BOOK I.

Friedrich Nietzsche

The Dawn of Day

Translated by

John McFarland Kennedy

Author of “The Quintessence of Nietzsche”, “Religions and Philosophers of

the East”

There are many dawns which have yet to shed their light.—RIG-VEDA.

New York

The MacMillan Company

1911

CONTENTS

Introduction.

Author’s Preface.

Book I.

Book II.

Book III.

Book IV.

Book V.

Footnotes

INTRODUCTION.

When Nietzsche called his book _The Dawn of Day_, he was far from giving

it a merely fanciful title to attract the attention of that large section

of the public which judges books by their titles rather than by their

contents. _The Dawn of Day_ represents, figuratively, the dawn of

Nietzsche’s own philosophy. Hitherto he had been considerably influenced

in his outlook, if not in his actual thoughts, by Schopenhauer, Wagner,

and perhaps also Comte. _Human, all-too-Human_, belongs to a period of

transition. After his rupture with Bayreuth, Nietzsche is, in both parts

of that work, trying to stand on his own legs, and to regain his spiritual

freedom; he is feeling his way to his own philosophy. _The Dawn of Day_,

written in 1881 under the invigorating influence of a Genoese spring, is

the dawn of this new Nietzsche. “With this book I open my campaign against

morality,” he himself said later in his autobiography, the _Ecce Homo_.

Just as in the case of the books written in his prime—_The Joyful Wisdom_,

_Zarathustra_, _Beyond Good and Evil_, and _The Genealogy of Morals_—we

cannot fail to be impressed in this work by Nietzsche’s deep psychological

insight, the insight that showed him to be a powerful judge of men and

things unequalled in the nineteenth or, perhaps, any other century. One

example of this is seen in his searching analysis of the Apostle Paul

(Aphorism 68), in which the soul of the “First Christian” is ruthlessly

and realistically laid bare to us. Nietzsche’s summing-up of the Founder

of Christianity—for of course, as is now generally recognised, it was

Paul, and not Christ, who founded the Christian Church—has not yet called

forth those bitter attacks from theologians that might have been expected,

though one reason for this apparent neglect is no doubt that the portrait

is so true, and in these circumstances silence is certainly golden on the

part of defenders of the faith, who are otherwise, as a rule, loquacious

enough. Nor has the taunt in Aphorism 84 elicited an answer from the

quarter whither it was directed; and the “free” (not to say dishonest)

interpretation of the Bible by Christian scholars and theologians, which

is still proceeding merrily, is now being turned to Nietzsche’s own

writings. For the philosopher’s works are now being “explained away” by

German theologians in a most naïve and daring fashion, and with an ability

which has no doubt been acquired as the result of centuries of skilful

interpretation of the Holy Writ.

Nor are professional theologians the only ones who have failed to answer

Nietzsche; for in other than religious matters the majority of savants

have not succeeded in plumbing his depths. There is, for example, the

question of race. Ten years ago, twenty years after the publication of

_The Dawn of Day_, Nietzsche’s countrymen enthusiastically hailed a book

which has recently been translated into English, Chamberlain’s

_Foundations of __ the Nineteenth Century_. In this book the Teutons are

said to be superior to all the other peoples in the world, the reason

given being that they have kept their race pure. It is due to this purity

of race that they have produced so many great men; for every “good” man in

history is a Teuton, and every bad man something else. Considerable skill

is exhibited by the author in filching from his opponents the Latins their

best trump cards, and likewise _the_ trump card, Jesus Christ, from the

Jews; for Jesus Christ, according to Chamberlain’s very plausible

argument, was not a Jew but an Aryan, _i.e._ a member of that great family

of which the Teutons are a branch.

