this piece of ingenuousness, it is the first axiom of this science.
And now let us straightway add the second to it: nothing is ugly save
the degenerate man,—within these two first principles the realm of
æsthetic judgments is confined. From the physiological standpoint,
everything ugly weakens and depresses man. It reminds him of decay,
danger, impotence; he literally loses strength in its presence. The
effect of ugliness may be gauged by the dynamometer. Whenever man’s
spirits are downcast, it is a sign that he scents the proximity of
something “ugly.” His feeling of power, his will to power, his courage
and his pride—these things collapse at the sight of what is ugly, and
rise at the sight of what is beautiful. In both cases an inference is
drawn; the premises to which are stored with extra ordinary abundance
in the instincts. Ugliness is understood to signify a hint and a
symptom of degeneration: that which reminds us however remotely of
degeneracy, impels us to the judgment “ugly.” Every sign of exhaustion,
of gravity, of age, of fatigue; every kind of constraint, such as
cramp, or paralysis; and above all the smells, colours and forms
associated with decomposition and putrefaction, however much they may
have been attenuated into symbols,—all these things provoke the same
reaction which is the judgment “ugly.” A certain hatred expresses
itself here: what is it that man hates? Without a doubt it is the
_decline of his type._ In this regard his hatred springs from the
deepest instincts of the race: there is horror, caution, profundity and
far-reaching vision in this hatred,—it is the most profound hatred
that exists. On its account alone Art is profound.
21
_Schopenhauer._—Schopenhauer, the last German who is to be reckoned
with (—who is a European event like Goethe, Hegel, or Heinrich Heine,
and who is not merely local, national), is for a psychologist a case
of the first rank: I mean as a malicious though masterly attempt to
enlist on the side of a general nihilistic depreciation of life, the
very forces which are opposed to such a movement,—that is to say, the
great self-affirming powers of the “will to live,” the exuberant forms
of life itself. He interpreted Art, heroism, genius, beauty, great
sympathy, knowledge, the will to truth, and tragedy, one after the
other, as the results of the denial, or of the need of the denial, of
the “will”—the greatest forgery, Christianity always excepted, which
history has to show. Examined more carefully, he is in this respect
simply the heir of the Christian interpretation; except that he knew
how to approve in a Christian fashion (_i.e._, nihilistically) even
of the great facts of human culture, which Christianity completely
repudiates. (He approved of them as paths to “salvation,” as
preliminary stages to “salvation,” as _appetisers_ calculated to arouse
the desire for “salvation.”)
22
Let me point to one single instance. Schopenhauer speaks of beauty with
melancholy ardour,—why in sooth does he do this? Because in beauty
he sees a bridge on which one can travel further, or which stimulates
one’s desire to travel further. According to him it constitutes a
momentary emancipation from the “will”—it lures to eternal salvation.
He values it more particularly as a deliverance from the “burning core
of the will” which is sexuality,—in beauty he recognises the negation
of the procreative instinct. Singular Saint! Some one contradicts thee;
I fear it is Nature. Why is there beauty of tone, colour, aroma, and
of rhythmic movement in Nature at all? What is it forces beauty to the
fore? Fortunately, too, a certain philosopher contradicts him. No less
an authority than the divine Plato himself (thus does Schopenhauer
call him), upholds another proposition: that all beauty lures to
procreation,—that this precisely is the chief characteristic of its
effect, from the lowest sensuality to the highest spirituality.
23
Plato goes further. With an innocence for which a man must be Greek
and not “Christian,” he says that there would be no such thing as
Platonic philosophy if there were not such beautiful boys in Athens:
it was the sight of them alone that set the soul of the philosopher
reeling with erotic passion, and allowed it no rest until it had
planted the seeds of all lofty things in a soil so beautiful. He
was also a singular saint!—One scarcely believes one’s ears, even
supposing one believes Plato. At least one realises that philosophy was
pursued differently in Athens; above all, publicly. Nothing is less
Greek than the cobweb-spinning with concepts by an anchorite, _amor
intellectualis dei_ after the fashion of Spinoza. Philosophy according
to Plato’s style might be defined rather as an erotic competition, as a
continuation and a spiritualisation of the old agonal gymnastics and
the conditions on which they depend.... What was the ultimate outcome
of this philosophic eroticism of Plato’s? A new art-form of the Greek
_Agon,_ dialectics.—In opposition to Schopenhauer and to the honour of
Plato, I would remind you that all the higher culture and literature of
classical France, as well, grew up on the soil of sexual interests. In
all its manifestations you may look for gallantry, the senses, sexual
competition, and “woman,” and you will not look in vain.
24
_L’Art pour l’Art._—The struggle against a purpose in art is always a
struggle against the moral tendency in art, against its subordination
to morality. _L’art pour l’art_ means, “let morality go to the devil!”
