or the return to nature, _in impuris naturalibus._—Schiller, or the
Moral-Trumpeter of Sackingen.—Dante, or the hyæna that writes poetry
in tombs.—Kant, or _cant_ as an intelligible character.—Victor
Hugo, or the lighthouse on the sea of nonsense.—Liszt, or the
school of racing—after women.—George Sand, or _lactea ubertas,_
in plain English: the cow with plenty of beautiful milk.—Michelet,
or enthusiasm in its shirt sleeves.—Carlyle, or Pessimism after
undigested meals.—John Stuart Mill, or offensive lucidity.—The
brothers Goncourt, or the two Ajaxes fighting with Homer. Music by
Offenbach.—Zola, or the love of stinking.
2
_Renan._—Theology, or the corruption of reason by original sin
(Christianity). Proof of this,—Renan who, even in those rare cases
where he ventures to say either Yes or No on a general question,
invariably misses the point with painful regularity. For instance,
he would fain associate science and nobility: but surely it must be
obvious that science is democratic. He seems to be actuated by a
strong desire to represent an aristocracy of intellect: but, at the
same time he grovels on his knees, and not only on his knees, before
the opposite doctrine, the gospel of the humble. What is the good of
all free-spiritedness, modernity, mockery and acrobatic suppleness,
if in one’s belly one is still a Christian, a Catholic, and even a
priest! Renan’s forte, precisely like that of a Jesuit and Father
Confessor, lies in his seductiveness. His intellectuality is not
devoid of that unctuous complacency of a parson,—like all priests, he
becomes dangerous only when he loves. He is second to none in the art
of skilfully worshipping a dangerous thing. This intellect of Renan’s,
which in its action is enervating, is one calamity the more, for poor,
sick France with her will-power all going to pieces.
3
_Sainte-Beuve._—There is naught of man in him; he is full of petty
spite towards all virile spirits. He wanders erratically; he is subtle,
inquisitive, a little bored, for ever with his ear to key-holes,—at
bottom a woman, with all woman’s revengefulness and sensuality. As a
psychologist he is a genius of slander; inexhaustively rich in means
to this end; no one understands better than he how to introduce a
little poison into praise. In his fundamental instincts he is plebeian
and next of kin to Rousseau’s resentful spirit: consequently he is
a Romanticist—for beneath all romanticism Rousseau’s instinct for
revenge grunts and frets. He is a revolutionary, but kept within
bounds by “funk.” He is embarrassed in the face of everything that is
strong (public opinion, the Academy, the court, even Port Royal). He
is embittered against everything great in men and things, against
everything that believes in itself. Enough of a poet and of a female to
be able to feel greatness as power; he is always turning and twisting,
because, like the proverbial worm, he constantly feels that he is
being trodden upon. As a critic he has no standard of judgment, no
guiding principle, no backbone. Although he possesses the tongue of
the Cosmopolitan libertine which can chatter about a thousand things,
he has not the courage even to acknowledge his _libertinage._ As a
historian he has no philosophy, and lacks the power of philosophical
vision,—hence his refusal to act the part of a judge, and his adoption
of the mask of “objectivity” in all important matters. His attitude
is better in regard to all those things in which subtle and effete
taste is the highest tribunal: in these things he really does have
the courage of his own personality—he really does enjoy his own
nature—he actually is a _master,_—In some respects he is a prototype
of Baudelaire.
4
“_The Imitation of Christ_” is one of those books which I cannot even
take hold of without physical loathing: it exhales a perfume of the
eternally feminine, which to appreciate fully one must be a Frenchman
or a Wagnerite. This saint has a way of speaking about love which
makes even Parisiennes feel a little curious.—I am told that that
_most intelligent_ of Jesuits, Auguste Comte, who wished to lead his
compatriots back to Rome by the circuitous route of science, drew his
inspiration from this book. And I believe it: “The religion of the
heart.”
