distasteful to me which say: "Do not do this! Renounce! Overcome
thyself!" On the other hand I am favourable to those moral systems which
stimulate me to do something, and to do it again from morning till
evening, and dream of it at night, and think of nothing else but to do
it _well_, as well as it is possible for _me_ alone! From him who so
lives there fall off one after the other the things that do not pertain
to such a life: without hatred or antipathy, he sees _this_ take leave
of him to-day, and _that_ to-morrow, like the yellow leaves which every
livelier breeze strips from the tree: or he does not see at all that
they take leave of him, so firmly is his eye fixed upon his goal, and
generally forward, not sideways, backward, nor downward. "Our doing must
determine what we leave undone; in that we do, we leave undone"—so it
pleases me, so runs _my placitum_. But I do not mean to strive with open
eyes for my impoverishment; I do not like any of the negative virtues
whose very essence is negation and self-renunciation.
305.
_Self-control._—Those moral teachers who first and foremost order man to
get himself into his own power, induce thereby a curious infirmity in
him,—namely, a constant sensitiveness with reference to all natural
strivings and inclinations, and as it were, a sort of itching. Whatever
may henceforth drive him, draw him, allure or impel him, whether
internally or externally—it always seems to this sensitive being, as if
his self-control were in danger: he is no longer at liberty to trust
himself to any instinct, to any free flight, but stands constantly with
defensive mien, armed against himself, with sharp distrustful eye, the
eternal watcher of his stronghold, to which office he has appointed
himself. Yes, he can be _great_ in that position! But how unendurable he
has now become to others, how difficult even for himself to bear, how
impoverished and cut off from the finest accidents of his soul! Yea,
even from all further _instruction_! For we must be able to lose
ourselves at times, if we want to learn something of what we have not in
ourselves.
306.
_Stoic and Epicurean._—The Epicurean selects the situations, the
persons, and even the events which suit his extremely sensitive,
intellectual constitution; he renounces the rest—that is to say, by far
the greater part of experience—because it would be too strong and too
heavy fare for him. The Stoic, on the contrary, accustoms himself to
swallow stones and vermin, glass-splinters and scorpions, without
feeling any disgust: his stomach is meant to become indifferent in the
end to all that the accidents of existence cast into it:—he reminds one
of the Arabic sect of the Assaua, with which the French became
acquainted in Algiers; and like those insensible persons, he also likes
well to have an invited public at the exhibition of his insensibility,
the very thing the Epicurean willingly dispenses with:—he has of course
his "garden"! Stoicism may be quite advisable for men with whom fate
improvises, for those who live in violent times and are dependent on
abrupt and changeable individuals. He, however, who _anticipates_ that
fate will permit him to spin "a long thread," does well to make his
arrangements in Epicurean fashion; all men devoted to intellectual
labour have done it hitherto! For it would be a supreme loss to them to
forfeit their fine sensibility, and acquire the hard, stoical hide with
hedgehog prickles in exchange.
307.
_In Favour of Criticism._—Something now appears to thee as an error
which thou formerly lovedst as a truth, or as a probability: thou
pushest it from thee and imaginest that thy reason has there gained a
victory. But perhaps that error was then, when thou wast still another
person—thou art always another person,—just as necessary to thee as all
thy present "truths," like a skin, as it were, which concealed and
veiled from thee much which thou still mayst not see. Thy new life, and
not thy reason, has slain that opinion for thee: _thou dost not require
it any longer_, and now it breaks down of its own accord, and the
irrationality crawls out of it as a worm into the light. When we make
use of criticism it is not something arbitrary and impersonal,—it is, at
least very often, a proof that there are lively, active forces in us,
which cast a skin. We deny, and must deny, because something in us
_wants_ to live and affirm itself, something which we perhaps do not as
yet know, do not as yet see!—So much in favour of criticism.
308.
_The History of each Day._—What is it that constitutes the history of
each day for thee? Look at thy habits of which it consists: are they the
product of numberless little acts of cowardice and laziness, or of thy
bravery and inventive reason? Although the two cases are so different,
it is possible that men might bestow the same praise upon thee, and that
thou mightst also be equally useful to them in the one case as in the
other. But praise and utility and respectability may suffice for him
whose only desire is to have a good conscience,—not however for thee,
the "trier of the reins," who hast a _consciousness of the conscience_!
309.
_Out of the Seventh Solitude._—One day the wanderer shut a door behind
him, stood still, and wept. Then he said: "Oh, this inclination and
impulse towards the true, the real, the non-apparent, the certain! How I
detest it! Why does this gloomy and passionate taskmaster follow just
_me_? I should like to rest, but it does not permit me to do so. Are
there not a host of things seducing me to tarry! Everywhere there are
gardens of Armida for me, and therefore there will always be fresh
separations and fresh bitterness of heart! I must set my foot forward,
my weary wounded foot: and because I feel I must do this, I often cast
grim glances back at the most beautiful things which could not detain
me—_because_ they could not detain me!"