—But even this hostility betrays the preponderating power of the moral
prejudice. If art is deprived of the purpose of preaching morality
and of improving mankind, it does not by any means follow that art is
absolutely pointless, purposeless, senseless, in short _l’art pour
l’art_—a snake which bites its own tail. “No purpose at all is better
than a moral purpose!”—thus does pure passion speak. A psychologist,
on the other hand, puts the question: what does all art do? does it
not praise? does it not glorify? does it not select? does it not
bring things into prominence? In all this it strengthens or weakens
certain valuations. Is this only a secondary matter? an accident?
something in which the artist’s instinct has no share? Or is it not
rather the very prerequisite which enables the artist to accomplish
something?... Is his most fundamental instinct concerned with art?
Is it not rather concerned with the purpose of art, with life? with
a certain desirable kind of life? Art is the great stimulus to life;
how can it be regarded as purpose less, as pointless, as _l’art pour
l’art?_—There still remains one question to be answered: Art also
reveals much that is ugly, hard and questionable in life,—does it
not thus seem to make life intolerable?—And, as a matter of fact,
there have been philosophers who have ascribed this function to art.
According to Schopenhauer’s doctrine, the general object of art was to
“free one from the Will”; and what he honoured as the great utility
of tragedy, was that it “made people more resigned.”—But this, as
I have already shown, is a pessimistic standpoint; it is the “evil
eye”: the artist himself must be appealed to. What is it that the soul
of the tragic artist communicates to others? Is it not precisely his
fearless attitude towards that which is terrible and questionable?
This attitude is in itself a highly desirable one; he who has once,
experienced it honours it above everything else. He communicates it. He
must communicate, provided he is an artist and a genius in the art of
communication. A courageous and free spirit, in the presence of a mighty
foe, in the presence of a sublime misfortune, and face to face with a
problem that inspires horror—this is the triumphant attitude which
the tragic artist selects and which he glorifies. The martial elements
in our soul celebrate their Saturnalia in tragedy; he who is used to
suffering, he who looks out for suffering, the heroic man, extols his
existence by means of tragedy,—to him alone does the tragic artist
offer this cup of sweetest cruelty.—
25
To associate in an amiable fashion with anybody; to keep the house of
one’s heart open to all, is certainly liberal: but it is nothing else.
One can recognise the hearts that are capable of noble hospitality, by
their wealth of screened windows and closed shutters: they keep their
best rooms empty. Whatever for?—Because they are expecting guests who
are somebodies.
26
We no longer value ourselves sufficiently highly when we communicate
our soul’s content. Our real experiences are not at all garrulous. They
could not communicate themselves even if they wished to. They are at a
loss to find words for such confidences. Those things for which we find
words, are things wehave already overcome. In all speech there lies
an element of contempt. Speech, it would seem, was only invented for
average, mediocre and communicable things.—Every spoken word proclaims
the speaker vulgarised—(Extract from a moral code for deaf-and-dumb
people and other philosophers.)
27
“This picture is perfectly beautiful!”[4] The dissatisfied and
exasperated literary woman with a desert in her heart and in her belly,
listening with agonised curiosity every instant to the imperative
which whispers to her from the very depths of her being: _aut liberi,
aut libri:_ the literary woman, sufficiently educated to understand the
voice of nature, even when nature speaks Latin, and moreover enough
of a peacock and a goose to speak even French with herself in secret
“_Je me verrai, je me lirai, je m’extasierai et je dirai: Possible, que
j’aie eu tant d’esprit?_” ...
28
The objective ones speak.—“Nothing comes more easily to us, than to
be wise, patient, superior. We are soaked in the oil of indulgence and
of sympathy, we are absurdly just, we forgive everything. Precisely on
that account we should be severe with ourselves; for that very reason
we ought from time to time to go in for a little emotion, a little
emotional vice. It may seem bitter to us; and between ourselves we may
even laugh at the figure which it makes us cut But what does it matter?
We have no other kind of self-control left. This is our asceticism, our
manner of performing penance.” _To become personal_—the virtues of the
“impersonal and objective one.”
29
_Extract from a doctor’s examination paper._—“What is the task of all
higher schooling?”—To make man into a machine. “What are the means
employed?”—He must learn how to be bored. “How is this achieved?”—By
means of the concept duty. “What example of duty has he before his
eyes?”—The philologist: it is he who teaches people how to swat.
“Who is the perfect man?”—The Government official. “Which philosophy
furnishes the highest formula for the Government official?”—Kant’s
philosophy: the Government official as thing-in-itself made judge over
the Government official as appearance.
