loneliest loneliness some day or night, and said to thee: "This life, as
thou livest it at present, and hast lived it, thou must live it once
more, and also innumerable times; and there will be nothing new in it,
but every pain and every joy and every thought and every sigh, and all
the unspeakably small and great in thy life must come to thee again, and
all in the same series and sequence—and similarly this spider and this
moonlight among the trees, and similarly this moment, and I myself. The
eternal sand-glass of existence will ever be turned once more, and thou
with it, thou speck of dust!"—Wouldst thou not throw thyself down and
gnash thy teeth, and curse the demon that so spake? Or hast thou once
experienced a tremendous moment in which thou wouldst answer him: "Thou
art a God, and never did I hear aught more divine!" If that thought
acquired power over thee, as thou art, it would transform thee, and
perhaps crush thee; the question with regard to all and everything:
"Dost thou want this once more, and also for innumerable times?" would
lie as the heaviest burden upon thy activity! Or, how wouldst thou have
to become favourably inclined to thyself and to life, so as _to long for
nothing more ardently_ than for this last eternal sanctioning and
sealing?—
342.
_Incipit Tragœdia._—When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his
home and the Lake of Urmi, and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed
his spirit and his solitude, and for ten years did not weary of it. But
at last his heart changed,—and rising one morning with the rosy dawn, he
went before the sun and spake thus unto it: "Thou great star! What would
be thy happiness if thou hadst not those for whom thou shinest! For ten
years hast thou climbed hither unto my cave: thou wouldst have wearied
of thy light and of the journey, had it not been for me, mine eagle, and
my serpent. But we awaited thee every morning, took from thee thine
overflow, and blessed thee for it. Lo! I am weary of my wisdom, like the
bee that hath gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take
it. I would fain bestow and distribute, until the wise have once more
become joyous in their folly, and the poor happy in their riches.
Therefore must I descend into the deep, as thou doest in the evening,
when thou goest behind the sea and givest light also to the
nether-world, thou most rich star! Like thee must I _go down_, as men
say, to whom I shall descend. Bless me then, thou tranquil eye, that
canst behold even the greatest happiness without envy! Bless the cup
that is about to overflow, that the water may flow golden out of it, and
carry everywhere the reflection of thy bliss! Lo! This cup is again
going to empty itself, and Zarathustra is again going to be a man."—Thus
began Zarathustra's down-going.
-----
Footnote 10:
The distinction between ethos and pathos in Aristotle is, broadly,
that between internal character and external circumstance.—P. V. C.
BOOK FIFTH
WE FEARLESS ONES
"Carcasse, tu trembles? Tu
tremblerais bien davantage, si
tu savais, où je te mène."—
_Turenne._
343.
_What our Cheerfulness Signifies._—The most important of more recent
events—that "God is dead," that the belief in the Christian God has
become unworthy of belief—already begins to cast its first shadows over
Europe. To the few at least whose eye, whose _suspecting_ glance, is
strong enough and subtle enough for this drama, some sun seems to have
set, some old, profound confidence seems to have changed into doubt: our
old world must seem to them daily more darksome, distrustful, strange
and "old." In the main, however, one may say that the event itself is
far too great, too remote, too much beyond most people's power of
apprehension, for one to suppose that so much as the report of it could
have _reached_ them; not to speak of many who already knew _what_ had
really taken place, and what must all collapse now that this belief had
been undermined,—because so much was built upon it, so much rested on
it, and had become one with it: for example, our entire European
morality. This lengthy, vast and uninterrupted process of crumbling,
destruction, ruin and overthrow which is now imminent: who has realised
it sufficiently to-day to have to stand up as the teacher and herald of
such a tremendous logic of terror, as the prophet of a period of gloom
and eclipse, the like of which has probably never taken place on earth
before?... Even we, the born riddle-readers, who wait as it were on the
mountains posted 'twixt to-day and to-morrow, and engirt by their
contradiction, we, the firstlings and premature children of the coming
century, into whose sight especially the shadows which must forthwith
envelop Europe _should_ already have come—how is it that even we,
without genuine sympathy for this period of gloom, contemplate its
advent without any _personal_ solicitude or fear? Are we still, perhaps,
too much under the _immediate effects_ of the event—and are these
effects, especially as regards _ourselves_, perhaps the reverse of what
was to be expected—not at all sad and depressing, but rather like a new
and indescribable variety of light, happiness, relief, enlivenment,
encouragement, and dawning day?... In fact, we philosophers and "free
spirits" feel ourselves irradiated as by a new dawn by the report that
the "old God is dead"; our hearts overflow with gratitude, astonishment,
presentiment and expectation. At last the horizon seems open once more,
granting even that it is not bright; our ships can at last put out to
sea in face of every danger; every hazard is again permitted to the
discerner; the sea, _our_ sea, again lies open before us; perhaps never
before did such an "open sea" exist.—
344.
