with its inconceivably one-sided doctrine of the "struggle for -existence"—), is probably owing to the origin of most of the inquirers -into nature: they belong in this respect to the people, their -forefathers have been poor and humble persons, who knew too well by -immediate experience the difficulty of making a living. Over the whole -of English Darwinism there hovers something of the suffocating air of -over-crowded England, something of the odour of humble people in need -and in straits. But as an investigator of nature, a person ought to -emerge from his paltry human nook: and in nature the state of distress -does not _prevail_, but superfluity, even prodigality to the extent of -folly. The struggle for existence is only an _exception_, a temporary -restriction of the will to live; the struggle, be it great or small, -turns everywhere on predominance, on increase and expansion, on power, -in conformity to the will to power, which is just the will to live. - - - 350. - -_In Honour of Homines Religiosi._—The struggle against the church is -most certainly (among other things—for it has a manifold significance) -the struggle of the more ordinary, cheerful, confiding, superficial -natures against the rule of the graver, profounder, more contemplative -natures, that is to say, the more malign and suspicious men, who with -long continued distrust in the worth of life, brood also over their own -worth:—the ordinary instinct of the people, its sensual gaiety, its -"good heart," revolts against them. The entire Roman Church rests on a -Southern suspicion of the nature of man (always misunderstood in the -North), a suspicion whereby the European South has succeeded to the -inheritance of the profound Orient—the mysterious, venerable Asia—and -its contemplative spirit. Protestantism was a popular insurrection in -favour of the simple, the respectable, the superficial (the North has -always been more good-natured and more shallow than the South), but it -was the French Revolution that first gave the sceptre wholly and -solemnly into the hands of the "good man" (the sheep, the ass, the -goose, and everything incurably shallow, bawling, and fit for the Bedlam -of "modern ideas"). - - - 351. - -_In Honour of Priestly Natures._—I think that philosophers have always -felt themselves furthest removed from that which the people (in all -classes of society nowadays) take for wisdom: the prudent, bovine -placidity, piety, and country-parson meekness, which lies in the meadow -and _gazes at_ life seriously and ruminatingly:—this is probably because -philosophers have not had sufficiently the taste of the "people," or of -the country-parson for that kind of wisdom. Philosophers will also -perhaps be the latest to acknowledge that the people _should_ understand -something of that which lies furthest from them, something of the great -_passion_ of the thinker, who lives and must live continually in the -storm-cloud of the highest problems and the heaviest responsibilities -(consequently, not gazing at all, to say nothing of doing so -indifferently, securely, objectively). The people venerate an entirely -different type of man when on their part they form the ideal of a -"sage," and they are a thousand times justified in rendering homage with -the highest eulogies and honours to precisely that type of men—namely, -the gentle, serious, simple, chaste, priestly natures and those related -to them,—it is to them that the praise falls due in the popular -veneration of wisdom. And to whom should the people ever have more -reason to be grateful than to these men who pertain to its class and -rise from its ranks, but are persons consecrated, chosen, and -_sacrificed_ for its good—they themselves believe themselves sacrificed -to God,—before whom the people can pour forth its heart with impunity, -by whom it can _get rid_ of its secrets, cares, and worse things (for -the man who "communicates himself" gets rid of himself, and he who has -"confessed" forgets). Here there exists a great need: for sewers and -pure cleansing waters are required also for spiritual filth, and rapid -currents of love are needed, and strong, lowly, pure hearts, who qualify -and sacrifice themselves for such service of the non-public health -department—for it _is_ a sacrificing, the priest is, and continues to -be, a human sacrifice.... The people regard such sacrificed, silent, -serious men of "faith" as "_wise_," that is to say, as men who have -become sages, as "reliable" in relation to their own unreliability. Who -would desire to deprive the people of that expression and that -veneration?—But as is fair on the other side, among philosophers the -priest also is still held to belong to the "people," and is _not_ -regarded as a sage, because, above all, they themselves do not believe -in "sages," and they already scent "the people" in this very belief and -superstition. It was _modesty_ which invented in Greece the word -"philosopher," and left to the play-actors of the spirit the superb -arrogance of assuming the name "wise"—the modesty of such monsters of -pride and self-glorification as Pythagoras and Plato.— - - - 352. - -_Why we can hardly Dispense with Morality._—The naked man is generally -an ignominious spectacle—I speak of us European males (and by no means -of European females!). If the most joyous company at table suddenly -found themselves stripped and divested of their garments through the -trick of an enchanter, I believe that not only would the joyousness be -gone and the strongest appetite lost;—it seems that we Europeans cannot -at all dispense with the masquerade that is called clothing. But should -not the disguise of "moral men," the screening under moral formulæ and -notions of decency, the whole kindly concealment of our conduct under -conceptions of duty, virtue, public sentiment, honourableness, and -disinterestedness, have just as good reasons in support of it? Not that -I mean hereby that human wickedness and baseness, in short, the evil -wild beast in us, should be disguised; on the contrary, my idea is that -it is precisely as _tame animals_ that we are an ignominious spectacle -and require moral disguising,—that the "inner man" in Europe is far from -having enough of intrinsic evil "to let himself be seen" with it (to be -_beautiful_ with it). The European disguises himself _in morality_ -because he has become a sick, sickly, crippled animal, who has good -reasons for being "tame," because he is almost an abortion, an -imperfect, weak and clumsy thing.... It is not the fierceness of the -beast of prey that finds moral disguise necessary, but the gregarious -animal, with its profound mediocrity, anxiety and ennui. _Morality -dresses up the European_—let us acknowledge it!—in more distinguished, -more important, more conspicuous guise—in "divine" guise— - - - 353. - -_The Origin of Religions._—The real inventions of founders of religions -are, on the one hand, to establish a definite mode of life and everyday -custom, which operates as _disciplina voluntatis_, and at the same time -does away with ennui; and on the other hand, to give to that very mode -of life an _interpretation_, by virtue of which it appears illumined -with the highest value; so that it henceforth becomes a good for which -people struggle, and under certain circumstances lay down their lives. -In truth, the second of these inventions is the more essential: the -first, the mode of life, has usually been there already, side by side, -however, with other modes of life, and still unconscious of the value -which it embodies. The import, the originality of the founder of a -religion, discloses itself usually in the fact that he _sees_ the mode -of life, _selects_ it, and _divines_ for the first time the purpose for -which it can be used, how it can be interpreted. Jesus (or Paul), for -example, found around him the life of the common people in the Roman -province, a modest, virtuous, oppressed life: he interpreted it, he put -the highest significance and value into it—and thereby the courage to -despise every other mode of life, the calm fanaticism of the Moravians, -the secret, subterranean self-confidence which goes on increasing, and -is at last ready "to overcome the world" (that is to say, Rome, and the -upper classes throughout the empire). Buddha, in like manner, found the -same type of man,—he found it in fact dispersed among all the classes -and social ranks of a people who were good and kind (and above all -inoffensive), owing to indolence, and who likewise owing to indolence, -lived abstemiously, almost without requirements. He understood that such -a type of man, with all its _vis inertiae_, had inevitably to glide into -a belief which promises _to avoid_ the return of earthly ill (that is to -say, labour and activity generally),—this "understanding" was his -genius. The founder of a religion possesses psychological infallibility -in the knowledge of a definite, average type of souls, who have not yet -_recognised_ themselves as akin. It is he who brings them together: the -founding of a religion, therefore, always becomes a long ceremony of -recognition.— - - - 354. - -_The "Genius of the Species."_—The problem of consciousness (or more -correctly: of becoming conscious of oneself) meets us only when we begin -to perceive in what measure we could dispense with it: and it is at the -beginning of this perception that we are now placed by physiology and -zoology (which have thus required two centuries to overtake the hint -thrown out in advance by Leibnitz). For we could in fact think, feel, -will, and recollect, we could likewise "act" in every sense of the term, -and nevertheless nothing of it all would require to "come into -consciousness" (as one says metaphorically). The whole of life would be -possible without its seeing itself as it were in a mirror: as in fact -even at present the far greater part of our life still goes on without -this mirroring,—and even our thinking, feeling, volitional life as well, -however painful this statement may sound to an older philosopher. _What_ -then is _the purpose_ of consciousness generally, when it is in the main -_superfluous_?—Now it seems to me, if you will hear my answer and its -perhaps extravagant supposition, that the subtlety and strength of -consciousness are always in proportion to the _capacity for -communication_ of a man (or an animal), the capacity for communication -in its turn being in proportion to the _necessity for communication_: -the latter not to be understood as if precisely the individual himself -who is master in the art of communicating and making known his -necessities would at the same time have to be most dependent upon others -for his necessities. It seems to me, however, to be so in relation to -whole races and successions of generations: where necessity and need -have long compelled men to communicate with their fellows and understand -one another rapidly and subtly, a surplus of the power and art of -communication is at last acquired, as if it were a fortune which had -gradually accumulated, and now waited for an heir to squander it -prodigally (the so-called artists are these heirs, in like manner the -orators, preachers, and authors: all of them men who come at the end of -a long succession, "late-born" always, in the best sense of the word, -and as has been said, _squanderers_ by their very nature). Granted that -this observation is correct, I may proceed further to the conjecture -that _consciousness generally has only been developed under the pressure -of the necessity for communication_,—that from the first it has been -necessary and useful only between man and man (especially between those -commanding and those obeying), and has only developed in proportion to -its utility. Consciousness is properly only a connecting network between -man and man,—it is only as such that it has had to develop; the recluse -and wild-beast species of men would not have needed it. The very fact -that our actions, thoughts, feelings and motions come within the range -of our consciousness—at least a part of them—is the result of a -terrible, prolonged "must" ruling man's destiny: as the most endangered -animal he _needed_ help and protection; he needed his fellows, he was -obliged to express his distress, he had to know how to make himself -understood—and for all this he needed "consciousness" first of all, -consequently, to "know" himself what he lacked, to "know" how he felt -and to "know" what he thought. For, to repeat it once more, man, like -every living creature, thinks unceasingly, but does not know it; the -thinking which is becoming _conscious of itself_ is only the smallest -part thereof, we may say, the most superficial part, the worst part:—for -this conscious thinking alone _is done in words, that is to say, in the -symbols for communication_, by means of which the origin of -consciousness is revealed. In short, the development of speech and the -development of consciousness (not of reason, but of reason becoming -self-conscious) go hand in hand. Let it be further accepted that it is -not only speech that serves as a bridge between man and man, but also -the looks, the pressure and the gestures; our becoming conscious of our -sense impressions, our power of being able to fix them, and as it were -to locate them outside of ourselves, has increased in proportion as the -necessity has increased for communicating them to _others_ by means of -signs. The sign-inventing man is at the same time the man who is always -more acutely self-conscious; it is only as a social animal that man has -learned to become conscious of himself,—he is doing so still, and doing -so more and more.