30
_The right to Stupidity._—The worn-out worker, whose breath is
slow, whose look is good-natured, and who lets things slide just as
they please: this typical figure which in this age of labour (and
of “Empire!”) is to be met with in all classes of society, has now
begun to appropriate even Art, including the book, above all the
newspaper,—and how much more so beautiful nature, Italy! This man
of the evening, with his “savage instincts lulled,” as Faust has it;
needs his summer holiday, his sea-baths, his glacier, his Bayreuth.
In such ages Art has the right to be _purely foolish,_—as a sort of
vacation for spirit, wit and sentiment. Wagner understood this. Pure
foolishness[5] is a pick-me-up....
31
_Yet another problem of diet._—The means with which Julius Cæsar
preserved himself against sickness and headaches: heavy marches,
the simplest mode of living, uninterrupted sojourns in the open
air, continual hardships,—generally speaking these are the
self-preservative and self-defensive measures against the extreme
vulnerability of those subtle machines working at the highest
pressure, which are called geniuses.
32
_The Immoralist speaks._—Nothing is more distasteful to true
philosophers than man when he begins to wish.... If they see man only
at his deeds; if they see this bravest, craftiest and most enduring
of animals even inextricably entangled in disaster, how admirable he
then appears to them! They even encourage him.... But true philosophers
despise the man who wishes, as also the “desirable” man—and all the
desiderata and _ideals_ of man in general. If a philosopher could be a
nihilist, he would be one; for he finds only nonentity behind all human
ideals. Or, not even nonentity, but vileness, absurdity, sickness,
cowardice, fatigue and all sorts of dregs from out the quaffed goblets
of his life.... How is it that man, who as a reality is so estimable,
ceases from deserving respect the moment he begins to desire? Must he
pay for being so perfect as a reality? Must he make up for his deeds,
for the tension of spirit and will which underlies all his deeds, by an
eclipse of his powers in matters of the imagination and in absurdity?
Hitherto the history of his desires has been the _partie honteuse_ of
mankind: one should take care not to read too deeply in this history.
That which justifies man is his reality,—it will justify him to all
eternity. How much more valuable is a real man than any other man
who is merely the phantom of desires, of dreams of stinks and of
lies?—than any kind of ideal man? ... And the ideal man, alone, is
what the philosopher cannot abide.
33
_The Natural Value of Egoism._—Selfishness has as much value as the
physiological value of him who practises it: its worth may be great,
or it may be worthless and contemptible. Every individual may be
classified according to whether he represents the ascending or the
descending line of life. When this is decided, a canon is obtained
by means of which the value of his selfishness may be determined.
If he represent the ascending line of life, his value is of course
extraordinary—and for the sake of the collective life which in him
makes one step _forward,_ the concern about his maintenance, about
procuring his _optimum_ of conditions may even be extreme. The human
unit, the “individual,” as the people and the philosopher have always
understood him, is certainly an error: he is nothing in himself, no
atom, no “link in the chain,” no mere heritage from the past,—he
represents the whole direct line of mankind up to his own life....
If he represent declining development, decay, chronic degeneration,
sickness (—illnesses are on the whole already the outcome of decline,
and not the cause thereof), he is of little worth, and the purest
equity would have him _take away_ as little as possible from those who
are lucky strokes of nature. He is then only a parasite upon them....
34
_The Christian and the Anarchist._—When the anarchist, as the
mouthpiece of the decaying strata of society, raises his voice in
splendid indignation for “right,” “justice,” “equal rights,” he
is only groaning under the burden of his ignorance, which cannot
understand _why_ he actually suffers,—what his poverty consists
of—the poverty of life. An instinct of causality is active in
him: someone must be responsible for his being so ill at ease. His
“splendid indignation” alone relieves him somewhat, it is a pleasure
for all poor devils to grumble—it gives them a little intoxicating
sensation of power. The very act of complaining, the mere fact that one
bewails one’s lot, may lend such a charm to life that on that account
alone, one is ready to endure it. There is a small dose of revenge in
every lamentation. One casts one’s afflictions, and, under certain
circumstances, even one’s baseness, in the teeth of those who are
different, as if their condition were an injustice, an _iniquitous_
privilege. “Since I am _a blackguard_ you ought to be one too.” It is
upon such reasoning that revolutions are based.—To bewail one’s lot
is always despicable: it is always the outcome of weakness. Whether
one ascribes one’s afflictions to others or to _one’s self,_ it is all
the same. The socialist does the former, the Christian, for instance,
does the latter. That which is common to both attitudes, or rather
that which is equally ignoble in them both, is the fact that somebody
must be to _blame_ if one suffers—in short that the sufferer drugs
himself with the honey of revenge to allay his anguish. The objects
towards which this lust of vengeance, like a lust of pleasure, are
directed, are purely accidental causes. In all directions the sufferer
finds reasons for cooling his petty passion for revenge. If he is a
Christian, I repeat, he finds these reasons in himself. The Christian
and the Anarchist—both are decadents. But even when the Christian
condemns, slanders, and sullies the world, he is actuated by precisely
the same instinct as that which leads the socialistic workman to curse,
calumniate and cast dirt at society. The last “Judgment” itself is
still the sweetest solace to revenge—revolution, as the socialistic
workman expects it, only thought of as a little more remote.... The
notion of a “Beyond,” as well—why a Beyond, if it be not a means of
splashing mud over a “Here,” over this world? ...