5
_G. Eliot._—They are rid of the Christian God and therefore
think it all the more incumbent upon them to hold tight to Christian
morality: this is an English way of reasoning; but let us not take it
ill in moral females _à la_ Eliot. In England, every man who indulges
in any trifling emancipation from theology, must retrieve his honour
in the most terrifying manner by becoming a moral fanatic. That is how
they do penance in that country.—As for us, we act differently. When
we renounce the Christian faith, we abandon all right to Christian
morality. This is not by any means self-evident and in defiance of
English shallow-pates the point must be made ever more and more plain.
Christianity is a system, a complete outlook upon the world, conceived
as a whole. If its leading concept, the belief in God, is wrenched
from it, the whole is destroyed; nothing vital remains in our grasp.
Christianity presupposes that man does not and cannot know what is
good or bad for him: the Christian believes in God who, alone, can
know these things. Christian morality is a command, its origin is
transcendental. It is beyond all criticism, all right to criticism;
it is true only on condition that God is truth,—it stands or falls
with the belief in God. If the English really believe that they know
intuitively, and of their own accord, what is good and evil; if,
therefore, they assert that they no longer need Christianity as a
guarantee of morality, this in itself is simply the outcome of the
dominion of Christian valuations, and a proof of the strength and
profundity of this dominion. It only shows that the origin of English
morality has been forgotten, and that its exceedingly relative right to
exist is no longer felt. For Englishmen morality is not yet a problem.
6
_George Sand._—I have been reading the first “_Lettres d’un
Voyageur_:” like everything that springs from Rousseau’s influence
it is false, made-up, blown out, and exaggerated! I cannot endure
this bright wall-paper style, any more than I can bear the vulgar
striving after generous feelings. The worst feature about it is
certainly the coquettish adoption of male attributes by this female,
after the manner of ill-bred schoolboys. And how cold she must have
been inwardly all the while, this insufferable artist! She wound
herself up like a clock—and wrote. As cold as Hugo and Balzac, as
cold as all Romanticists are as soon as they begin to write! And how
self-complacently she must have lain there, this prolific ink-yielding
cow. For she had something German in her (German in the bad sense),
just as Rousseau, her master, had;—something which could only have
been possible when French taste was declining!—and Renan adores her!...
7
_A Moral for Psychologists._ Do not go in for any note-book psychology!
Never observe for the sake of observing! Such things lead to a false
point of view, to a squint, to something forced and exaggerated.
To experience things on purpose—this is not a bit of good. In the
midst of an experience a man should not turn his eyes upon himself;
in such cases any eye becomes the “evil eye.” A born psychologist
instinctively avoids seeing for the sake of seeing. And the same holds
good of the born painter. Such a man never works “from nature,”—he
leaves it to his instinct, to his _camera obscura_ to sift and to
define the “fact,” “nature,” the “experience.” The general idea,
the conclusion, the result, is the only thing that reaches his
consciousness. He knows nothing of that wilful process of deducing
from particular cases. What is the result when a man sets about this
matter differently?—when, for instance, after the manner of Parisian
novelists, he goes in for note-book psychology on a large and small
scale? Such a man is constantly spying on reality, and every evening
he bears home a handful of fresh curios.... But look at the result!—a
mass of daubs, at best a piece of mosaic, in any case something heaped
together, restless and garish. The Goncourts are the greatest sinners
in this respect: they cannot put three sentences together which are not
absolutely painful to the eye—the eye of the psychologist. From an
artistic standpoint, nature is no model. It exaggerates, distorts, and
leaves gaps. Nature is the _accident._ To study “from nature” seems to
me a bad sign: it betrays submission, weakness, fatalism—this lying
in the dust before trivial facts is unworthy of a thorough artist. To
see _what is_—is the function of another order of intellects, the
_anti-artistic,_ the matter-of-fact. One must know _who_ one is.