—As is obvious, my idea is that consciousness does not -properly belong to the individual existence of man, but rather to the -social and gregarious nature in him; that, as follows therefrom, it is -only in relation to communal and gregarious utility that it is finely -developed; and that consequently each of us, in spite of the best -intention of _understanding_ himself as individually as possible, and of -"knowing himself," will always just call into consciousness the -non-individual in him, namely, his "averageness";—that our thought -itself is continuously as it were _outvoted_ by the character of -consciousness—by the imperious "genius of the species" therein—and is -translated back into the perspective of the herd. Fundamentally our -actions are in an incomparable manner altogether personal, unique and -absolutely individual—there is no doubt about it; but as soon as we -translate them into consciousness, they _do not appear so any -longer_.... This is the proper phenomenalism and perspectivism as I -understand it: the nature of _animal consciousness_ involves the notion -that the world of which we can become conscious is only a superficial -and symbolic world, a generalised and vulgarised world;—that everything -which becomes conscious _becomes_ just thereby shallow, meagre, -relatively stupid,—a generalisation, a symbol, a characteristic of the -herd; that with the evolving of consciousness there is always combined a -great, radical perversion, falsification, superficialisation, and -generalisation. Finally, the growing consciousness is a danger, and -whoever lives among the most conscious Europeans knows even that it is a -disease. As may be conjectured, it is not the antithesis of subject and -object with which I am here concerned: I leave that distinction to the -epistemologists who have remained entangled in the toils of grammar -(popular metaphysics). It is still less the antithesis of "thing in -itself" and phenomenon, for we do not "know" enough to be entitled even -_to make such a distinction_. Indeed, we have not any organ at all for -_knowing_ or for "truth"; we "know" (or believe, or fancy) just as much -as may be _of use_ in the interest of the human herd, the species; and -even what is here called "usefulness" is ultimately only a belief, a -fancy, and perhaps precisely the most fatal stupidity by which we shall -one day be ruined. - - - 355. - -_The Origin of our Conception of "Knowledge."_—I take this explanation -from the street. I heard one of the people saying that "he knew me," -so I asked myself: What do the people really understand by knowledge? -What do they want when they seek "knowledge"? Nothing more than that -what is strange is to be traced back to something _known_. And we -philosophers—have we really understood _anything more_ by knowledge? -The known, that is to say, what we are accustomed to, so that we no -longer marvel at it, the commonplace, any kind of rule to which we are -habituated, all and everything in which we know ourselves to be at -home:—what? is our need of knowing not just this need of the known? -the will to discover in everything strange, unusual, or questionable, -something which no longer disquiets us? Is it not possible that it -should be the _instinct of fear_ which enjoins upon us to know? Is it -not possible that the rejoicing of the discerner should be just his -rejoicing in the regained feeling of security?... One philosopher -imagined the world "known" when he had traced it back to the "idea": -alas, was it not because the idea was so known, so familiar to him? -because he had so much less fear of the "idea"—Oh, this moderation of -the discerners! let us but look at their principles, and at their -solutions of the riddle of the world in this connection! When they -again find aught in things, among things, or behind things, that is -unfortunately very well known to us, for example, our multiplication -table, or our logic, or our willing and desiring, how happy they -immediately are! For "what is known is understood": they are unanimous -as to that. Even the most circumspect among them think that the known -is at least _more easily understood_ than the strange; that for -example, it is methodically ordered to proceed outward from the "inner -world," from "the facts of consciousness," because it is the world -which is _better known to us_! Error of errors! The known is the -accustomed, and the accustomed is the most difficult of all to -"understand," that is to say, to perceive as a problem, to perceive as -strange, distant, "outside of us."... The great certainty of the -natural sciences in comparison with psychology and the criticism of -the elements of consciousness—_unnatural_ sciences as one might almost -be entitled to call them—rests precisely on the fact that they take -_what is strange_ as their object: while it is almost like something -contradictory and absurd _to wish_ to take generally what is not -strange as an object.... - - - 356. - -_In what Manner Europe will always become "more Artistic."_—Providing a -living still enforces even in the present day (in our transition period -when so much ceases to enforce) a definite _rôle_ on almost all male -Europeans, their so-called callings; some have the liberty, an apparent -liberty, to choose this rôle themselves, but most have it chosen for -them. The result is strange enough. Almost all Europeans confound -themselves with their rôle when they advance in age; they themselves are -the victims of their "good acting," they have forgotten how much chance, -whim and arbitrariness swayed them when their "calling" was decided—and -how many other rôles they _could_ perhaps have played: for it is now too -late! Looked at more closely, we see that their characters have actually -_evolved_ out of their rôle, nature out of art. There were ages in which -people believed with unshaken confidence, yea, with piety, in their -predestination for this very business, for that very mode of livelihood, -and would not at all acknowledge chance, or the fortuitous rôle, or -arbitrariness therein. Ranks, guilds, and hereditary trade privileges -succeeded, with the help of this belief, in rearing those extraordinary -broad towers of society which distinguished the Middle Ages, and of -which at all events one thing remains to their credit: capacity for -duration (and duration is a value of the first rank on earth!). But -there are ages entirely the reverse, the properly democratic ages, in -which people tend to become more and more oblivious of this conviction, -and a sort of impudent conviction and quite contrary mode of viewing -things comes to the front, the Athenian conviction which is first -observed in the epoch of Pericles, the American conviction of the -present day, which wants also more and more to become an European -conviction, whereby the individual is convinced that he can do almost -anything, that he _can play almost any rôle_, whereby everyone makes -experiments with himself, improvises, tries anew, tries with delight, -whereby all nature ceases and becomes art.... The Greeks, having adopted -this _rôle-creed_—an artist creed, if you will—underwent step by step, -as is well known, a curious transformation, not in every respect worthy -of imitation: _they became actual stage-players_; and as such they -enchanted, they conquered all the world, and at last even the conqueror -of the world, (for the _Graeculus histrio_ conquered Rome, and _not_ -Greek culture, as the naïve are accustomed to say....) What I fear, -however, and what is at present obvious, if we desire to perceive it, is -that we modern men are quite on the same road already; and whenever man -begins to discover in what respect he plays a rôle, and to what extent -he _can_ be a stage-player, he _becomes_ a stage-player.... A new flora -and fauna of men thereupon springs up, which cannot grow in more stable, -more restricted eras—or is left "at the bottom," under the ban and -suspicion of infamy—, thereupon the most interesting and insane periods -of history always make their appearance, in which "stage-players," _all_ -kinds of stage-players, are the real masters. Precisely thereby another -species of man is always more and more injured, and in the end made -impossible: above all the great "architects"; the building power is now -being paralysed; the courage that makes plans for the distant future is -disheartened; there begins to be a lack of organising geniuses. Who is -there who would now venture to undertake works for the completion of -which millenniums would have to be _reckoned_ upon? The fundamental -belief is dying out, on the basis of which one could calculate, promise -and anticipate the future in one's plan, and offer it as a sacrifice -thereto, that in fact man has only value and significance in so far as -he is _a stone in a great building_; for which purpose he has first of -all to be _solid_, he has to be a "stone."... Above all, not -a—stage-player! In short—alas! this fact will be hushed up for some -considerable time to come!—that which from henceforth will no longer be -built, and _can_ no longer be built, is—a society in the old sense of -the term; to build this structure everything is lacking, above all, the -material. _None of us are any longer material for a society_: that is a -truth which is seasonable at present! It seems to me a matter of -indifference that meanwhile the most short-sighted, perhaps the most -honest, and at any rate the noisiest species of men of the present day, -our friends the Socialists, believe, hope, dream, and above all scream -and scribble almost the opposite; in fact one already reads their -watchword of the future: "free society," on all tables and walls. Free -society? Indeed! Indeed! But you know, gentlemen, sure enough whereof -one builds it? Out of wooden iron! Out of the famous wooden iron! And -not even out of wooden.... - - - 357. - -_The old Problem: "What is German?"_—Let us count up apart the real -acquisitions of philosophical thought for which we have to thank German -intellects: are they in any allowable sense to be counted also to the -credit of the whole race? Can we say that they are at the same time the -work of the "German soul," or at least a symptom of it, in the sense in -which we are accustomed to think, for example, of Plato's ideomania, his -almost religious madness for form, as an event and an evidence of the -"Greek soul"? Or would the reverse perhaps be true? Were they so -individual, so much an exception to the spirit of the race, as was, for -example, Goethe's Paganism with a good conscience? Or as Bismarck's -Macchiavelism was with a good conscience, his so-called "practical -politics" in Germany? Did our philosophers perhaps even go counter to -the _need_ of the "German soul"? In short, were the German philosophers -really philosophical _Germans_?—I call to mind three cases. Firstly, -_Leibnitz's_ incomparable insight—with which he obtained the advantage -not only over Descartes, but over all who had philosophised up to his -time,—that consciousness is only an accident of mental representation, -and _not_ its necessary and essential attribute; that consequently what -we call consciousness only constitutes a state of our spiritual and -psychical world (perhaps a morbid state), and is _far from being that -world itself_:—is there anything German in this thought, the profundity -of which has not as yet been exhausted? Is there reason to think that a -person of the Latin race would not readily have stumbled on this -reversal of the apparent?—for it is a reversal. Let us call to mind -secondly, the immense note of interrogation which _Kant_ wrote after the -notion of causality. Not that he at all doubted its legitimacy, like -Hume: on the contrary, he began cautiously to define the domain within -which this notion has significance generally (we have not even yet got -finished with the marking out of these limits). Let us take thirdly, the -astonishing hit of _Hegel_, who stuck at no logical usage or -fastidiousness when he ventured to teach that the conceptions of kinds -develop _out of one another_: with which theory the thinkers in Europe -were prepared for the last great scientific movement, for Darwinism—for -without Hegel there would have been no Darwin. Is there anything German -in this Hegelian innovation which first introduced the decisive -conception of evolution into science? Yes, without doubt we feel that -there is something of ourselves "discovered" and divined in all three -cases; we are thankful for it, and at the same time surprised; each of -these three principles is a thoughtful piece of German self-confession, -self-understanding, and self-knowledge. We feel with Leibnitz that "our -inner world is far richer, ampler, and more concealed"; as Germans we -are doubtful, like Kant, about the ultimate validity of scientific -knowledge of nature, and in general about whatever _can_ be known -_causaliter_: the _knowable_ as such now appears to us of _less_ worth. -We Germans should still have been Hegelians, even though there had never -been a Hegel, inasmuch as we (in contradistinction to all Latin peoples) -instinctively attribute to becoming, to evolution, a profounder -significance and higher value than to that which "is"—we hardly believe -at all in the validity of the concept "being." This is all the more the -case because we are not inclined to concede to our human logic that it -is logic in itself, that it is the only kind of logic (we should rather -like, on the contrary, to convince ourselves that it is only a special -case, and perhaps one of the strangest and most stupid). A fourth -question would be whether also _Schopenhauer_ with his Pessimism, that -is to say the problem of _the worth of existence_, had to be a German. I -think not. The event _after_ which this problem was to be expected with -certainty, so that an astronomer of the soul could have calculated the -day and the hour for it—namely, the decay of the belief in the Christian -God, the victory of scientific atheism,—is a universal European event, -in which all races are to have their share of service and honour. On the -contrary, it has to be ascribed precisely to the Germans—those with whom -Schopenhauer was contemporary,—that they delayed this victory of atheism -longest, and endangered it most. Hegel especially was its retarder _par -excellence_, in virtue of the grandiose attempt which he made to -persuade us of the divinity of existence, with the help at the very last -of our sixth sense, "the historical sense." As philosopher, Schopenhauer -was the _first_ avowed and inflexible atheist we Germans have had: his -hostility to Hegel had here its background. The non-divinity of -existence was regarded by him as something understood, palpable, -indisputable; he always lost his philosophical composure and got into a -passion when he saw anyone hesitate and beat about the bush here. It is -at this point that his thorough uprightness of character comes in: -unconditional, honest atheism is precisely the _preliminary condition_ -for his raising the problem, as a final and hardwon victory of the -European conscience, as the most prolific act of two thousand years' -discipline to truth, which in the end no longer tolerates the _lie_ of -the belief in a God.... One sees what has really gained the victory over -the Christian God—, Christian morality itself, the conception of -veracity, taken ever more strictly, the confessional subtlety of the -Christian conscience, translated and sublimated to the scientific -conscience, to intellectual purity at any price. To look upon nature as -if it were a proof of the goodness and care of a God; to interpret -history in honour of a divine reason, as a constant testimony to a moral -order in the world and a moral final purpose; to explain personal -experiences as pious men have long enough explained them, as if -everything were a dispensation or intimation of Providence, something -planned and sent on behalf of the salvation of the soul: all that is now -_past_, it has conscience _against_ it, it is regarded by all the more -acute consciences as disreputable and dishonourable, as mendaciousness, -femininism, weakness, and cowardice,—by virtue of this severity, if by -anything, we are _good_ Europeans, the heirs of Europe's longest and -bravest self-conquest. When we thus reject the Christian interpretation, -and condemn its "significance" as a forgery, we are immediately -confronted in a striking manner with the _Schopenhauerian_ question: -_Has existence then a significance at all?