35
_A Criticism of the Morality of Decadence._—An “altruistic”
morality, a morality under which selfishness withers, is in all
circumstances a bad sign. This is true of individuals and above
all of nations. The best are lacking when selfishness begins to be
lacking. Instinctively to select that which is harmful to one, to be
_lured_ by “disinterested” motives,—these things almost provide the
formula for decadence. “Not to have one’s own interests at heart”
—this is simply a moral fig-leaf concealing a very different fact, a
physiological one, to wit:—“I no longer know how to find what is to my
interest.”... Disintegration of the instincts!—All is up with man when
he becomes altruistic.—Instead of saying ingenuously “I am no longer
any good,” the lie of morality in the decadent’s mouth says: “Nothing
is any good,—life is no good.”—A judgment of this kind ultimately
becomes a great danger; for it is infectious, and it soon flourishes
on the polluted soil of society with tropical luxuriance, now as a
religion (Christianity), anon as a philosophy (Schopenhauerism). In
certain circumstances the mere effluvia of such a venomous vegetation,
springing as it does out of the very heart of putrefaction, can poison
life for thousands and thousands of years.
36
_A moral for doctors._—The sick man is a parasite of society. In
certain cases it is indecent to go on living. To continue to vegetate
in a state of cowardly dependence upon doctors and special treatments,
once the meaning of life, the right to life, has been lost, ought to
be regarded with the greatest contempt by society. The doctors, for
their part, should be the agents for imparting this contempt,—they
should no longer prepare prescriptions, but should every day administer
a fresh dose of _disgust_ to their patients. A new responsibility
should be created, that of the doctor—the responsibility of ruthlessly
suppressing and eliminating _degenerate_ life, in all cases in which
the highest interests of life itself, of ascending life, demand such
a course—for instance in favour of the right of procreation, in
favour of the right of being born, in favour of the right to live.
One should die proudly when it is no longer possible to live proudly.
Death should be chosen freely,—death at the right time, faced clearly
and joyfully and embraced while one is surrounded by one’s children
and other witnesses. It should be affected in such a way that a proper
farewell is still possible, that he who is about to take leave of us
is still _himself,_ and really capable not only of valuing what he
has achieved and willed in life, but also of _summing-up_ the value
of life itself. Everything precisely the opposite of the ghastly
comedy which Christianity has made of the hour of death. We should
never forgive Christianity for having so abused the weakness of the
dying man as to do violence to his conscience, or for having used
his manner of dying as a means of valuing both man and his past—In
spite of all cowardly prejudices, it is our duty, in this respect,
above all to reinstate the proper—that is to say, the physiological,
aspect of so-called _natural_ death, which after all is perfectly
“unnatural” and nothing else than suicide. One never perishes through
anybody’s fault but one’s own. The only thing is that the death which
takes place in the most contemptible circumstances, the death that
is not free, the death which occurs at the wrong time, is the death
of a coward. Out of the very love one bears to life, one should wish
death to be different from this—that is to say, free, deliberate, and
neither a matter of chance nor of surprise. Finally let me whisper a
word of advice to our friends the pessimists and all other decadents.
We have not the power to prevent ourselves from being born: but this
error—for sometimes it is an error—can be rectified if we choose. The
man who does away with himself, performs the most estimable of deeds:
he almost deserves to live for having done so. Society—nay, life
itself, derives more profit from such a deed than from any sort of life
spent in renunciation, anæmia and other virtues,—at least the suicide
frees others from the sight of him, at least he removes one objection
against life. Pessimism _pur et vert,_ can _be proved only_ by the
self-refutation of the pessimists themselves: one should go a step
further in one’s consistency; one should not merely deny life with
“The World as Will and Idea,” as Schopenhauer did; one should in the
first place _deny Schopenhauer._ ... Incidentally, Pessimism, however
infectious it may be, does not increase the morbidness of an age or of
a whole species; it is rather the expression of that morbidness. One
falls a victim to it in the same way as one falls a victim to cholera;
one must already be predisposed to the disease. Pessimism in itself
does not increase the number of the world’s _decadents_ by a single
unit. Let me remind you of the statistical fact that in those years in
which cholera rages, the total number of deaths does not exceed that of
other years.
37