310.
_Will and Wave._—How eagerly this wave comes hither, as if it were a
question of its reaching something! How it creeps with frightful haste
into the innermost corners of the rocky cliff! It seems that it wants to
forestall some one; it seems that something is concealed there that has
value, high value.—And now it retreats somewhat more slowly, still quite
white with excitement,—is it disappointed? Has it found what it sought?
Does it merely pretend to be disappointed?—But already another wave
approaches, still more eager and wild than the first, and its soul also
seems to be full of secrets and of longing for treasure-seeking. Thus
live the waves,—thus live we who exercise will!—I do not say more.—But
what! Ye distrust me? Ye are angry at me, ye beautiful monsters? Do ye
fear that I will quite betray your secret? Well! Just be angry with me,
raise your green, dangerous bodies as high as ye can, make a wall
between me and the sun—as at present! Verily, there is now nothing more
left of the world save green twilight and green lightning-flashes. Do as
ye will, ye wanton creatures, roar with delight and wickedness—or dive
under again, pour your emeralds down into the depths, and cast your
endless white tresses of foam and spray over them—it is all the same to
me, for all is so well with you, and I am so pleased with you for it
all: how could I betray _you_! For—take this to heart!—I know you and
your secret, I know your race! You and I are indeed of one race! You and
I have indeed one secret!
311.
_Broken Lights._—We are not always brave, and when we are weary, people
of our stamp are liable to lament occasionally in this wise:—"It is so
hard to cause pain to men—oh, that it should be necessary! What good is
it to live concealed, when we do not want to keep to ourselves that
which causes vexation? Would it not be more advisable to live in the
madding crowd, and compensate individuals for sins that are committed
and must be committed against mankind in general? Foolish with fools,
vain with the vain, enthusiastic with enthusiasts? Would that not be
reasonable when there is such an inordinate amount of divergence in the
main? When I hear of the malignity of others against me—is not my first
feeling that of satisfaction? It is well that it should be so!—I seem to
myself to say to them—I am so little in harmony with you, and have so
much truth on my side: see henceforth that ye be merry at my expense as
often as ye can! Here are my defects and mistakes, here are my
illusions, my bad taste, my confusion, my tears, my vanity, my owlish
concealment, my contradictions! Here you have something to laugh at!
Laugh then, and enjoy yourselves! I am not averse to the law and nature
of things, which is that defects and errors should give pleasure!—To be
sure there were once 'more glorious' times, when as soon as any one got
an idea, however moderately new it might be, he would think himself so
_indispensable_ as to go out into the street with it, and call to
everybody: 'Behold! the kingdom of heaven is at hand!'—I should not miss
myself, if I were a-wanting. We are none of us indispensable!"—As we
have said, however, we do not think thus when we are brave; we do not
think _about it_ at all.
312.
_My Dog._—I have given a name to my suffering, and call it "dog,"—it is
just as faithful, just as importunate and shameless, just as
entertaining, just as wise, as any other dog—and I can domineer over it,
and vent my bad humour on it, as others do with their dogs, servants,
and wives.
313.
_No Picture of a Martyr._—I will take my cue from Raphael, and not paint
any more martyr pictures. There are enough of sublime things without its
being necessary to seek sublimity where it is linked with cruelty;
moreover my ambition would not be gratified in the least if I aspired to
be a sublime executioner.
314.
_New Domestic Animals._—I want to have my lion and my eagle about me,
that I may always have hints and premonitions concerning the amount of
my strength or weakness. Must I look down on them to-day, and be afraid
of them? And will the hour come once more when they will look up to me,
and tremble?—
315.
_The Last Hour._—Storms are my danger. Shall I have my storm in which I
shall perish, just as Oliver Cromwell perished in his storm? Or shall I
go out as a light does, not first blown out by the wind, but grown tired
and weary of itself—a burnt-out light? Or finally, shall I blow myself
out, so as _not to burn out_!
316.
_Prophetic Men._—Ye cannot divine how sorely prophetic men suffer: ye
think only that a fine "gift" has been given to them, and would fain
have it yourselves,—but I will express my meaning by a simile. How much
may not the animals suffer from the electricity of the atmosphere and
the clouds! Some of them, as we see, have a prophetic faculty with
regard to the weather, for example, apes (as one can observe very well
even in Europe,—and not only in menageries, but at Gibraltar). But it
never occurs to us that it is their _sufferings_—that are their
prophets! When strong positive electricity, under the influence of an
approaching cloud not at all visible, is suddenly converted into
negative electricity, and an alteration of the weather is imminent,
these animals then behave as if an enemy were approaching them, and
prepare for defence, or flight: they generally hide themselves,—they do
not think of the bad weather as weather, but as an enemy whose hand they
already _feel_!