_—the question which will -require a couple of centuries even to be completely heard in all its -profundity. Schopenhauer's own answer to this question was—if I may be -forgiven for saying so—a premature, juvenile reply, a mere compromise, a -stoppage and sticking in the very same Christian-ascetic, moral -perspectives, _the belief in which had got notice to quit_ along with -the belief in God.... But he _raised_ the question—as a good European, -as we have said, and _not_ as a German.—Or did the Germans prove at -least by the way in which they seized on the Schopenhauerian question, -their inner connection and relationship to him, their preparation for -his problem, and their _need_ of it? That there has been thinking and -printing even in Germany since Schopenhauer's time on the problem raised -by him,—it was late enough!—does not at all suffice to enable us to -decide in favour of this closer relationship; one could, on the -contrary, lay great stress on the peculiar _awkwardness_ of this -post-Schopenhauerian Pessimism—Germans evidently do not behave -themselves there as in their element. I do not at all allude here to -Eduard von Hartmann; on the contrary, my old suspicion is not vanished -even at present that he is _too clever_ for us; I mean to say that as -arrant rogue from the very first, he did not perhaps make merry solely -over German Pessimism—and that in the end he might probably "bequeathe" -to them the truth as to how far a person could bamboozle the Germans -themselves in the age of bubble companies. But further, are we perhaps -to reckon to the honour of Germans, the old humming-top, Bahnsen, who -all his life spun about with the greatest pleasure around his -realistically dialectic misery and "personal ill-luck,"—was _that_ -German? (In passing I recommend his writings for the purpose for which I -myself have used them, as anti-pessimistic fare, especially on account -of his _elegantia psychologica_, which, it seems to me, could alleviate -even the most constipated body and soul). Or would it be proper to count -such dilettanti and old maids as the mawkish apostle of virginity, -Mainländer, among the genuine Germans? After all he was probably a Jew -(all Jews become mawkish when they moralise). Neither Bahnsen, nor -Mainländer, nor even Eduard von Hartmann, give us a reliable grasp of -the question whether the pessimism of Schopenhauer (his frightened -glance into an undeified world, which has become stupid, blind, deranged -and problematic, his _honourable_ fright) was not only an exceptional -case among Germans, but a _German_ event: while everything else which -stands in the foreground, like our valiant politics and our joyful -Jingoism (which decidedly enough regards everything with reference to a -principle sufficiently unphilosophical: "_Deutschland, Deutschland, über -Alles_,"[12] consequently _sub specie speciei_, namely, the German -_species_), testifies very plainly to the contrary. No! The Germans of -to-day are _not_ pessimists! And Schopenhauer was a pessimist, I repeat -it once more, as a good European, and _not_ as a German. - - - 358. - -_The Peasant Revolt of the Spirit._—We Europeans find ourselves in view -of an immense world of ruins, where some things still tower aloft, while -other objects stand mouldering and dismal, where most things however -already lie on the ground, picturesque enough—where were there ever -finer ruins?—overgrown with weeds, large and small. It is the Church -which is this city of decay: we see the religious organisation of -Christianity shaken to its deepest foundations. The belief in God is -overthrown, the belief in the Christian ascetic ideal is now fighting -its last fight. Such a long and solidly built work as Christianity—it -was the last construction of the Romans!—could not of course be -demolished all at once; every sort of earthquake had to shake it, every -sort of spirit which perforates, digs, gnaws and moulders had to assist -in the work of destruction. But that which is strangest is that those -who have exerted themselves most to retain and preserve Christianity, -have been precisely those who did most to destroy it,—the Germans. It -seems that the Germans do not understand the essence of a Church. Are -they not spiritual enough, or not distrustful enough to do so? In any -case the structure of the Church rests on a _southern_ freedom and -liberality of spirit, and similarly on a southern suspicion of nature, -man, and spirit,—it rests on a knowledge of man, an experience of man, -entirely different from what the north has had. The Lutheran Reformation -in all its length and breadth was the indignation of the simple against -something "complicated." To speak cautiously, it was a coarse, honest -misunderstanding, in which much is to be forgiven,—people did not -understand the mode of expression of a _victorious_ Church, and only saw -corruption; they misunderstood the noble scepticism, the _luxury_ of -scepticism and toleration which every victorious, self-confident power -permits.... One overlooks the fact readily enough at present that as -regards all cardinal questions concerning power Luther was badly -endowed; he was fatally short-sighted, superficial and imprudent—and -above all, as a man sprung from the people, he lacked all the hereditary -qualities of a ruling caste, and all the instincts for power; so that -his work, his intention to restore the work of the Romans, merely became -involuntarily and unconsciously the commencement of a work of -destruction. He unravelled, he tore asunder with honest rage, where the -old spider had woven longest and most carefully. He gave the sacred -books into the hands of everyone,—they thereby got at last into the -hands of the philologists, that is to say, the annihilators of every -belief based upon books. He demolished the conception of "the Church" in -that he repudiated the belief in the inspiration of the Councils: for -only under the supposition that the inspiring spirit which had founded -the Church still lives in it, still builds it, still goes on building -its house, does the conception of "the Church" retain its power. He gave -back to the priest sexual intercourse: but three-fourths of the -reverence of which the people (and above all the women of the people) -are capable, rests on the belief that an exceptional man in this respect -will also be an exceptional man in other respects. It is precisely here -that the popular belief in something superhuman in man, in a miracle, in -the saving God in man, has its most subtle and insidious advocate. After -Luther had given a wife to the priest, he had _to take from him_ -auricular confession; that was psychologically right: but thereby he -practically did away with the Christian priest himself, whose -profoundest utility has ever consisted in his being a sacred ear, a -silent well, and a grave for secrets. "Every man his own priest"—behind -such formulæ and their bucolic slyness, there was concealed in Luther -the profoundest hatred of "higher men" and the rule of "higher men," as -the Church had conceived them. Luther disowned an ideal which he did not -know how to attain, while he seemed to combat and detest the -degeneration thereof. As a matter of fact, he, the impossible monk, -repudiated the _rule_ of the _homines religiosi_; he consequently -brought about precisely the same thing within the ecclesiastical social -order that he combated so impatiently in the civic order,—namely a -"peasant insurrection."—As to all that grew out of his Reformation -afterwards, good and bad, which can at present be almost counted up,—who -would be naïve enough to praise or blame Luther simply on account of -these results? He is innocent of all; he knew not what he did. The art -of making the European spirit shallower, especially in the north, or -more _good-natured_, if people would rather hear it designated by a -moral expression, undoubtedly took a clever step in advance in the -Lutheran Reformation; and similarly there grew out of it the mobility -and disquietude of the spirit, its thirst for independence, its belief -in the right to freedom, and its "naturalness." If people wish to -ascribe to the Reformation in the last instance the merit of having -prepared and favoured that which we at present honour as "modern -science," they must of course add that it is also accessory to bringing -about the degeneration of the modern scholar with his lack of reverence, -of shame and of profundity; and that it is also responsible for all -naïve candour and plain-dealing in matters of knowledge, in short for -the _plebeianism of the spirit_ which is peculiar to the last two -centuries, and from which even pessimism hitherto, has not in any way -delivered us. "Modern ideas" also belong to this peasant insurrection of -the north against the colder, more ambiguous, more suspicious spirit of -the south, which has built itself its greatest monument in the Christian -Church. Let us not forget in the end what a Church is, and especially, -in contrast to every "State": a Church is above all an authoritative -organisation which secures to the _most spiritual_ men the highest rank, -and _believes_ in the power of spirituality so far as to forbid all -grosser appliances of authority. Through this alone the Church is under -all circumstances a _nobler_ institution than the State.— - - - 359. - -_Vengeance on Intellect and other Backgrounds of -Morality._—Morality—where do you think it has its most dangerous and -rancorous advocates?—There, for example, is an ill-constituted man, who -does not possess enough of intellect to be able to take pleasure in it, -and just enough of culture to be aware of the fact; bored, satiated, and -a self-despiser; besides being cheated unfortunately by some hereditary -property out of the last consolation, the "blessing of labour," the -self-forgetfulness in the "day's work"; one who is thoroughly ashamed of -his existence—perhaps also harbouring some vices,—and who on the other -hand (by means of books to which he has no right, or more intellectual -society than he can digest), cannot help vitiating himself more and -more, and making himself vain and irritable: such a thoroughly poisoned -man—for intellect becomes poison, culture becomes poison, possession -becomes poison, solitude becomes poison, to such ill-constituted -beings—gets at last into a habitual state of vengeance and inclination -to vengeance.... What do you think he finds necessary, absolutely -necessary in order to give himself the appearance in his own eyes of -superiority over more intellectual men, so as to give himself the -delight of _perfect revenge_, at least in imagination? It is always -_morality_ that he requires, one may wager on it; always the big moral -words, always the high-sounding words: justice, wisdom, holiness, -virtue; always the stoicism of gestures (how well stoicism hides what -one does _not_ possess!); always the mantle of wise silence, of -affability, of gentleness, and whatever else the idealist-mantle is -called in which the incurable self-despisers and also the incurably -conceited walk about. Let me not be misunderstood: out of such born -_enemies of the spirit_ there arises now and then that rare specimen of -humanity who is honoured by the people under the name of saint or sage: -it is out of such men that there arise those prodigies of morality that -make a noise, that make history,—St Augustine was one of these men. Fear -of the intellect, vengeance on the intellect—Oh! how often have these -powerfully impelling vices become the root of virtues! Yea, virtue -_itself_!—And asking the question among ourselves, even the -philosopher's pretension to wisdom, which has occasionally been made -here and there on the earth, the maddest and most immodest of all -pretensions,—has it not always been, in India as well as in Greece, -_above all a means of concealment_? Sometimes, perhaps, from the point -of view of education which hallows so many lies, it has been a tender -regard for growing and evolving persons, for disciples who have often to -be guarded against themselves by means of the belief in a person (by -means of an error). In most cases, however, it is a means of concealment -for a philosopher, behind which he seeks protection, owing to -exhaustion, age, chilliness, or hardening; as a feeling of the -approaching end, as the sagacity of the instinct which animals have -before their death,—they go apart, remain at rest, choose solitude, -creep into caves, become _wise_.... What? Wisdom a means of concealment -of the philosopher from—intellect?