_To what Extent even We are still Pious._—It is said with good reason
that convictions have no civic rights in the domain of science: it is
only when a conviction voluntarily condescends to the modesty of an
hypothesis, a preliminary standpoint for experiment, or a regulative
fiction, that its access to the realm of knowledge, and a certain value
therein, can be conceded,—always, however, with the restriction that it
must remain under police supervision, under the police of our
distrust.—Regarded more accurately, however, does not this imply that
only when a conviction _ceases_ to be a conviction can it obtain
admission into science? Does not the discipline of the scientific spirit
just commence when one no longer harbours any conviction?... It is
probably so: only, it remains to be asked whether, _in order that this
discipline may commence_, it is not necessary that there should already
be a conviction, and in fact one so imperative and absolute, that it
makes a sacrifice of all other convictions. One sees that science also
rests on a belief: there is no science at all "without premises." The
question whether _truth_ is necessary, must not merely be affirmed
beforehand, but must be affirmed to such an extent that the principle,
belief, or conviction finds expression, that "there is _nothing more
necessary_ than truth, and in comparison with it everything else has
only a secondary value."—This absolute will to truth: what is it? Is it
the will _not to allow ourselves to be deceived_? Is it the will _not to
deceive_? For the will to truth could also be interpreted in this
fashion, provided one includes under the generalisation, "I will not
deceive," the special case, "I will not deceive myself." But why not
deceive? Why not allow oneself to be deceived?—Let it be noted that the
reasons for the former eventuality belong to a category quite different
from those for the latter: one does not want to be deceived oneself,
under the supposition that it is injurious, dangerous, or fatal to be
deceived,—in this sense science would be a prolonged process of caution,
foresight and utility; against which, however, one might reasonably make
objections. What? is not-wishing-to-be-deceived really less injurious,
less dangerous, less fatal? What do you know of the character of
existence in all its phases to be able to decide whether the greater
advantage is on the side of absolute distrust, or of absolute
trustfulness? In case, however, of both being necessary, much trusting
_and_ much distrusting, whence then should science derive the absolute
belief, the conviction on which it rests, that truth is more important
than anything else, even than every other conviction? This conviction
could not have arisen if truth _and_ untruth had both continually proved
themselves to be useful: as is the case. Thus—the belief in science,
which now undeniably exists, cannot have had its origin in such a
utilitarian calculation, but rather _in spite of_ the fact of the
inutility and dangerousness of the "Will to truth," of "truth at all
costs," being continually demonstrated. "At all costs": alas, we
understand that sufficiently well, after having sacrificed and
slaughtered one belief after another at this altar!—Consequently, "Will
to truth" does _not_ imply, "I will not allow myself to be deceived,"
but—there is no other alternative—"I will not deceive, not even myself":
_and thus we have reached the realm of morality_. For, let one just ask
oneself fairly: "Why wilt thou not deceive?" especially if it should
seem—and it does seem—as if life were laid out with a view to
appearance, I mean, with a view to error, deceit, dissimulation,
delusion, self-delusion; and when on the other hand it is a matter of
fact that the great type of life has always manifested itself on the
side of the most unscrupulous πολύτροποι. Such an intention might
perhaps, to express it mildly, be a piece of Quixotism, a little
enthusiastic craziness; it might also, however, be something worse,
namely, a destructive principle, hostile to life.... "Will to
Truth,"—that might be a concealed Will to Death.—Thus the question, Why
is there science? leads back to the moral problem: _What in general is
the purpose of morality_, if life, nature, and history are "non-moral"?
There is no doubt that the conscientious man in the daring and extreme
sense in which he is presupposed by the belief in science, _affirms
thereby a world other than_ that of life, nature, and history; and in so
far as he affirms this "other world," what? must he not just
thereby—deny its counterpart, this world, _our_ world?... But what I
have in view will now be understood, namely, that it is always a
_metaphysical belief_ on which our belief in science rests,—and that
even we knowing ones of to-day, the godless and anti-metaphysical, still
take _our_ fire from the conflagration kindled by a belief a millennium
old, the Christian belief, which was also the belief of Plato, that God
is truth, that the truth is divine.... But what if this itself always
becomes more untrustworthy, what if nothing any longer proves itself
divine, except it be error, blindness, and falsehood;—what if God
himself turns out to be our most persistent lie?—
345.
