which for several centuries has been the universal, literary language of
Germany. The Germans, with their reverence for everything that came from
the _court_, intentionally took the chancery style as their pattern in
all that they had to _write_, especially in their letters, records,
wills, &c. To write in the chancery style, that was to write in court
and government style,—that was regarded as something select compared
with the language of the city in which a person lived. People gradually
drew this inference, and spoke also as they wrote,—they thus became
still more select in the forms of their words, in the choice of their
terms and modes of expression, and finally also in their tones: they
affected a court tone when they spoke, and the affectation at last
became natural. Perhaps nothing quite similar has ever happened
elsewhere:—the predominance of the literary style over the talk, and the
formality and affectation of an entire people, becoming the basis of a
common and no longer dialectical language. I believe that the sound of
the German language in the Middle Ages, and especially after the Middle
Ages, was extremely rustic and vulgar; it has ennobled itself somewhat
during the last centuries, principally because it was found necessary to
imitate so many French, Italian, and Spanish sounds, and particularly on
the part of the German (and Austrian) nobility, who could not at all
content themselves with their mother-tongue. But notwithstanding this
practice, German must have sounded intolerably vulgar to Montaigne, and
even to Racine: even at present, in the mouths of travellers among the
Italian populace, it still sounds very coarse, sylvan, and hoarse, as if
it had originated in smoky rooms and outlandish districts.—Now I notice
that at present a similar striving after selectness of tone is spreading
among the former admirers of the chancery style, and that the Germans
are beginning to accommodate themselves to a peculiar "witchery of
sound," which might in the long run become an actual danger to the
German language,—for one may seek in vain for more execrable sounds in
Europe. Something mocking, cold, indifferent, and careless in the voice:
that is what at present sounds "noble" to the Germans—and I hear the
approval of this nobleness in the voices of young officials, teachers,
women, and trades-people; indeed, even the little girls already imitate
this German of the officers. For the officer, and in fact the Prussian
officer is the inventor of these tones: this same officer, who, as
soldier and professional man possesses that admirable tact for modesty
which the Germans as a whole might well imitate (German professors and
musicians included!). But as soon as he speaks and moves he is the most
immodest and inelegant figure in old Europe—no doubt unconsciously to
himself! And unconsciously also to the good Germans, who gaze at him as
the man of the foremost and most select society, and willingly let him
"give them his tone." And indeed he gives it to them!—in the first place
it is the sergeant-majors and non-commissioned officers that imitate his
tone and coarsen it. One should note the roars of command, with which
the German cities are absolutely surrounded at present, when there is
drilling at all the gates: what presumption, furious imperiousness, and
mocking coldness speaks in this uproar! Could the Germans actually be a
musical people?—It is certain that the Germans martialise themselves at
present in the tone of their language: it is probable that, being
exercised to speak martially, they will finally write martially also.
For habituation to definite tones extends deeply into the
character:—people soon have the words and modes of expression, and
finally also the thoughts which just suit these tones! Perhaps they
already write in the officers' style; perhaps I only read too little of
what is at present written in Germany to know this. But one thing I know
all the surer: the German public declarations which also reach places
abroad, are not inspired by German music, but just by that new tone of
tasteless arrogance. Almost in every speech of the foremost German
statesman, and even when he makes himself heard through his imperial
mouth-piece, there is an accent which the ear of a foreigner repudiates
with aversion: but the Germans endure it,—they endure themselves.
105.
_The Germans as Artists._—When once a German actually experiences
passion (and not only, as is usual, the mere inclination to it), he then
behaves just as he must do in passion, and does not think further of his
behaviour. The truth is, however, that he then behaves very awkwardly
and uglily, and as if destitute of rhythm and melody; so that onlookers
are pained or moved thereby, but nothing more—_unless_ he elevate
himself to the sublimity and enrapturedness of which certain passions
are capable. Then even the German becomes _beautiful_. The perception of
the _height at which_ beauty begins to shed its charm even over Germans,
raises German artists to the height, to the supreme height, and to the
extravagances of passion: they have an actual, profound longing,
therefore, to get beyond, or at least to look beyond the ugliness and
awkwardness—into a better, easier, more southern, more sunny world. And
thus their convulsions are often merely indications that they would like
to _dance_: these poor bears in whom hidden nymphs and satyrs, and
sometimes still higher divinities, carry on their game!