8
_Concerning the psychology of the artist_ For art to be possible at
all—that is to say, in order that an æsthetic mode of action and of
observation may exist, a certain preliminary physiological state is
indispensable _ecstasy._[1] This state of ecstasy must first have
intensified the susceptibility of the whole machine: otherwise, no art
is possible. All kinds of ecstasy, however differently produced, have
this power to create art, and above all the state dependent upon sexual
excitement—this most venerable and primitive form of ecstasy. The same
applies to that ecstasy which is the outcome of all great desires,
all strong passions; the ecstasy of the feast, of the arena, of the
act of bravery, of victory, of all extreme action; the ecstasy of
cruelty; the ecstasy of destruction; the ecstasy following upon certain
meteorological influences, as for instance that of spring-time, or upon
the use of narcotics; and finally the ecstasy of will, that ecstasy
which results from accumulated and surging will-power.—The essential
feature of ecstasy is the feeling of increased strength and abundance.
Actuated by this feeling a man gives of himself to things, _he
forces_ them to partake of his riches, he does violence to them—this
proceeding is called _idealising._ Let us rid ourselves of a prejudice
here: idealising does not consist, as is generally believed, in a
suppression or an elimination of detail or of unessential features.
A stupendous _accentuation_ of the principal characteristics is by
far the most decisive factor at work, and in consequence the minor
characteristics vanish.
9
In this state a man enriches everything from out his own abundance:
what he sees, what he wills, he sees distended, compressed, strong,
overladen with power. He transfigures things until they reflect his
power,—until they are stamped with his perfection. This compulsion
to transfigure into the beautiful is—Art. Everything—even that which
he is not,—is nevertheless to such a man a means of rejoicing over
himself; in Art man rejoices over himself as perfection.—It is
possible to imagine a contrary state, a specifically anti-artistic
state of the instincts,—a state in which a man impoverishes,
attenuates, and draws the blood from everything. And, truth to tell,
history is full of such anti-artists, of such creatures of low
vitality who have no choice but to appropriate everything they see
and to suck its blood and make it thinner. This is the case with the
genuine Christian, Pascal for instance. There is no such thing as a
Christian who is also an artist ... Let no one be so childish as to
suggest Raphael or any homeopathic Christian of the nineteenth century
as an objection to this statement: Raphael said Yea, Raphael _did_
Yea,—consequently Raphael was no Christian.
10
What is the meaning of the antithetical concepts _Apollonian_ and
_Dionysian_ which I have introduced into the vocabulary of Æsthetic, as
representing two distinct modes of ecstasy?—Apollonian ecstasy acts
above all as a force stimulating the eye, so that it acquires the power
of vision. The painter, the sculptor, the epic poet are essentially
visionaries. In the Dionysian state, on the other hand, the whole
system of passions is stimulated and intensified, so that it discharges
itself by all the means of expression at once, and vents all its power
of representation, of imitation, of transfiguration, of transformation,
together with every kind of mimicry and histrionic display at the same
time. The essential feature remains the facility in transforming,
the inability to refrain from reaction (—a similar state to that of
certain hysterical patients, who at the slightest hint assume any
rôle). It is impossible for the Dionysian artist not to understand any
suggestion; no outward sign of emotion escapes him, he possesses the
instinct of comprehension and of divination in the highest degree,
just as he is capable of the most perfect art of communication. He
enters into every skin, into every passion: he is continually changing
himself. Music as we understand it to-day is likewise a general
excitation and discharge of the emotions; but, notwithstanding this, it
is only the remnant of a much richer world of emotional expression, a
mere residuum of Dionysian histrionism. For music to be made possible
as a special art, quite a number of senses, and particularly the
muscular sense, had to be paralysed (at least relatively: for all
rhythm still appeals to our muscles to a certain extent): and thus man
no longer imitates and represents physically everything he feels, as
soon as he feels it. Nevertheless that is the normal Dionysian state,
and in any case its primitive state. Music is the slowly attained
specialisation of this state at the cost of kindred capacities.
11
The actor, the mime, the dancer, the musician, and the lyricist, are
in their instincts fundamentally related; but they have gradually
specialised in their particular branch, and become separated—even
to the point of contradiction. The lyricist remained united with the
musician for the longest period of time; and the actor with the dancer.