What would Nietzsche have said to this legerdemain? He has constantly

pointed out that the Teutons are so far from being a pure race that they

have, on the contrary, done everything in their power to ruin even the

idea of a pure race for ever. For the Teutons, through their Reformation

and their Puritan revolt in England, and the philosophies developed by the

democracies that necessarily followed, were the spiritual forbears of the

French Revolution and of the Socialistic régime under which we are

beginning to suffer nowadays. Thus this noble race has left nothing undone

to blot out the last remnant of race in Europe, and it even stands in the

way of the creation of a new race. And with such a record in history the

Germans write books, eulogising themselves as the salt of the earth, the

people of peoples, the race of races, while in truth they are nothing else

than _nouveaux-riches_ endeavouring to draw up a decent pedigree for

themselves. We know that honesty is not a prerequisite of such pedigrees,

and that patriotism may be considered as a good excuse even for a wrong

pedigree; but the race-pandemonium that followed the publication of Mr.

Chamberlain’s book in Germany was really a very unwise proceeding in view

of the false and misleading document produced. What, it may be asked

again, would Nietzsche have said if he had heard his countrymen screaming

odes to their own glory as the “flower of Europe”? He would assuredly have

dismissed their exalted pretensions with a good-natured smile; for his

study of history had shown him that even slaves must have their saturnalia

now and then. But as to his philosophical answer there can be no doubt;

for in Aphorism 272 of _The Dawn of Day_ there is a single sentence which

completely refutes the view of modern racemongers like Chamberlain and his

followers: “It is probable,” we read, “that there are no pure races, but

only races which have become purified, and even these are extremely rare.”

There are even stronger expressions to be met with in “Peoples and

Countries” (Aphorism 20; see the _Genealogy of Morals_, p. 226): “What

quagmires and mendacity must there be about if it is possible, in the

modern European hotch-potch, to raise the question of ‘race’!” and again,

in Aphorism 21: “Maxim—to associate with no man who takes any part in the

mendacious race-swindle.”

A man like Nietzsche, who makes so little impression upon mankind in

general, is certainly not, as some people have thought and openly said, a

public danger, so the guardians of the State need not be uneasy. There is

little danger of Nietzsche’s revolutionising either the masses or the

classes; for, as Goethe used to say, “Seulement celui qui ressemble le

peuple, l’émeut.” Nietzsche’s voice has as yet hardly been lifted in this

country; and, until it is fully heard, both masses and classes will calmly

proceed on their way to the extremes of democracy and anarchy, as they now

appear to be doing. Anarchy, though, may be too strong a word; for there

is some doubt whether, throughout Europe and America at all events, the

people are not now too weak even for anarchy. A revolt is a sign of

strength in a slave; but our modern slaves have no strength left.

In the meantime, however, it will have become clear that Nietzsche tried

to stop this threatening degradation of the human race, that he

endeavoured to supplant the morality of altruism—the cause of this

degradation—by another, a super-Christian morality, and that he has

succeeded in this aim, if not where the masses and the classes are

concerned, at any rate in the case of that small minority of thinkers to

which he really wished to appeal. And this minority is naturally grateful

to the philosopher for having supplied them with a morality which enables

them to be “good” without being fools—an unpleasant combination which,

unfortunately, the Nazarene morality is seldom able to avoid. This

Nazarene morality has doubtless its own merits, and its “good” and “evil”

in many cases coincide with ours; but common sense and certain

intellectual qualities are not too highly appreciated in the table of

Christian values (see, for instance, 1 Cor. iii. 19), whence it will be

observed that the enlightenment of a Christian is not always quite equal

to his otherwise excellent intentions. We Nietzschians, however, must show

that patience to them which they always pretend to show to their

opponents. Nietzsche himself, indeed, recommends this in Aphorism 103 of

this book, an aphorism which is almost too well known to need repetition;

for it likewise disproves the grotesque though widely circulated

supposition that all kinds of immorality would be indulged in under the

sway of the “Immoralistic” philosopher:

“I should not, of course, deny—unless I were a fool—that many actions

which are called immoral should be avoided and resisted; and in the same

way that many which are called moral should be performed and encouraged;

but I hold that in both cases these actions should be performed from

motives other than those which have prevailed up to the present time. We

must learn anew in order that at last, perhaps very late in the day, we

may be able to do something more: feel anew.”