106.
_Music as Advocate._—"I have a longing for a master of the musical art,"
said an innovator to his disciple, "that he may learn from me my ideas
and speak them more widely in his language: I shall thus be better able
to reach men's ears and hearts. For by means of tones one can seduce men
to every error and every truth: who could _refute_ a tone?"—"You would,
therefore, like to be regarded as irrefutable?" said his disciple. The
innovator answered: "I should like the germ to become a tree. In order
that a doctrine may become a tree, it must be believed in for a
considerable period; in order that it may be believed in it must be
regarded as irrefutable. Storms and doubts and worms and wickedness are
necessary to the tree, that it may manifest its species and the strength
of its germ; let it perish if it is not strong enough! But a germ is
always merely annihilated,—not refuted!"—When he had said this, his
disciple called out impetuously: "But I believe in your cause, and
regard it as so strong that I will say everything against it, everything
that I still have in my heart."—The innovator laughed to himself and
threatened the disciple with his finger. "This kind of discipleship,"
said he then, "is the best, but it is dangerous, and not every kind of
doctrine can stand it."
107.
_Our Ultimate Gratitude to Art._—If we had not approved of the Arts and
invented this sort of cult of the untrue, the insight into the general
untruth and falsity of things now given us by science—an insight into
delusion and error as conditions of intelligent and sentient
existence—would be quite unendurable. _Honesty_ would have disgust and
suicide in its train. Now, however, our honesty has a counterpoise which
helps us to escape such consequences;—namely, Art, as the _good-will_ to
illusion. We do not always restrain our eyes from rounding off and
perfecting in imagination: and then it is no longer the eternal
imperfection that we carry over the river of Becoming—for we think we
carry a _goddess_, and are proud and artless in rendering this service.
As an æsthetic phenomenon existence is still _endurable_ to us; and by
Art, eye and hand and above all the good conscience are given to us, _to
be able_ to make such a phenomenon out of ourselves. We must rest from
ourselves occasionally by contemplating and looking down upon ourselves,
and by laughing or weeping _over_ ourselves from an artistic remoteness:
we must discover the _hero_, and likewise the _fool_, that is hidden in
our passion for knowledge; we must now and then be joyful in our folly,
that we may continue to be joyful in our wisdom! And just because we are
heavy and serious men in our ultimate depth, and are rather weights than
men, there is nothing that does us so much good as the _fool's cap and
bells_: we need them in presence of ourselves—we need all arrogant,
soaring, dancing, mocking, childish and blessed Art, in order not to
lose the _free dominion over things_ which our ideal demands of us. It
would be _backsliding_ for us, with our susceptible integrity, to lapse
entirely into morality, and actually become virtuous monsters and
scarecrows, on account of the over-strict requirements which we here lay
down for ourselves. We ought also to _be able_ to stand _above_
morality, and not only stand with the painful stiffness of one who every
moment fears to slip and fall, but we should also be able to soar and
play above it! How could we dispense with Art for that purpose, how
could we dispense with the fool?—And as long as you are still _ashamed_
of yourselves in any way, you still do not belong to us!
-----
Footnote 8:
Schiller's poem, "The Veiled Image of Sais," is again referred to
here.—TR.
BOOK THIRD
108.
_New Struggles._—After Buddha was dead people showed his shadow for
centuries afterwards in a cave,—an immense frightful shadow. God is
dead: but as the human race is constituted, there will perhaps be caves
for millenniums yet, in which people will show his shadow,—And we—we
have still to overcome his shadow!
109.