_Morality as a Problem._—A defect in personality revenges itself
everywhere: an enfeebled, lank, obliterated, self-disavowing and
disowning personality is no longer fit for anything good—it is least of
all fit for philosophy. "Selflessness" has no value either in heaven or
on earth; the great problems all demand _great love_, and it is only the
strong, well-rounded, secure spirits, those who have a solid basis, that
are qualified for them. It makes the most material difference whether a
thinker stands personally related to his problems, having his fate, his
need, and even his highest happiness therein; or merely impersonally,
that is to say, if he can only feel and grasp them with the tentacles of
cold, prying thought. In the latter case I warrant that nothing comes of
it: for the great problems, granting that they let themselves be grasped
at all, do not let themselves be _held_ by toads and weaklings: that has
ever been their taste—a taste also which they share with all
high-spirited women.—How is it that I have not yet met with any one, not
even in books, who seems to have stood to morality in this position, as
one who knew morality as a problem, and this problem as _his own_
personal need, affliction, pleasure and passion? It is obvious that up
to the present morality has not been a problem at all; it has rather
been the very ground on which people have met, after all distrust,
dissension, and contradiction, the hallowed place of peace, where
thinkers could obtain rest even from themselves, could recover breath
and revive. I see no one who has ventured to _criticise_ the estimates
of moral worth. I miss in this connection even the attempts of
scientific curiosity, and the fastidious, groping imagination of
psychologists and historians, which easily anticipates a problem and
catches it on the wing, without rightly knowing what it catches. With
difficulty I have discovered some scanty data for the purpose of
furnishing a _history of the origin_ of these feelings and estimates of
value (which is something different from a criticism of them, and also
something different from a history of ethical systems). In an individual
case, I have done everything to encourage the inclination and talent for
this kind of history—in vain, as it would seem to me at present. There
is little to be learned from those historians of morality (especially
Englishmen): they themselves are usually, quite unsuspiciously, under
the influence of a definite morality, and act unwittingly as its
armour-bearers and followers—perhaps still repeating sincerely the
popular superstition of Christian Europe, that the characteristic of
moral action consists in abnegation, self-denial, self-sacrifice, or in
fellow-feeling and fellow-suffering. The usual error in their premises
is their insistence on a certain _consensus_ among human beings, at
least among civilised human beings, with regard to certain propositions
of morality, and from thence they conclude that these propositions are
absolutely binding even upon you and me; or reversely, they come to the
conclusion that _no_ morality at all is binding, after the truth has
dawned upon them that to different peoples moral valuations are
_necessarily_ different: both of which conclusions are equally childish
follies. The error of the more subtle amongst them is that they discover
and criticise the probably foolish opinions of a people about its own
morality, or the opinions of mankind about human morality generally;
they treat accordingly of its origin, its religious sanctions, the
superstition of free will, and such matters; and they think that just by
so doing they have criticised the morality itself. But the worth of a
precept, "Thou shalt," is still fundamentally different from and
independent of such opinions about it, and must be distinguished from
the weeds of error with which it has perhaps been overgrown: just as the
worth of a medicine to a sick person is altogether independent of the
question whether he has a scientific opinion about medicine, or merely
thinks about it as an old wife would do. A morality could even have
grown _out of_ an error: but with this knowledge the problem of its
worth would not even be touched.—Thus, no one has hitherto tested the
_value_ of that most celebrated of all medicines, called morality: for
which purpose it is first of all necessary for one—_to call it in
question_. Well, that is just our work.—
346.
_Our Note of Interrogation._—But you don't understand it? As a matter of
fact, an effort will be necessary in order to understand us. We seek for
words; we seek perhaps also for ears. Who are we after all? If we wanted
simply to call ourselves in older phraseology, atheists, unbelievers, or
even immoralists, we should still be far from thinking ourselves
designated thereby: we are all three in too late a phase for people
generally to conceive, for _you_, my inquisitive friends, to be able to
conceive, what is our state of mind under the circumstances. No! we have
no longer the bitterness and passion of him who has broken loose, who
has to make for himself a belief, a goal, and even a martyrdom out of
his unbelief! We have become saturated with the conviction (and have
grown cold and hard in it) that things are not at all divinely ordered
in this world, nor even according to human standards do they go on
rationally, mercifully, or justly: we know the fact that the world in
which we live is ungodly, immoral, and "inhuman,"—we have far too long
interpreted it to ourselves falsely and mendaciously, according to the
wish and will of our veneration, that is to say, according to our
_need_. For man is a venerating animal! But he is also a distrustful
animal: and that the world is _not_ worth what we have believed it to be
worth is about the surest thing our distrust has at last managed to
grasp. So much distrust, so much philosophy! We take good care not to
say that the world is of _less_ value: it seems to us at present
absolutely ridiculous when man claims to devise values _to surpass_ the
values of the actual world,—it is precisely from that point that we have
retraced our steps; as from an extravagant error of human conceit and
irrationality, which for a long period has not been recognised as such.