In regard to the translation itself—which owes a good deal to many

excellent suggestions made by Mr. Thomas Common—it adheres, as a rule,

closely to the German text; and in only two or three instances has a

slightly freer rendering been adopted in order to make the sense quite

clear. There are one or two cases in which a punning or double meaning

could not be adequately rendered in English: _e.g._ Aphorism 50, where the

German word “Rausch” means both “intoxication” and also “elation” (_i.e._

the exalted feelings of the religious fanatic). Again, we have “Einleid,”

“Einleidigkeit,” in Aphorism 63—words which do not quite correspond to

pity, compassion, or fellow-feeling, and which, indeed, are not yet known

to German lexicographers. A literal translation, “one-feeling,” would be

almost meaningless. What is actually signified is that both sufferer and

sympathiser have nerves and feelings in common: an experience which

Schopenhauer, as Nietzsche rightly points out, mistook for compassion or

pity (“Mitleid”), and which lacked a word, even in German, until the later

psychologist coined “Einleid.” Again, in Aphorism 554 we have a play upon

the words “Vorschritt” (leading, guidance) and “Fortschritt” (progress).

All these, however, are trifling matters in comparison with the substance

of the book, and they are of more interest to philologists than to

psychologists. It is for psychologists that this book was written; and

such minds, somewhat rare in our time, may read in it with much profit.

J. M. Kennedy.

LONDON, _September_ 1911.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE.

In this book we find a “subterrestrial” at work, digging, mining,

undermining. You can see him, always provided that you have eyes for such

deep work,—how he makes his way slowly, cautiously, gently but surely,

without showing signs of the weariness that usually accompanies a long

privation of light and air. He might even be called happy, despite his

labours in the dark. Does it not seem as if some faith were leading him

on, some solace recompensing him for his toil? Or that he himself desires

a long period of darkness, an unintelligible, hidden, enigmatic something,

knowing as he does that he will in time have his own morning, his own

redemption, his own rosy dawn?—Yea, verily he will return: ask him not

what he seeketh in the depths; for he himself will tell you, this apparent

Trophonius and subterrestrial, whensoever he once again becomes man. One

easily unlearns how to hold one’s tongue when one has for so long been a

mole, and all alone, like him.—

2.

Indeed, my indulgent friends, I will tell you—here, in this late

preface,(1) which might easily have become an obituary or a funeral

oration—what I sought in the depths below: for I have come back, and—I

have escaped. Think not that I will urge you to run the same perilous

risk! or that I will urge you on even to the same solitude! For whoever

proceeds on his own path meets nobody: this is the feature of one’s “own

path.” No one comes to help him in his task: he must face everything quite

alone—danger, bad luck, wickedness, foul weather. He goes his own way;

and, as is only right, meets with bitterness and occasional irritation

because he pursues this “own way” of his: for instance, the knowledge that

not even his friends can guess who he is and whither he is going, and that

they ask themselves now and then: “Well? Is he really moving at all? Has

he still ... a path before him?”—At that time I had undertaken something

which could not have been done by everybody: I went down into the deepest

depths; I tunnelled to the very bottom; I started to investigate and

unearth an old _faith_ which for thousands of years we philosophers used

to build on as the safest of all foundations—which we built on again and

again although every previous structure fell in: I began to undermine our

_faith in morals_. But ye do not understand me?—

3.

So far it is on Good and Evil that we have meditated least profoundly:

this was always too dangerous a subject. Conscience, a good reputation,

hell, and at times even the police, have not allowed and do not allow of

impartiality; in the presence of morality, as before all authority, we

_must_ not even think, much less speak: here we must obey! Ever since the

beginning of the world, no authority has permitted itself to be made the

subject of criticism; and to criticise morals—to look upon morality as a

problem, as problematic—what! was that not—_is_ that not—immoral?—But

morality has at its disposal not only every means of intimidation

wherewith to keep itself free from critical hands and instruments of

torture: its security lies rather in a certain art of enchantment, in

which it is a past master—it knows how to “enrapture.” It can often

paralyse the critical will with a single look, or even seduce it to

itself: yea, there are even cases where morality can turn the critical

will against itself; so that then, like the scorpion, it thrusts the sting

into its own body. Morality has for ages been an expert in all kinds of

devilry in the art of convincing: even at the present day there is no

orator who would not turn to it for assistance (only hearken to our

anarchists, for instance: how morally they speak when they would fain

convince! In the end they even call themselves “the good and the just”).