— - - - 360. - -_Two Kinds of Causes which are Confounded._—It seems to me one of my -most essential steps and advances that I have learned to distinguish the -cause of the action generally from the cause of action in a particular -manner, say, in this direction, with this aim. The first kind of cause -is a quantum of stored-up force, which waits to be used in some manner, -for some purpose; the second kind of cause, on the contrary, is -something quite unimportant in comparison with the first, an -insignificant hazard for the most part, in conformity with which the -quantum of force in question "discharges" itself in some unique and -definite manner: the lucifer-match in relation to the barrel of -gunpowder. Among those insignificant hazards and lucifer-matches I count -all the so-called "aims," and similarly the still more so-called -"occupations" of people: they are relatively optional, arbitrary, and -almost indifferent in relation to the immense quantum of force which -presses on, as we have said, to be used up in any way whatever. One -generally looks at the matter in a different manner: one is accustomed -to see the _impelling_ force precisely in the aim (object, calling, -&c.), according to a primeval error,—but it is only the _directing_ -force; the steersman and the steam have thereby been confounded. And yet -it is not even always the steersman, the directing force.... Is the -"aim," the "purpose," not often enough only an extenuating pretext, an -additional self-blinding of conceit, which does not wish it to be said -that the ship _follows_ the stream into which it has accidentally run? -That it "wishes" to go that way, _because_ it _must_ go that way? That -it has a direction, sure enough, but—not a steersman? We still require a -criticism of the conception of "purpose." - - - 361. - -_The Problem of the Actor._—The problem of the actor has disquieted me -the longest; I was uncertain (and am sometimes so still) whether one -could not get at the dangerous conception of "artist"—a conception -hitherto treated with unpardonable leniency—from this point of view. -Falsity with a good conscience; delight in dissimulation breaking forth -as power, pushing aside, overflowing, and sometimes extinguishing the -so-called "character"; the inner longing to play a rôle, to assume a -mask, to put on an _appearance_; a surplus of capacity for adaptations -of every kind, which can no longer gratify themselves in the service of -the nearest and narrowest utility: all that perhaps does not pertain -_solely_ to the actor in himself?... Such an instinct would develop most -readily in families of the lower class of the people, who have had to -pass their lives in absolute dependence, under shifting pressure and -constraint, who (to accommodate themselves to their conditions, to adapt -themselves always to new circumstances) had again and again to pass -themselves off and represent themselves as different persons,—thus -having gradually qualified themselves to adjust the mantle to _every_ -wind, thereby almost becoming the mantle itself, as masters of the -embodied and incarnated art of eternally playing the game of hide and -seek, which one calls _mimicry_ among the animals:—until at last this -ability, stored up from generation to generation, has become -domineering, irrational and intractable, till as instinct it begins to -command the other instincts, and begets the actor, the "artist" (the -buffoon, the pantaloon, the Jack-Pudding, the fool, and the clown in the -first place, also the classical type of servant, Gil Blas: for in such -types one has the precursors of the artist, and often enough even of the -"genius"). Also under higher social conditions there grows under similar -pressure a similar species of men. Only the histrionic instinct is there -for the most part held strictly in check by another instinct, for -example, among "diplomatists";—for the rest, I should think that it -would always be open to a good diplomatist to become a good actor on the -stage, provided his dignity "allowed" it. As regards the _Jews_, -however, the adaptable people _par excellence_, we should, in conformity -to this line of thought, expect to see among them a world-historical -institution from the very beginning, for the rearing of actors, a -genuine breeding-place for actors; and in fact the question is very -pertinent just now: what good actor at present is _not_—a Jew? The Jew -also, as a born literary man, as the actual ruler of the European press, -exercises this power on the basis of his histrionic capacity: for the -literary man is essentially an actor,—he plays the part of "expert," of -"specialist."—Finally _women_. If we consider the whole history of -women, are they not _obliged_ first of all, and above all to be -actresses? If we listen to doctors who have hypnotised women, or, -finally, if we love them—and let ourselves be "hypnotised" by them,—what -is always divulged thereby? That they "give themselves airs," even when -they—"give themselves."... Woman is so artistic.... - - - 362. - -_My Belief in the Virilising of Europe._—We owe it to Napoleon (and not -at all to the French Revolution, which had in view the "fraternity" of -the nations, and the florid interchange of good graces among people -generally) that several warlike centuries, which have not had their like -in past history, may now follow one another—in short, that we have -entered upon _the classical age of war_, war at the same time scientific -and popular, on the grandest scale (as regards means, talents and -discipline), to which all coming millenniums will look back with envy -and awe as a work of perfection:—for the national movement out of which -this martial glory springs, is only the counter-_choc_ against Napoleon, -and would not have existed without him. To him, consequently, one will -one day be able to attribute the fact that _man_ in Europe has again got -the upper hand of the merchant and the Philistine; perhaps even of -"woman" also, who has become pampered owing to Christianity and the -extravagant spirit of the eighteenth century, and still more owing to -"modern ideas." Napoleon, who saw in modern ideas, and accordingly in -civilisation, something like a personal enemy, has by this hostility -proved himself one of the greatest continuators of the Renaissance: he -has brought to the surface a whole block of the ancient character, the -decisive block perhaps, the block of granite. And who knows but that -this block of ancient character will in the end get the upper hand of -the national movement, and will have to make itself in a _positive_ -sense the heir and continuator of Napoleon:—who, as one knows, wanted -_one_ Europe, which was to be _mistress of the world_.— - - - 363. - -_How each Sex has its Prejudice about Love._—Notwithstanding all the -concessions which I am inclined to make to the monogamic prejudice, I -will never admit that we should speak of _equal_ rights in the love of -man and woman: there are no such equal rights. The reason is that man -and woman understand something different by the term love,—and it -belongs to the conditions of love in both sexes that the one sex does -_not_ presuppose the same feeling, the same conception of "love," in the -other sex. What woman understands by love is clear enough: complete -surrender (not merely devotion) of soul and body, without any motive, -without any reservation, rather with shame and terror at the thought of -a devotion restricted by clauses or associated with conditions. In this -absence of conditions her love is precisely a _faith_: woman has no -other.—Man, when he loves a woman, _wants_ precisely this love from her; -he is consequently, as regards himself, furthest removed from the -prerequisites of feminine love; granted, however, that there should also -be men to whom on their side the demand for complete devotion is not -unfamiliar,—well, they are really—not men. A man who loves like a woman -becomes thereby a slave; a woman, however, who loves like a woman -becomes thereby a _more perfect_ woman.... The passion of woman in its -unconditional renunciation of its own rights presupposes in fact that -there does _not_ exist on the other side an equal _pathos_, an equal -desire for renunciation: for if both renounced themselves out of love, -there would result—well, I don't know what, perhaps a _horror vacui_? -Woman wants to be taken and accepted as a possession, she wishes to be -merged in the conceptions of "possession" and "possessed"; consequently -she wants one who _takes_, who does not offer and give himself away, but -who reversely is rather to be made richer in "himself"—by the increase -of power, happiness and faith which the woman herself gives to him. -Woman gives herself, man takes her.—I do not think one will get over -this natural contrast by any social contract, or with the very best will -to do justice, however desirable it may be to avoid bringing the severe, -frightful, enigmatical, and unmoral elements of this antagonism -constantly before our eyes. For love, regarded as complete, great, and -full, is nature, and as nature, is to all eternity something -"unmoral."—_Fidelity_ is accordingly included in woman's love, it -follows from the definition thereof; with man fidelity _may_ readily -result in consequence of his love, perhaps as gratitude or idiosyncrasy -of taste, and so-called elective affinity, but it does not belong to the -_essence_ of his love—and indeed so little, that one might almost be -entitled to speak of a natural opposition between love and fidelity in -man, whose love is just a desire to possess, and _not_ a renunciation -and giving away; the desire to possess, however, comes to an end every -time with the possession.... As a matter of fact it is the more subtle -and jealous thirst for possession in the man (who is rarely and tardily -convinced of having this "possession"), which makes his love continue; -in that case it is even possible that the love may increase after the -surrender,—he does not readily own that a woman has nothing more to -"surrender" to him.— - - - 364. - -_The Anchorite Speaks._—The art of associating with men rests -essentially on one's skilfulness (which presupposes long exercise) in -accepting a repast, in taking a repast in the cuisine of which one has -no confidence. Provided one comes to the table with the hunger of a wolf -everything is easy ("the worst society gives thee _experience_"—as -Mephistopheles says); but one has not got this wolf's-hunger when one -needs it! Alas! how difficult are our fellow-men to digest! First -principle: to stake one's courage as in a misfortune, to seize boldly, -to admire oneself at the same time, to take one's repugnance between -one's teeth, to cram down one's disgust. Second principle: to "improve" -one's fellow-man, by praise for example, so that he may begin to sweat -out his self-complacency; or to seize a tuft of his good or -"interesting" qualities, and pull at it till one gets his whole virtue -out, and can put him under the folds of it. Third principle: -self-hypnotism. To fix one's eye on the object of one's intercourse, as -on a glass knob, until, ceasing to feel pleasure or pain thereat, one -falls asleep unobserved, becomes rigid, and acquires a fixed pose: a -household recipe used in married life and in friendship, well tested and -prized as indispensable, but not yet scientifically formulated. Its -proper name is—patience.— - - - 365. - -_The Anchorite Speaks once more._—We also have intercourse with "men," -we also modestly put on the clothes in which people know us (_as such_), -respect us and seek us; and we thereby mingle in society, that is to -say, among the disguised who do not wish to be so called; we also do -like all prudent masqueraders, and courteously dismiss all curiosity -which has not reference merely to our "clothes." There are however other -modes and artifices for "going about" among men and associating with -them: for example, as a ghost,—which is very advisable when one wants to -scare them, and get rid of them easily. An example: a person grasps at -us, and is unable to seize us. That frightens him. Or we enter by a -closed door. Or when the lights are extinguished. Or after we are dead. -The latter is the artifice of _posthumous_ men _par excellence_. -("What?" said such a one once impatiently, "do you think we should -delight in enduring this strangeness, coldness, death-stillness about -us, all this subterranean, hidden, dim, undiscovered solitude, which is -called life with us, and might just as well be called death, if we were -not conscious of what _will arise_ out of us,—and that only after our -death shall we attain to _our_ life and become living, ah! very living! -we posthumous men!"—) - - - 366. - -_At the Sight of a Learned Book._—We do not belong to those who only get -their thoughts from books, or at the prompting of books,—it is our -custom to think in the open air, walking, leaping, climbing, or dancing -on lonesome mountains by preference, or close to the sea, where even the -paths become thoughtful. Our first question concerning the value of a -book, a man, or a piece of music is: Can it walk? or still better: Can -it dance?... We seldom read; we do not read the worse for that—oh, how -quickly do we divine how a person has arrived at his thoughts:—whether -sitting before an ink-bottle with compressed belly and head bent over -the paper: oh, how quickly we are then done with his book! The -constipated bowels betray themselves, one may wager on it, just as the -atmosphere of the room, the ceiling of the room, the smallness of the -room, betray themselves.—These were my feelings as I was closing a -straightforward, learned book, thankful, very thankful, but also -relieved.... In the book of a learned man there is almost always -something oppressive and oppressed: the "specialist" comes to light -somewhere, his ardour, his seriousness, his wrath, his over-estimation -of the nook in which he sits and spins, his hump—every specialist has -his hump. A learned book also always mirrors a distorted soul: every -trade distorts. Look at our friends again with whom we have spent our -youth, after they have taken possession of their science: alas! how the -reverse has always taken place! Alas! how they themselves are now for -ever occupied and possessed by their science! Grown into their nook, -crumpled into unrecognisability, constrained, deprived of their -equilibrium, emaciated and angular everywhere, perfectly round only in -one place,—we are moved and silent when we find them so. Every -handicraft, granting even that it has a golden floor,[13] has also a -leaden ceiling above it, which presses and presses on the soul, till it -is pressed into a strange and distorted shape. There is nothing to alter -here. We need not think that it is at all possible to obviate this -disfigurement by any educational artifice whatever. Every kind of -_perfection_ is purchased at a high price on earth, where everything is -perhaps purchased too dear; one is an expert in one's department at the -price of being also a victim of one's department. But you want to have -it otherwise—"more reasonable," above all more convenient—is it not so, -my dear contemporaries? Very well! But then you will also immediately -get something different: that is to say, instead of the craftsman and -expert, the literary man, the versatile, "many-sided" littérateur, who -to be sure lacks the hump—not taking account of the hump or bow which he -makes before you as the shopman of the intellect and the "porter" of -culture—, the littérateur, who _is_ really nothing, but "represents" -almost everything: he plays and "represents" the expert, he also takes -it upon himself in all modesty _to see that he is_ paid, honoured and -celebrated in this position.