This error had its last expression in modern Pessimism; an older and
stronger manifestation in the teaching of Buddha; but Christianity also
contains it, more dubiously, to be sure, and more ambiguously, but none
the less seductive on that account. The whole attitude of "man _versus_
the world," man as world-denying principle, man as the standard of the
value of things, as judge of the world, who in the end puts existence
itself on his scales and finds it too light—the monstrous impertinence
of this attitude has dawned upon us as such, and has disgusted us,—we
now laugh when we find, "Man _and_ World" placed beside one another,
separated by the sublime presumption of the little word "and"! But how
is it? Have we not in our very laughing just made a further step in
despising mankind? And consequently also in Pessimism, in despising the
existence cognisable _by us_? Have we not just thereby become liable to
a suspicion of an opposition between the world in which we have hitherto
been at home with our venerations—for the sake of which we perhaps
_endure_ life—and another world _which we ourselves are_: an inexorable,
radical, most profound suspicion concerning ourselves, which is
continually getting us Europeans more annoyingly into its power, and
could easily face the coming generation with the terrible alternative:
"Either do away with your venerations, or—_with yourselves_!" The latter
would be Nihilism—but would not the former also be Nihilism? This is
_our_ note of interrogation.
347.
_Believers and their Need of Belief._—How much _faith_ a person requires
in order to flourish, how much "fixed opinion" he requires which he does
not wish to have shaken, because he _holds_ himself thereby—is a measure
of his power (or more plainly speaking, of his weakness). Most people in
old Europe, as it seems to me, still need Christianity at present, and
on that account it still finds belief. For such is man: a theological
dogma might be refuted to him a thousand times,—provided, however, that
he had need of it, he would again and again accept it as
"true,"—according to the famous "proof of power" of which the Bible
speaks. Some have still need of metaphysics; but also the impatient
_longing for certainty_ which at present discharges itself in
scientific, positivist fashion among large numbers of the people, the
longing by all means to get at something stable (while on account of the
warmth of the longing the establishing of the certainty is more
leisurely and negligently undertaken): even this is still the longing
for a hold, a support; in short, the _instinct of weakness_, which,
while not actually creating religions, metaphysics, and convictions of
all kinds, nevertheless—preserves them. In fact, around all these
positivist systems there fume the vapours of a certain pessimistic
gloom, something of weariness, fatalism, disillusionment, and fear of
new disillusionment—or else manifest animosity, ill-humour, anarchic
exasperation, and whatever there is of symptom or masquerade of the
feeling of weakness. Even the readiness with which our cleverest
contemporaries get lost in wretched corners and alleys, for example, in
Vaterländerei (so I designate Jingoism, called _chauvinisme_ in France,
and "_deutsch_" in Germany), or in petty æsthetic creeds in the manner
of Parisian _naturalisme_ (which only brings into prominence and
uncovers _that_ aspect of nature which excites simultaneously disgust
and astonishment—they like at present to call this aspect _la vérité
vraie_), or in Nihilism in the St Petersburg style (that is to say, in
the _belief in unbelief_, even to martyrdom for it):—this shows always
and above all the need of belief, support, backbone, and buttress....
Belief is always most desired, most pressingly needed where there is a
lack of will: for the will, as emotion of command, is the distinguishing
characteristic of sovereignty and power. That is to say, the less a
person knows how to command, the more urgent is his desire for one who
commands, who commands sternly,—a God, a prince, a caste, a physician, a
confessor, a dogma, a party conscience. From whence perhaps it could be
inferred that the two world-religions, Buddhism and Christianity, might
well have had the cause of their rise, and especially of their rapid
extension, in an extraordinary _malady of the will_. And in truth it has
been so: both religions lighted upon a longing, monstrously exaggerated
by malady of the will, for an imperative, a "Thou-shalt," a longing
going the length of despair; both religions were teachers of fanaticism
in times of slackness of will-power, and thereby offered to innumerable
persons a support, a new possibility of exercising will, an enjoyment in
willing. For in fact fanaticism is the sole "volitional strength" to
which the weak and irresolute can be excited, as a sort of hypnotising
of the entire sensory-intellectual system, in favour of the
over-abundant nutrition (hypertrophy) of a particular point of view and
a particular sentiment, which then dominates—the Christian calls it his
_faith_. When a man arrives at the fundamental conviction that he
_requires_ to be commanded, he becomes "a believer." Reversely, one
could imagine a delight and a power of self-determining, and a _freedom_
of will whereby a spirit could bid farewell to every belief, to every
wish for certainty, accustomed as it would be to support itself on
slender cords and possibilities, and to dance even on the verge of
abysses. Such a spirit would be the _free spirit par excellence_.
348.