Morality has shown herself to be the greatest mistress of seduction ever

since men began to discourse and persuade on earth—and, what concerns us

philosophers even more, she is the veritable _Circe of philosophers_. For,

to what is it due that, from Plato onwards, all the philosophic architects

in Europe have built in vain? that everything which they themselves

honestly believed to be _aere perennius_ threatens to subside or is

already laid in ruins? Oh, how wrong is the answer which, even in our own

day, rolls glibly off the tongue when this question is asked: “Because

they have all neglected the prerequisite, the examination of the

foundation, a critique of all reason”—that fatal answer made by Kant, who

has certainly not thereby attracted us modern philosophers to firmer and

less treacherous ground! (and, one may ask apropos of this, was it not

rather strange to demand that an instrument should criticise its own value

and effectiveness? that the intellect itself should “recognise” its own

worth, power, and limits? was it not even just a little ridiculous?) The

right answer would rather have been, that all philosophers, including Kant

himself were building under the seductive influence of morality—that they

aimed at certainty and “truth” only in appearance; but that in reality

their attention was directed towards “_majestic moral edifices_,” to use

once more Kant’s innocent mode of expression, who deems it his “less

brilliant, but not undeserving” task and work “to level the ground and

prepare a solid foundation for the erection of those majestic moral

edifices” (_Critique of Pure Reason_, ii. 257). Alas! He did not succeed

in his aim, quite the contrary—as we must acknowledge to-day. With this

exalted aim, Kant was merely a true son of his century, which more than

any other may justly be called the century of exaltation: and this he

fortunately continued to be in respect to the more valuable side of this

century (with that solid piece of sensuality, for example, which he

introduced into his theory of knowledge). He, too, had been bitten by the

moral tarantula, Rousseau; he, too, felt weighing on his soul that moral

fanaticism of which another disciple of Rousseau’s, Robespierre, felt and

proclaimed himself to be the executor: _de fonder sur la terre l’empire de

la sagesse, de la justice, et de la vertu_. (Speech of June 4th, 1794.) On

the other hand, with such a French fanaticism in his heart, no one could

have cultivated it in a less French, more deep, more thorough and more

German manner—if the word German is still permissible in this sense—than

Kant did: in order to make room for _his_ “moral kingdom,” he found

himself compelled to add to it an indemonstrable world, a logical

“beyond”—that was why he required his critique of pure reason! In other

words, _he would not have wanted it_, if he had not deemed one thing to be

more important than all the others: to render his moral kingdom

unassailable by—or, better still, invisible to, reason,—for he felt too

strongly the vulnerability of a moral order of things in the face of

reason. For, when confronted with nature and history, when confronted with

the ingrained _immorality_ of nature and history, Kant was, like all good

Germans from the earliest times, a pessimist: he believed in morality, not

because it is demonstrated through nature and history, but despite its

being steadily contradicted by them. To understand this “despite,” we

should perhaps recall a somewhat similar trait in Luther, that other great

pessimist, who once urged it upon his friends with true Lutheran audacity:

“If we could conceive by reason alone how that God who shows so much wrath

and malignity could be merciful and just, what use should we have for

faith?” For, from the earliest times, nothing has ever made a deeper

impression upon the German soul, nothing has ever “tempted” it more, than

that deduction, the most dangerous of all, which for every true Latin is a

sin against the intellect: _credo quia absurdum est_.—With it German logic

enters for the first time into the history of Christian dogma; but even

to-day, a thousand years later, we Germans of the present, late Germans in

every way, catch the scent of truth, a _possibility_ of truth, at the back

of the famous fundamental principle of dialectics with which Hegel secured

the victory of the German spirit over Europe—“contradiction moves the

world; all things contradict themselves.” We are pessimists—even in logic.