317.
_Retrospect._—We seldom become conscious of the real pathos of any
period of life as such, as long as we continue in it, but always think
it is the only possible and reasonable thing for us henceforth, and that
it is altogether _ethos_ and not _pathos_[10]—to speak and distinguish
like the Greeks. A few notes of music to-day recalled a winter and a
house, and a life of utter solitude to my mind, and at the same time the
sentiments in which I then lived: I thought I should be able to live in
such a state always. But now I understand that it was entirely pathos
and passion, something comparable to this painfully bold and truly
comforting music,—it is not one's lot to have these sensations for
years, still less for eternities: otherwise one would become too
"ethereal" for this planet.
318.
_Wisdom in Pain._—In pain there is as much wisdom as in pleasure: like
the latter it is one of the best self-preservatives of a species. Were
it not so, pain would long ago have been done away with; that it is
hurtful is no argument against it, for to be hurtful is its very
essence. In pain I hear the commanding call of the ship's captain: "Take
in sail!" "Man," the bold seafarer, must have learned to set his sails
in a thousand different ways, otherwise he could not have sailed long,
for the ocean would soon have swallowed him up. We must also know how to
live with reduced energy: as soon as pain gives its precautionary
signal, it is time to reduce the speed—some great danger, some storm, is
approaching, and we do well to "catch" as little wind as possible.—It is
true that there are men who, on the approach of severe pain, hear the
very opposite call of command, and never appear more proud, more
martial, or more happy, than when the storm is brewing; indeed, pain
itself provides them with their supreme moments! These are the heroic
men, the great _pain-bringers_ of mankind: those few and rare ones who
need just the same apology as pain generally,—and verily, it should not
be denied them! They are forces of the greatest importance for
preserving and advancing the species, were it only because they are
opposed to smug ease, and do not conceal their disgust at this kind of
happiness.
319.
_As Interpreters of our Experiences._—One form of honesty has always
been lacking among founders of religions and their kin:—they have never
made their experiences a matter of the intellectual conscience. "What
did I really experience? What then took place in me and around me? Was
my understanding clear enough? Was my will directly opposed to all
deception of the senses, and courageous in its defence against fantastic
notions?"—None of them ever asked these questions, nor to this day do
any of the good religious people ask them. They have rather a thirst for
things which are _contrary to reason_, and they don't want to have too
much difficulty in satisfying this thirst,—so they experience "miracles"
and "regenerations," and hear the voices of angels! But we who are
different, who are thirsty for reason, want to look as carefully into
our experiences, as in the case of a scientific experiment, hour by
hour, day by day! We ourselves want to be our own experiments, and our
own subjects of experiment.
320.
_On Meeting Again._—A: Do I quite understand you? You are in search of
something? _Where_, in the midst of the present, actual world, is _your_
niche and star? Where can _you_ lay yourself in the sun, so that you
also may have a surplus of well-being, that your existence may justify
itself? Let everyone do that for himself—you seem to say, —and let him
put talk about generalities, concern about others and society, out of
his mind!—B: I want more; I am no seeker. I want to create my own sun
for myself.
321.
_A New Precaution._—Let us no longer think so much about punishing,
blaming, and improving! We shall seldom be able to alter an individual,
and if we should succeed in doing so, something else may also succeed,
perhaps unawares: _we_ may have been altered by him! Let us rather see
to it that our own influence on _all that is to come_ outweighs and
overweighs his influence! Let us not struggle in direct conflict!—all
blaming, punishing, and desire to improve comes under this category. But
let us elevate ourselves all the higher! Let us ever give to our pattern
more shining colours! Let us obscure the other by our light! No! We do
not mean to become _darker_ ourselves on his account, like all that
punish and are discontented! Let us rather go aside! Let us look away!
322.
_A Simile._—Those thinkers in whom all the stars move in cyclic orbits,
are not the most profound. He who looks into himself, as into an immense
universe, and carries Milky Ways in himself, knows also how irregular
all Milky Ways are; they lead into the very chaos and labyrinth of
existence.
323.
_Happiness in Destiny._—Destiny confers its greatest distinction upon us
when it has made us fight for a time on the side of our adversaries. We
are thereby _predestined_ to a great victory.
324.