The architect manifests neither a Dionysian nor an Apollonian state: In
his case it is the great act of will, the will that moveth mountains,
the ecstasy of the great will which aspires to art. The most powerful
men have always inspired architects; the architect has always been
under the suggestion of power. In the architectural structure, man’s
pride, man’s triumph over gravitation, man’s will to power, assume
a visible form. Architecture is a sort of oratory of power by means
of forms. Now it is persuasive, even flattering, and at other times
merely commanding. The highest sensation of power and security finds
expression in grandeur of style. That power which no longer requires to
be proved, which scorns to please; which responds only with difficulty;
which feels no witnesses around it; which is oblivious of the fact
that it is being opposed; which relies on itself fatalistically, and
is a law among laws:—such power expresses itself quite naturally in
grandeur of style.
12
I have been reading the life of Thomas Carlyle, that unconscious and
involuntary farce, that heroico-moral interpretation of dyspeptic
moods.—Carlyle, a man of strong words and attitudes, a rhetorician by
necessity, who seems ever to be tormented by the desire of finding some
kind of strong faith, and by his inability to do so (—in this respect
a typical Romanticist!). To yearn for a strong faith is not the proof
of a strong faith, but rather the reverse. If a man have a strong faith
he can indulge in the luxury of scepticism; he is strong enough, firm
enough, well-knit enough for such a luxury. Carlyle stupefies something
in himself by means of the _fortissimo_ of his reverence for men of a
strong faith, and his rage over those who are less foolish: he is in
sore need of noise. An attitude of constant and passionate dishonesty
towards himself—this is his _proprium;_ by virtue of this he is and
remains interesting.—Of course, in England he is admired precisely
on account of his honesty. Well, that is English; and in view of the
fact that the English are the nation of consummate cant, it is not only
comprehensible but also very natural. At bottom, Carlyle is an English
atheist who makes it a point of honour not to be one.
13
_Emerson._—He is much more enlightened, much broader, more versatile,
and more subtle than Carlyle; but above all, he is happier. He is one
who instinctively lives on ambrosia and who leaves the indigestible
parts of things on his plate. Compared with Carlyle he is a man of
taste.—Carlyle, who was very fond of him, nevertheless declared that
“he does not give us enough to chew.” This is perfectly true but
it is not unfavourable to Emerson.—Emerson possesses that kindly
intellectual cheerfulness which deprecates overmuch seriousness; he
has absolutely no idea of how old he is already, and how young he will
yet be,—he could have said of himself, in Lope de Vega’s words: “_yo
me sucedo a mi mismo._” His mind is always finding reasons for being
contented and even thankful; and at times he gets preciously near to
that serene superiority of the worthy bourgeois who returning from an
amorous rendezvous _tamquam re bene gesta,_ said gratefully “_Ut desint
vires, tamen est laudanda voluptas._”—
14
_Anti-Darwin._—As to the famous “struggle for existence,” it seems to
me, for the present, to be more of an assumption than a fact. It does
occur, but as an exception. The general condition of life is not one
of want or famine, but rather of riches, of lavish luxuriance, and even
of absurd prodigality,—where there is a struggle, it is a struggle
for power. We should not confound Malthus with nature.—Supposing,
however, that this struggle exists,—and it does indeed occur,—its
result is unfortunately the very reverse of that which the Darwinian
school seems to desire, and of that which in agreement with them we
also might desire: that is to say, it is always to the disadvantage
of the strong, the privileged, and the happy exceptions. Species
do not evolve towards perfection: the weak always prevail over the
strong—simply because they are the majority, and because they are also
the more crafty. Darwin forgot the intellect (—that is English!), the
weak have more intellect. In order to acquire intellect, one must be in
need of it. One loses it when one no longer needs it. He who possesses
strength flings intellect to the deuce (—“let it go hence!”[2]
say the Germans of the present day, “the _Empire_ will remain”).
As you perceive, intellect to me means caution, patience, craft,
dissimulation, great self-control, and everything related to mimicry
(what is praised nowadays as virtue is very closely related the latter).