4.

But logical judgments are not the deepest and most fundamental to which

the daring of our suspicion descends: the confidence in reason which is

inseparable from the validity of these judgments, is, as confidence, a

_moral_ phenomenon ... perhaps German pessimism has yet to take its last

step? Perhaps it has once more to draw up its “credo” opposite its

“absurdum” in a terrible manner? And if this book is pessimistic even in

regard to morals, even above the confidence in morals—should it not be a

German book for that very reason? For, in fact, it represents a

contradiction, and one which it does not fear: in it confidence in morals

is retracted—but why? Out of _morality_! Or how shall we call that which

takes place in it—in _us_? for our taste inclines to the employment of

more modest phrases. But there is no doubt that to us likewise there

speaketh a “thou shalt”; we likewise obey a strict law which is set above

us—and this is the last cry of morals which is still audible to us, which

we too must _live_: here, if anywhere, are we still _men of conscience_,

because, to put the matter in plain words, we will not return to that

which we look upon as decayed, outlived, and superseded, we will not

return to something “unworthy of belief,” whether it be called God,

virtue, truth, justice, love of one’s neighbour, or what not; we will not

permit ourselves to open up a lying path to old ideals; we are thoroughly

and unalterably opposed to anything that would intercede and mingle with

us; opposed to all forms of present-day faith and Christianity; opposed to

the lukewarmness of all romanticism and fatherlandism; opposed also to the

artistic sense of enjoyment and lack of principle which would fain make us

worship where we no longer believe—for we are artists—opposed, in short,

to all this European feminism (or idealism, if this term be thought

preferable) which everlastingly “draws upward,” and which in consequence

everlastingly “lowers” and “degrades.” Yet, being men of _this_

conscience, we feel that we are related to that German uprightness and

piety which dates back thousands of years, although we immoralists and

atheists may be the late and uncertain offspring of these virtues—yea, we

even consider ourselves, in a certain respect, as their heirs, the

executors of their inmost will: a pessimistic will, as I have already

pointed out, which is not afraid to deny itself, because it denies itself

with _joy_! In us is consummated, if you desire a formula—_the

autosuppression of morals_.

5.

But, after all, why must we proclaim so loudly and with such intensity

what we are, what we want, and what we do not want? Let us look at this

more calmly and wisely; from a higher and more distant point of view. Let

us proclaim it, as if among ourselves, in so low a tone that all the world

fails to hear it and _us_! Above all, however, let us say it _slowly_....

This preface comes late, but not too late: what, after all, do five or six

years matter? Such a book, and such a problem, are in no hurry; besides,

we are friends of the _lento_, I and my book. I have not been a

philologist in vain—perhaps I am one yet: a teacher of slow reading. I

even come to write slowly. At present it is not only my habit, but even my

taste—a perverted taste, maybe—to write nothing but what will drive to

despair every one who is “in a hurry.” For philology is that venerable art

which exacts from its followers one thing above all—to step to one side,

to leave themselves spare moments, to grow silent, to become slow—the

leisurely art of the goldsmith applied to language: an art which must

carry out slow, fine work, and attains nothing if not _lento_. For this

very reason philology is now more desirable than ever before; for this

very reason it is the highest attraction and incitement in an age of

“work”: that is to say, of haste, of unseemly and immoderate hurry-skurry,

which is intent upon “getting things done” at once, even every book,

whether old or new. Philology itself, perhaps, will not “get things done”

so hurriedly: it teaches how to read _well_: _i.e._ slowly, profoundly,

attentively, prudently, with inner thoughts, with the mental doors ajar,

with delicate fingers and eyes ... my patient friends, this book appeals

only to perfect readers and philologists: _learn_ to read me well!

RUTA, NEAR GENOA,

_Autumn_, 1886.

BOOK I.

1.