—No, my learned friends! I bless you even on -account of your humps! And also because like me you despise the -littérateurs and parasites of culture! And because you do not know how -to make merchandise of your intellect! And have so many opinions which -cannot be expressed in money value! And because you do not represent -anything which you _are_ not! Because your sole desire is to become -masters of your craft; because you reverence every kind of mastership -and ability, and repudiate with the most relentless scorn everything of -a make-believe, half-genuine, dressed-up, virtuoso, demagogic, -histrionic nature in _litteris et artibus_—all that which does not -convince you by its absolute _genuineness_ of discipline and preparatory -training, or cannot stand your test! (Even genius does not help a person -to get over such a defect, however well it may be able to deceive with -regard to it: one understands this if one has once looked closely at our -most gifted painters and musicians,—who almost without exception, can -artificially and supplementarily appropriate to themselves (by means of -artful inventions of style, make-shifts, and even principles), the -_appearance_ of that genuineness, that solidity of training and culture; -to be sure, without thereby deceiving themselves, without thereby -imposing perpetual silence on their bad consciences. For you know well -enough that all great modern artists suffer from bad consciences?...) - - - 367. - -_How one has to Distinguish first of all in Works of Art._—Everything -that is thought, versified, painted and composed, yea, even built and -moulded, belongs either to monologic art, or to art before witnesses. -Under the latter there is also to be included the apparently monologic -art which involves the belief in God, the whole lyric of prayer; because -for a pious man there is no solitude,—we, the godless, have been the -first to devise this invention. I know of no profounder distinction in -all the perspective of the artist than this: Whether he looks at his -growing work of art (at "himself—") with the eye of the witness; or -whether he "has forgotten the world," as is the essential thing in all -monologic art,——it rests _on forgetting_, it is the music of forgetting. - - - 368. - -_The Cynic Speaks._—My objections to Wagner's music are physiological -objections. Why should I therefore begin by disguising them under -æsthetic formulæ? My "point" is that I can no longer breathe freely when -this music begins to operate on me; my _foot_ immediately becomes -indignant at it and rebels: for what it needs is time, dance and march; -it demands first of all from music the ecstasies which are in _good_ -walking, striding, leaping and dancing. But do not my stomach, my heart, -my blood and my bowels also protest? Do I not become hoarse unawares -under its influence? And then I ask myself what it is really that my -body _wants_ from music generally. I believe it wants to have _relief_: -so that all animal functions should be accelerated by means of light, -bold, unfettered, self-assured rhythms; so that brazen, leaden life -should be gilded by means of golden, good, tender harmonies. My -melancholy would fain rest its head in the hiding-places and abysses of -_perfection_: for this reason I need music. What do I care for the -drama! What do I care for the spasms of its moral ecstasies, in which -the "people" have their satisfaction! What do I care for the whole -pantomimic hocus-pocus of the actor!... It will now be divined that I am -essentially anti-theatrical at heart,—but Wagner on the contrary, was -essentially a man of the stage and an actor, the most enthusiastic -mummer-worshipper that has ever existed, even among musicians!... And -let it be said in passing that if Wagner's theory was that "drama is the -object, and music is only the means to it,"—his _practice_ on the -contrary from beginning to end has been to the effect that "attitude is -the object, drama and even music can never be anything else but means to -_that_." Music as a means of elucidating, strengthening and intensifying -dramatic poses and the actor's appeal to the senses, and Wagnerian drama -only an opportunity for a number of dramatic attitudes! Wagner -possessed, along with all other instincts, the dictatorial instinct of a -great actor in all and everything, and as has been said, also as a -musician.—I once made this clear with some trouble to a thorough-going -Wagnerian, and I had reasons for adding:—"Do be a little more honest -with yourself: we are not now in the theatre. In the theatre we are only -honest in the mass; as individuals we lie, we belie even ourselves. We -leave ourselves at home when we go to the theatre; we there renounce the -right to our own tongue and choice, to our taste, and even to our -courage as we possess it and practise it within our own four walls in -relation to God and man. No one takes his finest taste in art into the -theatre with him, not even the artist who works for the theatre: there -one is people, public, herd, woman, Pharisee, voting animal, democrat, -neighbour, and fellow-creature; there even the most personal conscience -succumbs to the levelling charm of the 'great multitude'; there -stupidity operates as wantonness and contagion; there the neighbour -rules, there one _becomes_ a neighbour...." (I have forgotten to mention -what my enlightened Wagnerian answered to my physiological objections: -"So the fact is that you are really not healthy enough for our music?"—) - - - 369. - -_Juxtapositions in us._—Must we not acknowledge to ourselves, we -artists, that there is a strange discrepancy in us; that on the one hand -our taste, and on the other hand our creative power, keep apart in an -extraordinary manner, continue apart, and have a separate growth;—I mean -to say that they have entirely different gradations and _tempi_ of age, -youth, maturity, mellowness and rottenness? So that, for example, a -musician could all his life create things which _contradict_ all that -his ear and heart, spoilt as they are for listening, prize, relish and -prefer:—he would not even require to be aware of the contradiction! As -an almost painfully regular experience shows, a person's taste can -easily outgrow the taste of his power, even without the latter being -thereby paralysed or checked in its productivity. The reverse, however, -can also to some extent take place,—and it is to this especially that I -should like to direct the attention of artists. A constant producer, a -man who is a "mother" in the grand sense of the term, one who no longer -knows or hears of anything except pregnancies and child-beds of his -spirit, who has no time at all to reflect and make comparisons with -regard to himself and his work, who is also no longer inclined to -exercise his taste, but simply forgets it, letting it take its chance of -standing, lying or falling,—perhaps such a man at last produces works -_on which he is then not at all fit to pass a judgment_: so that he -speaks and thinks foolishly about them and about himself. This seems to -me almost the normal condition with fruitful artists,—nobody knows a -child worse than its parents—and the rule applies even (to take an -immense example) to the entire Greek world of poetry and art, which was -never "conscious" of what it had done.... - - - 370. - -_What is Romanticism?_—It will be remembered perhaps, at least among my -friends, that at first I assailed the modern world with some gross -errors and exaggerations, but at any rate with _hope_ in my heart. I -recognised—who knows from what personal experiences?—the philosophical -pessimism of the nineteenth century as the symptom of a higher power of -thought, a more daring courage and a more triumphant _plenitude_ of life -than had been characteristic of the eighteenth century, the age of Hume, -Kant, Condillac, and the sensualists: so that the tragic view of things -seemed to me the peculiar _luxury_ of our culture, its most precious, -noble, and dangerous mode of prodigality; but nevertheless, in view of -its overflowing wealth, a _justifiable_ luxury. In the same way I -interpreted for myself German music as the expression of a Dionysian -power in the German soul: I thought I heard in it the earthquake by -means of which a primeval force that had been imprisoned for ages was -finally finding vent—indifferent as to whether all that usually calls -itself culture was thereby made to totter. It is obvious that I then -misunderstood what constitutes the veritable character both of -philosophical pessimism and of German music,—namely, their -_Romanticism_. What is Romanticism? Every art and every philosophy may -be regarded as a healing and helping appliance in the service of -growing, struggling life: they always presuppose suffering and -sufferers. But there are two kinds of sufferers: on the one hand those -that suffer from _overflowing vitality_, who need Dionysian art, and -require a tragic view and insight into life; and on the other hand those -who suffer from _reduced vitality_, who seek repose, quietness, calm -seas, and deliverance from themselves through art or knowledge, or else -intoxication, spasm, bewilderment and madness. All Romanticism in art -and knowledge responds to the twofold craving of the _latter_; to them -Schopenhauer as well as Wagner responded (and responds),—to name those -most celebrated and decided romanticists who were then _misunderstood_ -by me (_not_ however to their disadvantage, as may be reasonably -conceded to me). The being richest in overflowing vitality, the -Dionysian God and man, may not only allow himself the spectacle of the -horrible and questionable, but even the fearful deed itself, and all the -luxury of destruction, disorganisation and negation. With him evil, -senselessness and ugliness seem as it were licensed, in consequence of -the overflowing plenitude of procreative, fructifying power, which can -convert every desert into a luxuriant orchard. Conversely, the greatest -sufferer, the man poorest in vitality, would have most need of mildness, -peace and kindliness in thought and action: he would need, if possible, -a God who is specially the God of the sick, a "Saviour"; similarly he -would have need of logic, the abstract intelligibility of existence—for -logic soothes and gives confidence;—in short he would need a certain -warm, fear-dispelling narrowness and imprisonment within optimistic -horizons. In this manner I gradually began to understand Epicurus, the -opposite of a Dionysian pessimist;—in a similar manner also the -"Christian," who in fact is only a type of Epicurean, and like him -essentially a romanticist:—and my vision has always become keener in -tracing that most difficult and insidious of all forms of _retrospective -inference_, which most mistakes have been made—the inference from the -work to its author, from the deed to its doer, from the ideal to him who -_needs_ it, from every mode of thinking and valuing to the imperative -_want_ behind it.—In regard to all æsthetic values I now avail myself of -this radical distinction: I ask in every single case, "Has hunger or -superfluity become creative here?" At the outset another distinction -might seem to recommend itself more—it is far more conspicuous,—namely, -to have in view whether the desire for rigidity, for perpetuation, for -_being_ is the cause of the creating, or the desire for destruction, for -change, for the new, for the future—for _becoming_. But when looked at -more carefully, both these kinds of desire prove themselves ambiguous, -and are explicable precisely according to the before-mentioned and, as -it seems to me, rightly preferred scheme. The desire for _destruction_, -change and becoming, may be the expression of overflowing power, -pregnant with futurity (my _terminus_ for this is of course the word -"Dionysian"); but it may also be the hatred of the ill-constituted, -destitute and unfortunate, which destroys, and _must_ destroy, because -the enduring, yea, all that endures, in fact all being, excites and -provokes it. To understand this emotion we have but to look closely at -our anarchists. The will to _perpetuation_ requires equally a double -interpretation. It may on the one hand proceed from gratitude and -love:—art of this origin will always be an art of apotheosis, perhaps -dithyrambic, as with Rubens, mocking divinely, as with Hafiz, or clear -and kind-hearted as with Goethe, and spreading a Homeric brightness and -glory over everything (in this case I speak of _Apollonian_ art). It may -also, however, be the tyrannical will of a sorely-suffering, struggling -or tortured being, who would like to stamp his most personal, individual -and narrow characteristics, the very idiosyncrasy of his suffering, as -an obligatory law and constraint on others; who, as it were, takes -revenge on all things, in that he imprints, enforces and brands _his_ -image, the image of _his_ torture, upon them. The latter is _romantic -pessimism_ in its most extreme form, whether it be as Schopenhauerian -will-philosophy, or as Wagnerian music:—romantic pessimism, the last -_great_ event in the destiny of our civilisation. (That there _may be_ -quite a different kind of pessimism, a classical pessimism—this -presentiment and vision belongs to me, as something inseparable from me, -as my _proprium_ and _ipsissimum_; only that the word "classical" is -repugnant to my ears, it has become far too worn; too indefinite and -indistinguishable. I call that pessimism of the future,—for it is -coming! I see it coming!—_Dionysian_ pessimism.) - - - 371. - -_We Unintelligible Ones._—Have we ever complained among ourselves of -being misunderstood, misjudged, and confounded with others; of being -calumniated, misheard, and not heard? That is just our lot—alas, for a -long time yet! say, to be modest, until 1901—, it is also our -distinction; we should not have sufficient respect for ourselves if we -wished it otherwise. People confound us with others—the reason of it is -that we ourselves grow, we change continually, we cast off old bark, we -still slough every spring, we always become younger, higher, stronger, -as men of the future, we thrust our roots always more powerfully into -the deep—into evil—, while at the same time we embrace the heavens ever -more lovingly, more extensively, and suck in their light ever more -eagerly with all our branches and leaves. We grow like trees—that is -difficult to understand, like all life!