15
_Casuistry of a Psychologist._—This man knows mankind: to what purpose
does he study his fellows? He wants to derive some small or even
great advantages from them,—he is a politician!... That man yonder
is also well versed in human nature: and ye tell me that he wishes to
draw no personal profit from his knowledge, that he is a thoroughly
disinterested person? Examine him a little more closely! Maybe he
wishes to derive a more wicked advantage from his possession; namely,
to feel superior to men, to be able to look down upon them, no longer
to feel one of them. This “disinterested person” is a despiser of
mankind; and the former is of a more humane type, whatever appearances
may seem to say to the contrary. At least he considers himself the
equal of those about him, at least he classifies himself with them.
16
_The psychological tact_ of Germans seems to me to have been set in
doubt by a whole series of cases which my modesty forbids me to
enumerate. In one case at least I shall not let the occasion slip
for substantiating my contention: I bear the Germans a grudge for
having made a mistake about Kant and his “backstairs philosophy,” as
I call it. Such a man was not the type of intellectual uprightness.
Another thing I hate to hear is a certain infamous “and”: the Germans
say, “Goethe _and_ Schiller,”—I even fear that they say, “Schiller
and Goethe.” ... Has nobody found Schiller out yet?—But there are
other “ands” which are even more egregious. With my own ears I have
heard—only among University professors, it is true!—men speak of
“Schopenhauer _and_ Hartmann.” ...[3]
17
The most intellectual men, provided they are also the most courageous,
experience the most excruciating tragedies: but on that very account
they honour life, because it confronts them with its most formidable
antagonism.
18
Concerning “_the Conscience of the Intellect_” Nothing seems to me
more uncommon to-day than genuine hypocrisy. I strongly suspect that
this growth is unable to flourish in the mild climate of our culture.
Hypocrisy belongs to an age of strong faith,—one in which one does
not lose one’s own faith in spite of the fact that one has to make
an outward show of holding another faith. Nowadays a man gives it
up; or, what is still more common, he acquires a second faith,—in
any case, however, he remains honest. Without a doubt it is possible
to have a much larger number of convictions at present, than it was
formerly: _possible_—that is to say, allowable,—that is to say,
_harmless._ From this there arises an attitude of toleration towards
one’s self. Toleration towards one’s self allows of a greater number
of convictions: the latter live comfortably side by side, and they
take jolly good care, as all the world does to-day, not to compromise
themselves. How does a man compromise himself to-day? When he is
consistent; when he pursues a straight course; when he has anything
less than five faces; when he is genuine.... I very greatly fear that
modern man is much too fond of comfort for certain vices; and the
consequence is that the latter are dying out. Everything evil which
is the outcome of strength of will—and maybe there is nothing evil
without the strengh of will,—degenerates, in our muggy atmosphere,
into virtue. The few hypocrites I have known only imitated hypocrisy:
like almost every tenth man to-day, they were actors.—
19
_Beautiful and Ugly:_—Nothing is more relative, let us say, more
restricted, than our sense of the beautiful. He who would try to
divorce it from the delight man finds in his fellows, would immediately
lose his footing. “Beauty in itself,” is simply a word, it is not even
a concept. In the beautiful, man postulates himself as the standard of
perfection; in exceptional cases he worships himself as that standard.
A species has no other alternative than to say “yea” to itself alone,
in this way. Its lowest instinct, the instinct of self-preservation and
self-expansion, still radiates in such sublimities. Man imagines the
world itself to be overflowing with beauty,—he forgets that he is the
cause of it all. He alone has endowed it with beauty. Alas! and only
with human all-too-human beauty! Truth to tell man reflects himself in
things, he thinks everything beautiful that throws his own image back
at him. The judgment “beautiful” is the “vanity of his species.” ...
A little demon of suspicion may well whisper into the sceptic’s ear:
is the world really beautified simply because man thinks it beautiful?
He has only humanised it—that is all. But nothing, absolutely nothing
proves to us that it is precisely man who is the proper model of
beauty. Who knows what sort of figure he would cut in the eyes of a
higher judge of taste? He might seem a little _outré_? perhaps even
somewhat amusing? perhaps a trifle arbitrary? “O Dionysus, thou divine
one, why dost thou pull mine ears?” Ariadne asks on one occasion of
her philosophic lover, during one of those famous conversations on the
island of Naxos. “I find a sort of humour in thine ears, Ariadne: why
are they not a little longer?”
20