------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.