—not in one place, but -everywhere, not in one direction only, but upwards and outwards, as well -as inwards and downwards. At the same time our force shoots forth in -stem, branches, and roots; we are really no longer free to do anything -separately, or to _be_ anything separately.... Such is our lot, as we -have said: we grow in _height_; and even should it be our calamity—for -we dwell ever closer to the lightning!—well, we honour it none the less -on that account; it is that which we do not wish to share with others, -which we do not wish to bestow upon others, the fate of all elevation, -_our_ fate.... - - - 372. - -_Why we are not Idealists._—Formerly philosophers were afraid of the -senses: have we, perhaps, been far too forgetful of this fear? We are at -present all of us sensualists, we representatives of the present and of -the future in philosophy,—_not_ according to theory, however, but in -_praxis_, in practice.... Those former philosophers, on the contrary, -thought that the senses lured them out of _their_ world, the cold realm -of "ideas," to a dangerous southern island, where they were afraid that -their philosopher-virtues would melt away like snow in the sun. "Wax in -the ears," was then almost a condition of philosophising; a genuine -philosopher no longer listened to life, in so far as life is music, he -_denied_ the music of life—it is an old philosophical superstition that -all music is Sirens' music.—Now we should be inclined at the present day -to judge precisely in the opposite manner (which in itself might be just -as false), and to regard _ideas_, with their cold, anæmic appearance, -and not even in spite of this appearance, as worse seducers than the -senses. They have always lived on the "blood" of the philosopher, they -always consumed his senses, and indeed, if you will believe me, his -"heart" as well. Those old philosophers were heartless: philosophising -was always a species of vampirism. At the sight of such figures even as -Spinoza, do you not feel a profoundly enigmatical and disquieting sort -of impression? Do you not see the drama which is here performed, the -constantly _increasing pallor_—, the spiritualisation always more -ideally displayed? Do you not imagine some long-concealed blood-sucker -in the background, which makes its beginning with the senses, and in the -end retains or leaves behind nothing but bones and their rattling?—I -mean categories, formulæ, and _words_ (for you will pardon me in saying -that what _remains_ of Spinoza, _amor intellectualis dei_, is rattling -and nothing more! What is _amor_, what is _deus_, when they have lost -every drop of blood?...) _In summa_: all philosophical idealism has -hitherto been something like a disease, where it has not been, as in the -case of Plato, the prudence of superabundant and dangerous -healthfulness, the fear of _overpowerful_ senses, and the wisdom of a -wise Socratic.—Perhaps, is it the case that we moderns are merely not -sufficiently sound _to require_ Plato's idealism? And we do not fear the -senses because——. - - - 373. - -_"Science" as Prejudice._—It follows from the laws of class distinction -that the learned, in so far as they belong to the intellectual -middle-class, are debarred from getting even a sight of the really -_great_ problems and notes of interrogation. Besides, their courage, and -similarly their outlook, does not reach so far,—and above all, their -need, which makes them investigators, their innate anticipation and -desire that things should be constituted _in such and such a way_, their -fears and hopes are too soon quieted and set at rest. For example, that -which makes the pedantic Englishman, Herbert Spencer, so enthusiastic in -his way, and impels him to draw a line of hope, a horizon of -desirability, the final reconciliation of "egoism and altruism" of which -he dreams,—that almost causes nausea to people like us:—a humanity with -such Spencerian perspectives as ultimate perspectives would seem to us -deserving of contempt, of extermination! But the _fact_ that something -has to be taken by him as his highest hope, which is regarded, and may -well be regarded, by others merely as a distasteful possibility, is a -note of interrogation which Spencer could not have foreseen.... It is -just the same with the belief with which at present so many -materialistic natural-scientists are content, the belief in a world -which is supposed to have its equivalent and measure in human thinking -and human valuations, a "world of truth" at which we might be able -ultimately to arrive with the help of our insignificant, four-cornered -human reason! What? do we actually wish to have existence debased in -that fashion to a ready-reckoner exercise and calculation for -stay-at-home mathematicians? We should not, above all, seek to divest -existence of its _ambiguous_ character: _good_ taste forbids it, -gentlemen, the taste of reverence for everything that goes beyond your -horizon! That a world-interpretation is alone right by which _you_ -maintain your position, by which investigation and work can go on -scientifically in _your_ sense (you really mean _mechanically_?), an -interpretation which acknowledges numbering, calculating, weighing, -seeing and handling, and nothing more—such an idea is a piece of -grossness and naïvety, provided it is not lunacy and idiocy. Would the -reverse not be quite probable, that the most superficial and external -characters of existence—its most apparent quality, its outside, its -embodiment—should let themselves be apprehended first? perhaps alone -allow themselves to be apprehended? A "scientific" interpretation of the -world as you understand it might consequently still be one of the -_stupidest_ that is to say, the most destitute of significance, of all -possible world-interpretations:—I say this in confidence to my friends -the Mechanicians, who to-day like to hobnob with philosophers, and -absolutely believe that mechanics is the teaching of the first and last -laws upon which, as upon a ground-floor, all existence must be built. -But an essentially mechanical world would be an essentially -_meaningless_ world! Supposing we valued the _worth_ of a music with -reference to how much it could be counted, calculated, or formulated—how -absurd such a "scientific" estimate of music would be! What would one -have apprehended, understood, or discerned in it! Nothing, absolutely -nothing of what is really "music" in it!... - - - 374. - -_Our new "Infinite."_—How far the perspective character of existence -extends, or whether it have any other character at all, whether an -existence without explanation, without "sense" does not just become -"nonsense," whether, on the other hand, all existence is not essentially -an _explaining_ existence—these questions, as is right and proper, -cannot be determined even by the most diligent and severely -conscientious analysis and self-examination of the intellect, because in -this analysis the human intellect cannot avoid seeing itself in its -perspective forms, and _only_ in them. We cannot see round our corner: -it is hopeless curiosity to want to know what other modes of intellect -and perspective there _might_ be: for example, whether any kind of being -could perceive time backwards, or alternately forwards and backwards (by -which another direction of life and another conception of cause and -effect would be given). But I think that we are to-day at least far from -the ludicrous immodesty of decreeing from our nook that there _can_ only -be legitimate perspectives from that nook. The world, on the contrary, -has once more become "infinite" to us: in so far we cannot dismiss the -possibility that it _contains infinite interpretations_. Once more the -great horror seizes us—but who would desire forthwith to deify once more -_this_ monster of an unknown world in the old fashion? And perhaps -worship _the_ unknown thing as _the_ "unknown person" in future? Ah! -there are too many _ungodly_ possibilities of interpretation comprised -in this unknown, too much devilment, stupidity and folly of -interpretation.—also our own human, all too human interpretation itself, -which we know.... - - - 375. - -_Why we Seem to be Epicureans._—We are cautious, we modern men, with -regard to final convictions, our distrust lies in wait for the -enchantments and tricks of conscience involved in every strong belief, -in every absolute Yea and Nay: how is this explained? Perhaps one may -see in it a good deal of the caution of the "burnt child," of the -disillusioned idealist; but one may also see in it another and better -element, the joyful curiosity of a former lingerer in the corner, who -has been brought to despair by his nook, and now luxuriates and revels -in its antithesis, in the unbounded, in the "open air in itself." Thus -there is developed an almost Epicurean inclination for knowledge, which -does not readily lose sight of the questionable character of things; -likewise also a repugnance to pompous moral phrases and attitudes, a -taste that repudiates all coarse, square contrasts, and is proudly -conscious of its habitual reserve. For _this too_ constitutes our pride, -this easy tightening of the reins in our headlong impulse after -certainty, this self-control of the rider in his most furious riding: -for now, as of old we have mad, fiery steeds under us, and if we delay, -it is certainly least of all the danger which causes us to delay.... - - - 376. - -_Our Slow Periods._—It is thus that artists feel, and all men of -"works," the maternal species of men: they always believe at every -chapter of their life—a work always makes a chapter—that they have -already reached the goal itself; they would always patiently accept -death with the feeling: "we are ripe for it." This is not the expression -of exhaustion,—but rather that of a certain autumnal sunniness and -mildness, which the work itself, the maturing of the work, always leaves -behind in its originator. Then the _tempo_ of life slows down—turns -thick and flows with honey—into long pauses, into the belief in _the_ -long pause.... - - - 377. - -_We Homeless Ones._—Among the Europeans of to-day there are not lacking -those who may call themselves homeless ones in a way which is at once a -distinction and an honour; it is by them that my secret wisdom and _gaya -scienza_ is expressly to be laid to heart. For their lot is hard, their -hope uncertain; it is a clever feat to devise consolation for them. But -what good does it do! We children of the future, how _could_ we be at -home in the present? We are unfavourable to all ideals which could make -us feel at home in this frail, broken-down, transition period; and as -regards the "realities" thereof, we do not believe in their _endurance_. -The ice which still carries us has become very thin: the thawing wind -blows; we ourselves, the homeless ones, are an influence that breaks the -ice, and the other all too thin "realities."... We "preserve" nothing, -nor would we return to any past age; we are not at all "liberal," we do -not labour for "progress," we do not need first to stop our ears to the -song of the market-place and the sirens of the future—their song of -"equal rights," "free society," "no longer either lords or slaves," does -not allure us! We do not by any means think it desirable that the -kingdom of righteousness and peace should be established on earth -(because under any circumstances it would be the kingdom of the -profoundest mediocrity and Chinaism); we rejoice in all men, who, like -ourselves, love danger, war and adventure, who do not make compromises, -nor let themselves be captured, conciliated and stunted; we count -ourselves among the conquerors; we ponder over the need of a new order -of things, even of a new slavery—for every strengthening and elevation -of the type "man" also involves a new form of slavery. Is it not obvious -that with all this we must feel ill at ease in an age which claims the -honour of being the most humane, gentle and just that the sun has ever -seen? What a pity that at the mere mention of these fine words, the -thoughts at the back of our minds are all the more unpleasant, that we -see therein only the expression—or the masquerade—of profound weakening, -exhaustion, age, and declining power! What can it matter to us with what -kind of tinsel an invalid decks out his weakness? He may parade it as -his _virtue_; there is no doubt whatever that weakness makes people -gentle, alas, so gentle, so just, so inoffensive, so "humane"!—The -"religion of pity," to which people would like to persuade us—yes, we -know sufficiently well the hysterical little men and women who need this -religion at present as a cloak and adornment! We are no humanitarians; -we should not dare to speak of our "love of mankind"; for that, a person -of our stamp is not enough of an actor! Or not sufficiently -Saint-Simonist, not sufficiently French. A person must have been -affected with a _Gallic_ excess of erotic susceptibility and amorous -impatience even to approach mankind honourably with his lewdness.... -Mankind! Was there ever a more hideous old woman among all old women -(unless perhaps it were "the Truth": a question for philosophers)? No, -we do not love Mankind! On the other hand, however, we are not nearly -"German" enough (in the sense in which the word "German" is current at -present) to advocate nationalism and race-hatred, or take delight in the -national heart-itch and blood-poisoning, on account of which the nations -of Europe are at present bounded off and secluded from one another as if -by quarantines. We are too unprejudiced for that, too perverse, too -fastidious; also too well-informed, and too much "travelled." We prefer -much rather to live on mountains, apart and "out of season," in past or -coming centuries, in order merely to spare ourselves the silent rage to -which we know we should be condemned as witnesses of a system of -politics which makes the German nation barren by making it vain, and -which is a _petty_ system besides:—will it not be necessary for this -system to plant itself between two mortal hatreds, lest its own creation -should immediately collapse? Will it not _be obliged_ to desire the -perpetuation of the petty-state system of Europe?... We homeless ones -are too diverse and mixed in race and descent as "modern men," and are -consequently little tempted to participate in the falsified racial -self-admiration and lewdness which at present display themselves in -Germany, as signs of German sentiment, and which strike one as doubly -false and unbecoming in the people with the "historical sense." We are, -in a word—and it shall be our word of honour!