SUBSEQUENT JUDGMENT.—All things that endure for a long time are little by

little so greatly permeated by reason that their origin in unreason

becomes improbable. Does not almost every exact statement of an origin

strike us as paradoxical and sacrilegious? Indeed, does not the true

historian constantly contradict?

2.

PREJUDICE OF THE LEARNED.—Savants are quite correct in maintaining the

proposition that men in all ages believed that they _knew_ what was good

and evil, praiseworthy and blamable. But it is a prejudice of the learned

to say _that we now know it better_ than any other age.

3.

A TIME FOR EVERYTHING.—When man assigned a sex to all things, he did not

believe that he was merely playing; but he thought, on the contrary, that

he had acquired a profound insight:—it was only at a much later period,

and then only partly, that he acknowledged the enormity of his error. In

the same way, man has attributed a moral relationship to everything that

exists, throwing the cloak of _ethical significance_ over the world’s

shoulders. One day all that will be of just as much value, and no more, as

the amount of belief existing to-day in the masculinity or femininity of

the sun.(2)

4.

AGAINST THE FANCIFUL DISHARMONY OF THE SPHERES.—We must once more sweep

out of the world all this _false_ grandeur, for it is contrary to the

justice that all things about us may claim. And for this reason we must

not see or wish the world to be more disharmonic than it is!

5.

BE THANKFUL!—The most important result of the past efforts of humanity is

that we need no longer go about in continual fear of wild beasts,

barbarians, gods, and our own dreams.

6.

THE JUGGLER AND HIS COUNTERPART.—That which is wonderful in science is

contrary to that which is wonderful in the art of the juggler. For the

latter would wish to make us believe that we see a very simple causality,

where, in reality, an exceedingly complex causality is in operation.

Science, on the other hand, forces us to give up our belief in the simple

causality exactly where everything looks so easily comprehensible and we

are merely the victims of appearances. The simplest things are _very

_“complicated”—we can never be sufficiently astonished at them!

7.

RECONCEIVING OUR FEELING OF SPACE.—Is it real or imaginary things which

have built up the greater proportion of man’s happiness? It is certain, at

all events, that the extent of the distance between the highest point of

happiness and the lowest point of unhappiness has been established only

with the help of imaginary things. As a consequence, _this_ kind of a

conception of space is always, under the influence of science, becoming

smaller and smaller: in the same way as science has taught us, and is

still teaching us, to look upon the earth as small—yea, to look upon the

entire solar system as a mere point.

8.

TRANSFIGURATION.—Perplexed sufferers, confused dreamers, the hysterically

ecstatic—here we have the three classes into which Raphael divided

mankind. We no longer consider the world in this light—and Raphael himself

dare not do so: his own eyes would show him a new transfiguration.

9.

CONCEPTION OF THE MORALITY OF CUSTOM.—In comparison with the mode of life

which prevailed among men for thousands of years, we men of the present

day are living in a very immoral age: the power of custom has been

weakened to a remarkable degree, and the sense of morality is so refined

and elevated that we might almost describe it as volatilised. That is why

we late comers experience such difficulty in obtaining a fundamental

conception of the origin of morality: and even if we do obtain it, our

words of explanation stick in our throats, so coarse would they sound if

we uttered them! or to so great an extent would they seem to be a slander

upon morality! Thus, for example, the fundamental clause: morality is

nothing else (and, above all, nothing more) than obedience to customs, of

whatsoever nature they may be. But customs are simply the traditional way

of acting and valuing. Where there is no tradition there is no morality;

and the less life is governed by tradition, the narrower the circle of

morality. The free man is immoral, because it is his _will_ to depend upon

himself and not upon tradition: in all the primitive states of humanity

“evil” is equivalent to “individual,” “free,” “arbitrary,” “unaccustomed,”

“unforeseen,” “incalculable.” In such primitive conditions, always

measured by this standard, any action performed—_not_ because tradition

commands it, but for other reasons (_e.g._ on account of its individual

utility), even for the same reasons as had been formerly established by

custom—is termed immoral, and is felt to be so even by the very man who

performs it, for it has not been done out of obedience to the tradition.