_In Media Vita._—No! Life has not deceived me! On the contrary, from
year to year I find it richer, more desirable and more mysterious—from
the day on which the great liberator broke my fetters, the thought that
life may be an experiment of the thinker—and not a duty, not a fatality,
not a deceit!—And knowledge itself may be for others something
different; for example, a bed of ease, or the path to a bed of ease, or
an entertainment, or a course of idling,—for me it is a world of dangers
and victories, in which even the heroic sentiments have their arena and
dancing-floor. "_Life as a means to knowledge_"—with this principle in
one's heart, one can not only be brave, but can even _live joyfully and
laugh joyfully_! And who could know how to laugh well and live well, who
did not first understand the full meaning of war and victory!
325.
_What Belongs to Greatness._—Who can attain to anything great if he does
not feel the force and will in himself _to inflict_ great pain? The
ability to suffer is a small matter: in that line, weak women and even
slaves often attain masterliness. But not to perish from internal
distress and doubt when one inflicts great anguish and hears the cry of
this anguish—that is great, that belongs to greatness.
326.
_Physicians of the Soul and Pain._—All preachers of morality, as also
all theologians, have a bad habit in common: all of them try to persuade
man that he is very ill, and that a severe, final, radical cure is
necessary. And because mankind as a whole has for centuries listened too
eagerly to those teachers, something of the superstition that the human
race is in a very bad way has actually come over men: so that they are
now far too ready to sigh; they find nothing more in life and make
melancholy faces at each other, as if life were indeed very hard _to
endure_. In truth, they are inordinately assured of their life and in
love with it, and full of untold intrigues and subtleties for
suppressing everything disagreeable and for extracting the thorn from
pain and misfortune. It seems to me that people always speak _with
exaggeration_ about pain and misfortune, as if it were a matter of good
behaviour to exaggerate here: on the other hand people are intentionally
silent in regard to the number of expedients for alleviating pain; as
for instance, the deadening of it, or feverish flurry of thought, or a
peaceful position, or good and bad reminiscences, intentions,
hopes,—also many kinds of pride and fellow-feeling which have almost the
effect of anæsthetics: while in the greatest degree of pain fainting
takes place of itself. We understand very well how to pour sweetness on
our bitterness, especially on the bitterness of our soul; we find a
remedy in our bravery and sublimity, as well as in the nobler delirium
of submission and resignation. A loss scarcely remains a loss for an
hour: in some way or other a gift from heaven has always fallen into our
lap at the same moment—a new form of strength, for example: be it but a
new opportunity for the exercise of strength! What have the preachers of
morality not dreamt concerning the inner "misery" of evil men! What
_lies_ have they not told us about the misfortunes of impassioned men!
Yes, lying is here the right word: they were only too well aware of the
overflowing happiness of this kind of man, but they kept silent as death
about it; because it was a refutation of their theory, according to
which happiness only originates through the annihilation of the passions
and the silencing of the will! And finally, as regards the recipe of all
those physicians of the soul and their recommendation of a severe
radical cure, we may be allowed to ask: Is our life really painful and
burdensome enough for us to exchange it with advantage for a Stoical
mode of life, and Stoical petrification? We do _not_ feel _sufficiently
miserable_ to have to feel ill in the Stoical fashion!
327.
_Taking Things Seriously._—The intellect is with most people an awkward,
obscure and creaking machine, which is difficult to set in motion: they
call it "_taking a thing seriously_" when they work with this machine,
and want to think well—oh, how burdensome must good thinking be to them!
That delightful animal, man, seems to lose his good-humour whenever he
thinks well; he becomes "serious"! And "where there is laughing and
gaiety, thinking cannot be worth anything:"—so speaks the prejudice of
this serious animal against all "Joyful Wisdom."—Well, then! Let us show
that it is prejudice!
328.
_Doing Harm to Stupidity._—It is certain that the belief in the
reprehensibility of egoism, preached with such stubbornness and
conviction, has on the whole done harm to egoism (_in favour of the
herd-instinct_, as I shall repeat a hundred times!), especially by
depriving it of a good conscience, and bidding us seek in it the true
source of all misfortune. "Thy selfishness is the bane of thy life"—so
rang the preaching for millenniums: it did harm, as we have said, to
selfishness, and deprived it of much spirit, much cheerfulness, much
ingenuity, and much beauty; it stultified and deformed and poisoned
selfishness!—Philosophical antiquity, on the other hand, taught that
there was another principal source of evil: from Socrates downwards, the
thinkers were never weary of preaching that "your thoughtlessness and
stupidity, your unthinking way of living according to rule, and your
subjection to the opinion of your neighbour, are the reasons why you so
seldom attain to happiness,—we thinkers are, as thinkers, the happiest
of mortals." Let us not decide here whether this preaching against
stupidity was more sound than the preaching against selfishness; it is
certain, however, that stupidity was thereby deprived of its good
conscience:—these philosophers _did harm to stupidity_.
329.