—_good Europeans_, the -heirs of Europe, the rich, over-wealthy heirs, also the too deeply -pledged heirs of millenniums of European thought. As such, we have also -outgrown Christianity, and are disinclined to it—and just because we -have grown _out of_ it, because our forefathers were Christians -uncompromising in their Christian integrity, who willingly sacrificed -possessions and positions, blood and country, for the sake of their -belief. We—do the same. For what, then? For our unbelief? For all sorts -of unbelief? Nay, you know better than that, my friends! The hidden -_Yea_ in you is stronger than all the Nays and Perhapses, of which you -and your age are sick; and when you are obliged to put out to sea, you -emigrants, it is—once more a _faith_ which urges you thereto!... - - - 378. - -"_And once more Grow Clear._"—We, the generous and rich in spirit, who -stand at the sides of the streets like open fountains and would hinder -no one from drinking from us: we do not know, alas! how to defend -ourselves when we should like to do so; we have no means of preventing -ourselves being made _turbid_ and dark,—we have no means of preventing -the age in which we live casting its "up-to-date rubbish" into us, nor -of hindering filthy birds throwing their excrement, the boys their -trash, and fatigued resting travellers their misery, great and small, -into us. But we do as we have always done: we take whatever is cast into -us down into our depths—for we are deep, we do not forget—_and once more -grow clear_.... - - - 379. - -_The Fool's Interruption._—It is not a misanthrope who has written this -book: the hatred of men costs too dear to-day. To hate as they formerly -hated _man_, in the fashion of Timon, completely, without qualification, -with all the heart, from the pure _love_ of hatred—for that purpose one -would have to renounce contempt:—and how much refined pleasure, how much -patience, how much benevolence even, do we owe to contempt! Moreover we -are thereby the "elect of God": refined contempt is our taste and -privilege, our art, our virtue perhaps, we, the most modern amongst the -moderns!... Hatred, on the contrary, makes equal, it puts men face to -face, in hatred there is honour; finally, in hatred there is _fear_, -quite a large amount of fear. We fearless ones, however, we, the most -intellectual men of the period, know our advantage well enough to live -without fear as the most intellectual persons of this age. People will -not easily behead us, shut us up, or banish us; they will not even ban -or burn our books. The age loves intellect, it loves us, and needs us, -even when we have to give it to understand that we are artists in -despising; that all intercourse with men is something of a horror to us; -that with all our gentleness, patience, humanity and courteousness, we -cannot persuade our nose to abandon its prejudice against the proximity -of man; that we love nature the more, the less humanly things are done -by her, and that we love art _when_ it is the flight of the artist from -man, or the raillery of the artist at man, or the raillery of the artist -at himself.... - - - 380. - -_"The Wanderer" Speaks._—In order for once to get a glimpse of our -European morality from a distance, in order to compare it with other -earlier or future moralities, one must do as the traveller who wants to -know the height of the towers of a city: for that purpose he _leaves_ -the city. "Thoughts concerning moral prejudices," if they are not to be -prejudices concerning prejudices, presuppose a position _outside of_ -morality, some sort of world beyond good and evil, to which one must -ascend, climb, or fly—and in the given case at any rate, a position -beyond _our_ good and evil, an emancipation from all "Europe," -understood as a sum of inviolable valuations which have become part and -parcel of our flesh and blood. That one _wants_ in fact to get outside, -or aloft, is perhaps a sort of madness, a peculiarly unreasonable "thou -must"—for even we thinkers have our idiosyncrasies of "unfree will"—: -the question is whether one _can_ really get there. That may depend on -manifold conditions: in the main it is a question of how light or how -heavy we are, the problem of our "specific gravity." One must be _very -light_ in order to impel one's will to knowledge to such a distance, and -as it were beyond one's age, in order to create eyes for oneself for the -survey of millenniums, and a pure heaven in these eyes besides! One must -have freed oneself from many things by which we Europeans of to-day are -oppressed, hindered, held down, and made heavy. The man of such a -"Beyond," who wants to get even in sight of the highest standards of -worth of his age, must first of all "surmount" this age in himself—it is -the test of his power—and consequently not only his age, but also his -past aversion and opposition _to_ his age, his suffering _caused by_ his -age, his unseasonableness, his Romanticism.... - - - 381. - -_The Question of Intelligibility._—One not only wants to be understood -when one writes, but also—quite as certainly—_not_ to be understood. It -is by no means an objection to a book when someone finds it -unintelligible: perhaps this might just have been the intention of its -author,—perhaps he did not _want_ to be understood by "anyone." A -distinguished intellect and taste, when it wants to communicate its -thoughts, always selects its hearers; by selecting them, it at the same -time closes its barriers against "the others." It is there that all the -more refined laws of style have their origin: they at the same time keep -off, they create distance, they prevent "access" (intelligibility, as we -have said,)—while they open the ears of those who are acoustically -related to them. And to say it between ourselves and with reference to -my own case,—I do not desire that either my ignorance, or the vivacity -of my temperament, should prevent me being understood by _you_, my -friends: I certainly do not desire that my vivacity should have that -effect, however much it may impel me to arrive quickly at an object, in -order to arrive at it at all. For I think it is best to do with profound -problems as with a cold bath—quickly in, quickly out. That one does not -thereby get into the depths, that one does not get deep enough _down_—is -a superstition of the hydrophobic, the enemies of cold water; they speak -without experience. Oh! the great cold makes one quick!—And let me ask -by the way: Is it a fact that a thing has been misunderstood and -unrecognised when it has only been touched upon in passing, glanced at, -flashed at? Must one absolutely sit upon it in the first place? Must one -have brooded on it as on an egg? _Diu noctuque incubando_, as Newton -said of himself? At least there are truths of a peculiar shyness and -ticklishness which one can only get hold of suddenly, and in no other -way,—which one must either _take by surprise_, or leave alone.... -Finally, my brevity has still another value: on those questions which -pre-occupy me, I must say a great deal briefly, in order that it may be -heard yet more briefly. For as immoralist, one has to take care lest one -ruins innocence, I mean the asses and old maids of both sexes, who get -nothing from life but their innocence; moreover my writings are meant to -fill them with enthusiasm, to elevate them, to encourage them in virtue. -I should be at a loss to know of anything more amusing than to see -enthusiastic old asses and maids moved by the sweet feelings of virtue: -and "that have I seen"—spake Zarathustra. So much with respect to -brevity; the matter stands worse as regards my ignorance, of which I -make no secret to myself. There are hours in which I am ashamed of it; -to be sure there are likewise hours in which I am ashamed of this shame. -Perhaps we philosophers, all of us, are badly placed at present with -regard to knowledge: science is growing, the most learned of us are on -the point of discovering that we know too little. But it would be worse -still if it were otherwise,—if we knew too much; our duty is and -remains, first of all, not to get into confusion about ourselves. We -_are_ different from the learned; although it cannot be denied that -amongst other things we are also learned. We have different needs, a -different growth, a different digestion: we need more, we need also -less. There is no formula as to how much an intellect needs for its -nourishment; if, however, its taste be in the direction of independence, -rapid coming and going, travelling, and perhaps adventure for which only -the swiftest are qualified, it prefers rather to live free on poor fare, -than to be unfree and plethoric. Not fat, but the greatest suppleness -and power is what a good dancer wishes from his nourishment,—and I know -not what the spirit of a philosopher would like better than to be a good -dancer. For the dance is his ideal, and also his art, in the end -likewise his sole piety, his "divine service."... - - - 382. - -_Great Healthiness._—We, the new, the nameless, the hard-to-understand, -we firstlings of a yet untried future—we require for a new end also a -new means, namely, a new healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder -and merrier than any healthiness hitherto. He whose soul longs to -experience the whole range of hitherto recognised values and -desirabilities, and to circumnavigate all the coasts of this ideal -"Mediterranean Sea," who, from the adventures of his most personal -experience, wants to know how it feels to be a conqueror, and discoverer -of the ideal—as likewise how it is with the artist, the saint, the -legislator, the sage, the scholar, the devotee, the prophet, and the -godly Nonconformist of the old style:—requires one thing above all for -that purpose, _great healthiness_—such healthiness as one not only -possesses, but also constantly acquires and must acquire, because one -continually sacrifices it again, and must sacrifice it!—And now, after -having been long on the way in this fashion, we Argonauts of the ideal, -who are more courageous perhaps than prudent, and often enough -shipwrecked and brought to grief, nevertheless, as said above, healthier -than people would like to admit, dangerously healthy, always healthy -again,—it would seem, as if in recompense for it all, that we have a -still undiscovered country before us, the boundaries of which no one has -yet seen, a beyond to all countries and corners of the ideal known -hitherto, a world so over-rich in the beautiful, the strange, the -questionable, the frightful, and the divine, that our curiosity as well -as our thirst for possession thereof, have got out of hand—alas! that -nothing will now any longer satisfy us! How could we still be content -with _the man of the present day_ after such peeps, and with such a -craving in our conscience and consciousness? What a pity; but it is -unavoidable that we should look on the worthiest aims and hopes of the -man of the present day with ill-concealed amusement, and perhaps should -no longer look at them. Another ideal runs on before us, a strange, -tempting ideal, full of danger, to which we should not like to persuade -any one, because we do not so readily acknowledge any one's _right -thereto_: the ideal of a spirit who plays naïvely (that is to say -involuntarily and from overflowing abundance and power) with everything -that has hitherto been called holy, good, inviolable, divine; to whom -the loftiest conception which the people have reasonably made their -measure of value, would already imply danger, ruin, abasement, or at -least relaxation, blindness, or temporary self-forgetfulness; the ideal -of a humanly superhuman welfare and benevolence, which may often enough -appear _inhuman_, for example, when put by the side of all past -seriousness on earth, and in comparison with all past solemnities in -bearing, word, tone, look, morality and pursuit, as their truest -involuntary parody,— but with which, nevertheless, perhaps _the great -seriousness_ only commences, the proper interrogation mark is set up, -the fate of the soul changes, the hour-hand moves, and tragedy -_begins_.... - - - 383. - -_Epilogue._—But while I slowly, slowly finish the painting of this -sombre interrogation-mark, and am still inclined to remind my readers of -the virtues of right reading—oh, what forgotten and unknown virtues—it -comes to pass that the wickedest, merriest, gnome-like laughter resounds -around me: the spirits of my book themselves pounce upon me, pull me by -the ears, and call me to order. "We cannot endure it any longer," they -shout to me, "away, away with this raven-black music. Is it not clear -morning round about us? And green, soft ground and turf, the domain of -the dance? Was there ever a better hour in which to be joyful? Who will -sing us a song, a morning song, so sunny, so light and so fledged that -it will _not_ scare the tantrums,—but will rather invite them to take -part in the singing and dancing. And better a simple rustic bagpipe than -such weird sounds, such toad-croakings, grave-voices and marmot-pipings, -with which you have hitherto regaled us in your wilderness, Mr Anchorite -and Musician of the Future! No! Not such tones! But let us strike up -something more agreeable and more joyful!"—You would like to have it so, -my impatient friends? Well! Who would not willingly accord with your -wishes? My bagpipe is waiting, and my voice also—it may sound a little -hoarse; take it as it is! don't forget we are in the mountains! But what -you will hear is at least new; and if you do not understand it, if you -misunderstand the _singer_, what does it matter! That—has always been -"The Singer's Curse."[14] So much the more distinctly can you hear his -music and melody, so much the better also can you—dance to his piping. -_Would you like_ to do that?... - ------ - -Footnote 11: - - In German the expression _Kopf zu waschen_, besides the literal sense, - also means "to give a person a sound drubbing."