_Let us be on our Guard._—Let us be on our guard against thinking that
the world is a living being. Where could it extend itself? What could it
nourish itself with? How could it grow and increase? We know tolerably
well what the organic is; and we are to reinterpret the emphatically
derivative, tardy, rare and accidental, which we only perceive on the
crust of the earth, into the essential, universal and eternal, as those
do who call the universe an organism? That disgusts me. Let us now be on
our guard against believing that the universe is a machine; it is
assuredly not constructed with a view to _one_ end; we invest it with
far too high an honour with the word "machine." Let us be on our guard
against supposing that anything so methodical as the cyclic motions of
our neighbouring stars obtains generally and throughout the universe;
indeed a glance at the Milky Way induces doubt as to whether there are
not many cruder and more contradictory motions there, and even stars
with continuous, rectilinearly gravitating orbits, and the like. The
astral arrangement in which we live is an exception; this arrangement,
and the relatively long durability which is determined by it, has again
made possible the exception of exceptions, the formation of organic
life. The general character of the world, on the other hand, is to all
eternity chaos; not by the absence of necessity, but in the sense of the
absence of order, structure, form, beauty, wisdom, and whatever else our
æsthetic humanities are called. Judged by our reason, the unlucky casts
are far oftenest the rule, the exceptions are not the secret purpose;
and the whole musical box repeats eternally its air, which can never be
called a melody,—and finally the very expression, "unlucky cast" is
already an anthropomorphising which involves blame. But how could we
presume to blame or praise the universe! Let us be on our guard against
ascribing to it heartlessness and unreason, or their opposites; it is
neither perfect, nor beautiful, nor noble; nor does it seek to be
anything of the kind, it does not at all attempt to imitate man! It is
altogether unaffected by our æsthetic and moral judgments! Neither has
it any self-preservative instinct, nor instinct at all; it also knows no
law. Let us be on our guard against saying that there are laws in
nature. There are only necessities: there is no one who commands, no one
who obeys, no one who transgresses. When you know that there is no
design, you know also that there is no chance: for it is only where
there is a world of design that the word "chance" has a meaning. Let us
be on our guard against saying that death is contrary to life. The
living being is only a species of dead being, and a very rare
species.—Let us be on our guard against thinking that the world
eternally creates the new. There are no eternally enduring substances;
matter is just another such error as the God of the Eleatics. But when
shall we be at an end with our foresight and precaution! When will all
these shadows of God cease to obscure us? When shall we have nature
entirely undeified! When shall we be permitted to _naturalise_ ourselves
by means of the pure, newly discovered, newly redeemed nature?
110.
_Origin of Knowledge._—Throughout immense stretches of time the
intellect has produced nothing but errors; some of them proved to be
useful and preservative of the species: he who fell in with them, or
inherited them, waged the battle for himself and his offspring with
better success. Those erroneous articles of faith which were
successively transmitted by inheritance, and have finally become almost
the property and stock of the human species, are, for example, the
following:—that there are enduring things, that there are equal things,
that there are things, substances, and bodies, that a thing is what it
appears, that our will is free, that what is good for me is also good
absolutely. It was only very late that the deniers and doubters of such
propositions came forward,—it was only very late that truth made its
appearance as the most impotent form of knowledge. It seemed as if it
were impossible to get along with truth, our organism was adapted for
the very opposite; all its higher functions, the perceptions of the
senses, and in general every kind of sensation co-operated with those
primevally embodied, fundamental errors. Moreover, those propositions
became the very standards of knowledge according to which the "true" and
the "false" were determined—throughout the whole domain of pure logic.
The _strength_ of conceptions does not, therefore, depend on their
degree of truth, but on their antiquity, their embodiment, their
character as conditions of life. Where life and knowledge seemed to
conflict, there has never been serious contention; denial and doubt have
there been regarded as madness. The exceptional thinkers like the
Eleatics, who, in spite of this, advanced and maintained the antitheses
of the natural errors, believed that it was possible also _to live_
these counterparts: it was they who devised the sage as the man of
immutability, impersonality and universality of intuition, as one and
all at the same time, with a special faculty for that reverse kind of
knowledge; they were of the belief that their knowledge was at the same
time the principle of _life_. To be able to affirm all this, however,
they had to _deceive_ themselves concerning their own condition: they
had to attribute to themselves impersonality and unchanging permanence,
they had to mistake the nature of the philosophic individual, deny the
force of the impulses in cognition, and conceive of reason generally as
an entirely free and self-originating activity; they kept their eyes
shut to the fact that they also had reached their doctrines in
contradiction to valid methods, or through their longing for repose or
for exclusive possession or for domination. The subtler development of
sincerity and of scepticism finally made these men impossible; their