—TR. - -Footnote 12: - - "_Germany, Germany, above all_": the first line of the German national - song.—TR. - -Footnote 13: - - An allusion to the German Proverb, "Handwerk hat einen goldenen - Boden."—TR. - -Footnote 14: - - Title of the well-known poem of Uhland.—TR. - - - - - APPENDIX - - SONGS OF PRINCE FREE-AS-A-BIRD - - - TO GOETHE.[15] - - "The Undecaying" - Is but thy label, - God the betraying - Is poets' fable. - - Our aims all are thwarted - By the World-wheel's blind roll: - "Doom," says the downhearted, - "Sport," says the fool. - - The World-sport, all-ruling, - Mingles false with true: - The Eternally Fooling - Makes us play, too! - - - THE POET'S CALL. - - As 'neath a shady tree I sat - After long toil to take my pleasure, - I heard a tapping "pit-a-pat" - Beat prettily in rhythmic measure. - Tho' first I scowled, my face set hard, - The sound at length my sense entrapping - Forced me to speak like any bard, - And keep true time unto the tapping. - - As I made verses, never stopping, - Each syllable the bird went after, - Keeping in time with dainty hopping! - I burst into unmeasured laughter! - What, you a poet? You a poet? - Can your brains truly so addled be? - "Yes, yes, good sir, you are a poet," - Chirped out the pecker, mocking me. - - What doth me to these woods entice? - The chance to give some thief a trouncing? - A saw, an image? Ha, in a trice - My rhyme is on it, swiftly pouncing! - All things that creep or crawl the poet - Weaves in his word-loom cunningly. - "Yes, yes, good sir, you are a poet," - Chirped out the pecker, mocking me. - - Like to an arrow, methinks, a verse is, - See how it quivers, pricks and smarts - When shot full straight (no tender mercies!) - Into the reptile's nobler parts! - Wretches, you die at the hand of the poet, - Or stagger like men that have drunk too free. - "Yes, yes, good sir, you are a poet," - Chirped out the pecker, mocking me. - - So they go hurrying, stanzas malign, - Drunken words—what a clattering, banging!— - Till the whole company, line on line, - All on the rhythmic chain are hanging. - Has he really a cruel heart, your poet? - Are there fiends who rejoice, the slaughter to see? - "Yes, yes, good sir, you are a poet," - Chirped out the pecker, mocking me. - - So you jest at me, bird, with your scornful graces? - So sore indeed is the plight of my head? - And my heart, you say, in yet sorrier case is? - Beware! for my wrath is a thing to dread! - Yet e'en in the hour of his wrath the poet - Rhymes you and sings with the selfsame glee. - "Yes, yes, good sir, you are a poet," - Chirped out the pecker, mocking me. - - - IN THE SOUTH.[16] - - I swing on a bough, and rest - My tired limbs in a nest, - In the rocking home of a bird, - Wherein I perch as his guest, - In the South! - - I gaze on the ocean asleep, - On the purple sail of a boat; - On the harbour and tower steep, - On the rocks that stand out of the deep, - In the South! - - For I could no longer stay, - To crawl in slow German way; - So I called to the birds, bade the wind - Lift me up and bear me away - To the South! - - No reasons for me, if you please; - Their end is too dull and too plain; - But a pair of wings and a breeze, - With courage and health and ease, - And games that chase disease - From the South! - - Wise thoughts can move without sound, - But I've songs that I can't sing alone; - So birdies, pray gather around, - And listen to what I have found - In the South! - - * * * - - "You are merry lovers and false and gay, - In frolics and sport you pass the day; - Whilst in the North, I shudder to say, - I worshipped a woman, hideous and gray, - Her name was Truth, so I heard them say, - But I left her there and I flew away - To the South!" - - - BEPPA THE PIOUS. - - While beauty in my face is, - Be piety my care, - For God, you know, loves lasses, - And, more than all, the fair. - And if yon hapless monkling - Is fain with me to live, - Like many another monkling, - God surely will forgive. - - No grey old priestly devil, - But, young, with cheeks aflame— - Who e'en when sick with revel, - Can jealous be and blame. - To greybeards I'm a stranger, - And he, too, hates the old: - Of God, the world-arranger, - The wisdom here behold! - - The Church has ken of living, - And tests by heart and face. - To me she'll be forgiving! - Who will not show me grace? - I lisp with pretty halting, - I curtsey, bid "good day," - And with the fresh defaulting - I wash the old away! - - Praise be this man-God's guerdon, - Who loves all maidens fair, - And his own heart can pardon - The sin he planted there. - While beauty in my face is, - With piety I'll stand, - When age has killed my graces, - Let Satan claim my hand! - - - THE BOAT OF MYSTERY. - - Yester-eve, when all things slept— - Scarce a breeze to stir the lane— - I a restless vigil kept, - Nor from pillows sleep could gain, - Nor from poppies nor—most sure - Of opiates—a conscience pure. - - Thoughts of rest I 'gan forswear, - Rose and walked along the strand, - Found, in warm and moonlit air, - Man and boat upon the sand, - Drowsy both, and drowsily - Did the boat put out to sea. - - Passed an hour or two perchance, - Or a year? then thought and sense - Vanished in the engulfing trance - Of a vast Indifference. - Fathomless, abysses dread - Opened—then the vision fled. - - Morning came: becalmed, the boat - Rested on the purple flood: - "What had happened?" every throat - Shrieked the question: "was there—Blood?" - Naught had happened! On the swell - We had slumbered, oh, so well! - - - AN AVOWAL OF LOVE - - (_during which, however, the poet fell into a pit_). - - Oh marvel! there he flies - Cleaving the sky with wings unmoved—what force - Impels him, bids him rise, - What curb restrains him? Where's his goal, his course? - - Like stars and time eterne - He liveth now in heights that life forswore, - Nor envy's self doth spurn: - A lofty flight were't, e'en to see him soar! - - Oh albatross, great bird, - Speeding me upward ever through the blue! - I thought of her, was stirred - To tears unending—yea, I love her true! - - - SONG OF A THEOCRITEAN GOATHERD. - - Here I lie, my bowels sore, - Hosts of bugs advancing, - Yonder lights and romp and roar! - What's that sound? They're dancing! - - At this instant, so she prated, - Stealthily she'd meet me: - Like a faithful dog I've waited, - Not a sign to greet me! - - She promised, made the cross-sign, too, - Could her vows be hollow? - Or runs she after all that woo, - Like the goats I follow? - - Whence your silken gown, my maid? - Ah, you'd fain be haughty, - Yet perchance you've proved a jade - With some satyr naughty! - - Waiting long, the lovelorn wight - Is filled with rage and poison: - Even so on sultry night - Toadstools grow in foison. - - Pinching sore, in devil's mood, - Love doth plague my crupper: - Truly I can eat no food: - Farewell, onion-supper! - - Seaward sinks the moon away, - The stars are wan, and flare not: - Dawn approaches, gloomy, grey, - Let Death come! I care not! - - - "SOULS THAT LACK DETERMINATION." - - Souls that lack determination - Rouse my wrath to white-hot flame! - All their glory's but vexation, - All their praise but self-contempt and shame! - - Since I baffle their advances, - Will not clutch their leading-string, - They would wither me with glances - Bitter-sweet, with hopeless envy sting. - - Let them with fell curses shiver, - Curl their lip the livelong day! - Seek me as they will, forever - Helplessly their eyes shall go astray! - - - THE FOOL'S DILEMMA. - - Ah, what I wrote on board and wall - With foolish heart, in foolish scrawl, - I meant but for their decoration! - - Yet say you, "Fools' abomination! - Both board and wall require purgation, - And let no trace our eyes appal!" - - Well, I will help you, as I can, - For sponge and broom are my vocation, - As critic and as waterman. - - But when the finished work I scan, - I'm glad to see each learned owl - With "wisdom" board and wall defoul. - - - RIMUS REMEDIUM - - (_or a Consolation to Sick Poets_). - - From thy moist lips, - O Time, thou witch, beslavering me, - Hour upon hour too slowly drips - In vain—I cry, in frenzy's fit, - "A curse upon that yawning pit, - A curse upon Eternity!" - - The world's of brass, - A fiery bullock, deaf to wail: - Pain's dagger pierces my cuirass, - Wingéd, and writes upon my bone: - "Bowels and heart the world hath none, - Why scourge her sins with anger's flail?" - - Pour poppies now, - Pour venom, Fever, on my brain! - Too long you test my hand and brow: - What ask you? "What—reward is paid?" - A malediction on you, jade, - And your disdain! - - No, I retract, - 'Tis cold—I hear the rain importune— - Fever, I'll soften, show my tact: - Here's gold—a coin—see it gleam! - Shall I with blessings on you beam, - Call you "good fortune"? - - The door opes wide, - And raindrops on my bed are scattered, - The light's blown out—woes multiplied! - He that hath not an hundred rhymes, - I'll wager, in these dolorous times - We'd see him shattered! - - - MY BLISS. - - Once more, St Mark, thy pigeons meet my gaze, - The Square lies still, in slumbering morning mood: - In soft, cool air I fashion idle lays, - Speeding them skyward like a pigeon's brood: - And then recall my minions - To tie fresh rhymes upon their willing pinions. - My bliss! My bliss! - - Calm heavenly roof of azure silkiness, - Guarding with shimmering haze yon house divine! - Thee, house, I love, fear—envy, I'll confess, - And gladly would suck out that soul of thine! - "Should I give back the prize?" - Ask not, great pasture-ground for human eyes! - My bliss! My bliss! - - Stern belfry, rising as with lion's leap - Sheer from the soil in easy victory, - That fill'st the Square with peal resounding, deep, - Wert thou in French that Square's "accent aigu"? - Were I for ages set - In earth like thee, I know what silk-meshed net.... - My bliss! My bliss! - - Hence, music! First let darker shadows come, - And grow, and merge into brown, mellow night! - 'Tis early for your pealing, ere the dome - Sparkle in roseate glory, gold-bedight - While yet 'tis day, there's time - For strolling, lonely muttering, forging rhyme— - My bliss! My bliss! - - - COLUMBUS REDIVIVUS. - - Thither I'll travel, that's my notion, - I'll trust myself, my grip, - Where opens wide and blue the ocean - I'll ply my Genoa ship. - - New things on new the world unfolds me, - Time, space with noonday die: - Alone thy monstrous eye beholds me, - Awful Infinity! - - - SILS-MARIA. - - Here sat I waiting, waiting, but for naught! - Beyond all good and evil—now by light wrought - - To joy, now by dark shadows—all was leisure, - All lake, all noon, all time sans aim, sans measure. - - Then one, dear friend, was swiftly changed to twain, - And Zarathustra left my teeming brain.... - - - A DANCING SONG TO THE MISTRAL - WIND.[17] - - Wildly rushing, clouds outleaping, - Care-destroying, Heaven sweeping, - Mistral wind, thou art my friend! - Surely 'twas one womb did bear us, - Surely 'twas one fate did pair us, - Fellows for a common end. - - From the crags I gaily greet you, - Running fast I come to meet you, - Dancing while you pipe and sing. - How you bound across the ocean, - Unimpeded, free in motion, - Swifter than with boat or wing! - - Through my dreams your whistle sounded, - Down the rocky stairs I bounded - To the golden ocean wall; - Saw you hasten, swift and glorious, - Like a river, strong, victorious, - Tumbling in a waterfall. - - Saw you rushing over Heaven, - With your steeds so wildly driven, - Saw the car in which you flew; - Saw the lash that wheeled and quivered, - While the hand that held it shivered, - Urging on the steeds anew. - - Saw you from your chariot swinging, - So that swifter downward springing - Like an arrow you might go - Straight into the deep abysses, - As a sunbeam falls and kisses - Roses in the morning glow. - - Dance, oh! dance on all the edges, - Wave-crests, cliffs and mountain ledges, - Ever finding dances new! - Let our knowledge be our gladness, - Let our art be sport and madness, - All that's joyful shall be true! - - Let us snatch from every bower, - As we pass, the fairest flower, - With some leaves to make a crown; - Then, like minstrels gaily dancing, - Saint and witch together prancing, - Let us foot it up and down. - - Those who come must move as quickly - As the wind—we'll have no sickly, - Crippled, withered, in our crew; - Off with hypocrites and preachers, - Proper folk and prosy teachers, - Sweep them from our heaven blue. - - Sweep away all sad grimaces, - Whirl the dust into the faces - Of the dismal sick and cold! - Hunt them from our breezy places, - Not for them the wind that braces, - But for men of visage bold. - - Off with those who spoil earth's gladness, - Blow away all clouds of sadness, - Till our heaven clear we see; - Let me hold thy hand, best fellow, - Till my joy like tempest bellow! - Freest thou of spirits free! - - When thou partest, take a token - Of the joy thou hast awoken, - Take our wreath and fling it far; - Toss it up and catch it never, - Whirl it on before thee ever, - Till it reach the farthest star. - ------ - -Footnote 15: - - This poem is a parody of the "Chorus Mysticus" which concludes the - second part of Goethe's "Faust." Bayard Taylor's translation of the - passage in "Faust" runs as follows:— - - "All things transitory - But as symbols are sent, - Earth's insufficiency - Here grows to Event: - The Indescribable - Here it is done: - The Woman-Soul leadeth us - Upward and on!" - -Footnote 16: - - Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. Inserted by permission of the editor - of the _Nation_, in which it appeared on April 17, 1909. - -Footnote 17: - - Translated by Miss M. D. Petre. Inserted by permission of the editor - of the _Nation_, in which it appeared on May 15, 1909. - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - FOOTNOTES: - - - - - Transcriber's Note - -The original spelling and punctuation has been retained. - -Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. - -Italicized words and phrases in the text version are presented by -surrounding the text with underscores. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Joyful Wisdom, by Friedrich Nietzsche - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOYFUL WISDOM *** - -***** This file should be named 52881-0.txt or 52881-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/8/8/52881/ - -Produced by Thierry Alberto, readbueno and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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