life also and their judgments turned out to be dependent on the primeval
impulses and fundamental errors of all sentient being.—The subtler
sincerity and scepticism arose whenever two antithetical maxims appeared
to be _applicable_ to life, because both of them were compatible with
the fundamental errors; where, therefore, there could be contention
concerning a higher or lower degree of _utility_ for life; and likewise
where new maxims proved to be, not in fact useful, but at least not
injurious, as expressions of an intellectual impulse to play a game that
was, like all games, innocent and happy. The human brain was gradually
filled with such judgments and convictions; and in this tangled skein
there arose ferment, strife and lust for power. Not only utility and
delight, but every kind of impulse took part in the struggle for
"truths": the intellectual struggle became a business, an attraction, a
calling, a duty, an honour—: cognizing and striving for the true finally
arranged themselves as needs among other needs. From that moment, not
only belief and conviction, but also examination, denial, distrust and
contradiction became _forces_; all "evil" instincts were subordinated to
knowledge, were placed in its service, and acquired the prestige of the
permitted, the honoured, the useful, and finally the appearance and
innocence of the _good_. Knowledge, thus became a portion of life
itself, and as life it became a continually growing power: until finally
the cognitions and those primeval, fundamental, errors clashed with each
other, both as life, both as power, both in the same man. The thinker is
now the being in whom the impulse to truth and those life-preserving
errors wage their first conflict, now that the impulse to truth has also
_proved_ itself to be a life-preserving power. In comparison with the
importance of this conflict everything else is indifferent; the final
question concerning the conditions of life is here raised, and the first
attempt is here made to answer it by experiment. How far is truth
susceptible of embodiment?—that is the question, that is the experiment.
111.
_Origin of the Logical._—Where has logic originated in men's heads?
Undoubtedly out of the illogical, the domain of which must originally
have been immense. But numberless beings who reasoned otherwise than we
do at present, perished; albeit that they may have come nearer to truth
than we! Whoever, for example, could not discern the "like" often enough
with regard to food, and with regard to animals dangerous to him,
whoever, therefore, deduced too slowly, or was too circumspect in his
deductions, had smaller probability of survival than he who in all
similar things immediately divined the equality. The preponderating
inclination, however, to deal with the similar as the equal—an illogical
inclination, for there is nothing equal in itself—first created the
whole basis of logic. It was just so (in order that the conception of
substance might originate, this being indispensable to logic, although
in the strictest sense nothing actual corresponds to it) that for a long
period the changing process in things had to be overlooked, and remain
unperceived; the beings not seeing correctly had an advantage over those
who saw everything "in flux." In itself every high degree of
circumspection in conclusions, every sceptical inclination, is a great
danger to life. No living being would have been preserved unless the
contrary inclination—to affirm rather than suspend judgment, to mistake
and fabricate rather than wait, to assent rather than deny, to decide
rather than be in the right—had been cultivated with extraordinary
assiduity.—The course of logical thought and reasoning in our modern
brain corresponds to a process and struggle of impulses, which singly
and in themselves are all very illogical and unjust; we experience
usually only the result of the struggle, so rapidly and secretly does
this primitive mechanism now operate in us.
112.
_Cause and Effect._—We say it is "explanation"; but it is only in
"description" that we are in advance of the older stages of knowledge
and science. We describe better,—we explain just as little as our
predecessors. We have discovered a manifold succession where the naïve
man and investigator of older cultures saw only two things, "cause" and
"effect," as it was said; we have perfected the conception of becoming,
but have not got a knowledge of what is above and behind the conception.
The series of "causes" stands before us much more complete in every
case; we conclude that this and that must first precede in order that
that other may follow—but we have not _grasped_ anything thereby. The
peculiarity, for example, in every chemical process seems a "miracle,"
the same as before, just like all locomotion; nobody has "explained"
impulse. How could we ever explain! We operate only with things which do
not exist, with lines, surfaces, bodies, atoms, divisible times,
divisible spaces—how can explanation ever be possible when we first make
everything a _conception_, our conception! It is sufficient to regard
science as the exactest humanising of things that is possible; we always
learn to describe ourselves more accurately by describing things and
their successions. Cause and effect: there is probably never any such
duality; in fact there is a _continuum_ before us, from which we isolate
a few portions;—just as we always observe a motion as isolated points,
and therefore do not properly see it, but infer it. The abruptness with
which many effects take place leads us into error; it is however only an
abruptness for us. There is an infinite multitude of processes in that
abrupt moment which escape us. An intellect which could see cause and
effect as a _continuum_, which could see the flux of events not
according to our mode of perception, as things arbitrarily separated and
broken—would throw aside the conception of cause and effect, and would
deny all conditionality.
113.
_The Theory of Poisons._—So many things have to be united in order that
scientific thinking may arise, and all the necessary powers must have
been devised, exercised, and fostered singly! In their isolation,
however, they have very often had quite a different effect than at
present, when they are confined within the limits of scientific thinking
and kept mutually in check:—they have operated as poisons; for example,
the doubting impulse, the denying impulse, the waiting impulse, the
collecting impulse, the disintegrating impulse. Many hecatombs of men
were sacrificed ere these impulses learned to understand their
juxtaposition and regard themselves as functions of one organising force
in one man! And how far are we still from the point at which the
artistic powers and the practical wisdom of life shall co-operate with
scientific thinking, so that a higher organic system may be formed, in
relation to which the scholar, the physician, the artist, and the
lawgiver, as we know them at present, will seem sorry antiquities!
114.
_The Extent of the Moral._—We construct a new picture, which we see
immediately with the aid of all the old experiences which we have had,
_always according to the degree_ of our honesty and justice. The only
events are moral events, even in the domain of sense-perception.
115.
_The Four Errors._—Man has been reared by his errors: firstly, he saw
himself always imperfect; secondly, he attributed to himself imaginary
qualities; thirdly, he felt himself in a false position in relation to
the animals and nature; fourthly, he always devised new tables of
values, and accepted them for a time as eternal and unconditioned, so
that at one time this, and at another time that human impulse or state
stood first, and was ennobled in consequence. When one has deducted the
effect of these four errors, one has also deducted humanity, humaneness,
and "human dignity."
116.
_Herd-Instinct._—Wherever we meet with a morality we find a valuation
and order of rank of the human impulses and activities. These valuations
and orders of rank are always the expression of the needs of a community
or herd: that which is in the first place to _its_ advantage—and in the
second place and third place—is also the authoritative standard for the
worth of every individual. By morality the individual is taught to
become a function of the herd, and to ascribe to himself value only as a
function. As the conditions for the maintenance of one community have
been very different from those of another community, there have been
very different moralities; and in respect to the future essential
transformations of herds and communities, states and societies, one can
prophesy that there will still be very divergent moralities. Morality is
the herd-instinct in the individual.
117.
_The Herd's Sting of Conscience._—In the longest and remotest ages of
the human race there was quite a different sting of conscience from that
of the present day. At present one only feels responsible for what one
intends and for what one does, and we have our pride in ourselves. All
our professors of jurisprudence start with this sentiment of individual
independence and pleasure, as if the source of right had taken its rise
here from the beginning. But throughout the longest period in the life
of mankind there was nothing more terrible to a person than to feel
himself independent. To be alone, to feel independent, neither to obey
nor to rule, to represent an individual—that was no pleasure to a person
then, but a punishment; he was condemned "to be an individual." Freedom
of thought was regarded as discomfort personified. While we feel law and
regulation as constraint and loss, people formerly regarded egoism as a
painful thing, and a veritable evil. For a person to be himself, to
value himself according to his own measure and weight—that was then
quite distasteful. The inclination to such a thing would have been
regarded as madness; for all miseries and terrors were associated with
being alone. At that time the "free will" had bad conscience in close
proximity to it; and the less independently a person acted, the more the
herd-instinct, and not his personal character, expressed itself in his
conduct, so much the more moral did he esteem himself. All that did
injury to the herd, whether the individual had intended it or not, then
caused him a sting of conscience—and his neighbour likewise, indeed the
whole herd!—It is in this respect that we have most changed our mode of
thinking.
118.
_Benevolence._—Is it virtuous when a cell transforms itself into the
function of a stronger cell? It must do so. And is it wicked when the
stronger one assimilates the other? It must do so likewise: it is
necessary, for it has to have abundant indemnity and seeks to regenerate
itself. One has therefore to distinguish the instinct of appropriation,
and the instinct of submission, in benevolence, according as the
stronger or the weaker feels benevolent. Gladness and covetousness are
united in the stronger person, who wants to transform something to his
function: gladness and desire-to-be-coveted in the weaker person, who
would like to become a function.—The former case is essentially pity, a
pleasant excitation of the instinct of appropriation at the sight of the
weaker: it is to be remembered, however, that "strong" and "weak" are
relative conceptions.
119.