What is tradition? A higher authority, which is obeyed, not because it

commands what is useful to us, but merely because it commands. And in what

way can this feeling for tradition be distinguished from a general feeling

of fear? It is the fear of a higher intelligence which commands, the fear

of an incomprehensible power, of something that is more than

personal—there is _superstition_ in this fear. In primitive times the

domain of morality included education and hygienics, marriage, medicine,

agriculture, war, speech and silence, the relationship between man and

man, and between man and the gods—morality required that a man should

observe her prescriptions without thinking of _himself_ as individual.

Everything, therefore, was originally custom, and whoever wished to raise

himself above it, had first of all to make himself a kind of lawgiver and

medicine-man, a sort of demi-god—in other words, he had to create customs,

a dangerous and fearful thing to do!—Who is the most moral man? On the one

hand, he who most frequently obeys the law: _e.g._ he who, like the

Brahmins, carries a consciousness of the law about with him wherever he

may go, and introduces it into the smallest divisions of time, continually

exercising his mind in finding opportunities for obeying the law. On the

other hand, he who obeys the law in the most difficult cases. The most

moral man is he who makes the greatest _sacrifices_ to morality; but what

are the greatest sacrifices? In answering this question several different

kinds of morality will be developed: but the distinction between the

morality of the _most frequent obedience_ and the morality of the _most

difficult obedience_ is of the greatest importance. Let us not be deceived

as to the motives of that moral law which requires, as an indication of

morality, obedience to custom in the most difficult cases! Self-conquest

is required, not by reason of its useful consequences for the individual;

but that custom and tradition may appear to be dominant, in spite of all

individual counter desires and advantages. The individual shall sacrifice

himself—so demands the morality of custom.

On the other hand, those moralists who, like the followers of Socrates,

recommend self-control and sobriety to the _individual_ as his greatest

possible advantage and the key to his greatest personal happiness, are

_exceptions_—and if we ourselves do not think so, this is simply due to

our having been brought up under their influence. They all take a new

path, and thereby bring down upon themselves the utmost disapproval of all

the representatives of the morality of custom. They sever their connection

with the community, as immoralists, and are, in the fullest sense of the

word, evil ones. In the same way, every Christian who “sought, above all

things, his _own_ salvation,” must have seemed evil to a virtuous Roman of

the old school. Wherever a community exists, and consequently also a

morality of custom, the feeling prevails that any punishment for the

violation of a custom is inflicted, above all, on the community: this

punishment is a supernatural punishment, the manifestations and limits of

which are so difficult to understand, and are investigated with such

superstitious fear. The community can compel any one member of it to make

good, either to an individual or to the community itself, any ill

consequences which may have followed upon such a member’s action. It can

also call down a sort of vengeance upon the head of the individual by

endeavouring to show that, as the result of his action, a storm of divine

anger has burst over the community,—but, above all, it regards the guilt

of the individual more particularly as _its own_ guilt, and bears the

punishment of the isolated individual as its own punishment—“Morals,” they

bewail in their innermost heart, “morals have grown lax, if such deeds as

these are possible.” And every individual action, every individual mode of

thinking, causes dread. It is impossible to determine how much the more

select, rare, and original minds must have suffered in the course of time

by being considered as evil and dangerous, _yea, because they even looked

upon themselves as such_. Under the dominating influence of the morality

of custom, originality of every kind came to acquire a bad conscience; and

even now the sky of the best minds seems to be more overcast by this

thought than it need be.

10.

COUNTER-MOTION BETWEEN THE SENSE OF MORALITY AND THE SENSE OF

CAUSALITY.—As the sense of causality increases, so does the extent of the

domain of morality decrease: for every time one has been able to grasp the

necessary effects, and to conceive them as distinct from all incidentals

and chance possibilities (_post hoc_), one has, at the same time,

destroyed an enormous number of _imaginary causalities_, which had

hitherto been believed in as the basis of morals—the real world is much

smaller than the world of our imagination—and each time also one casts

away a certain amount of one’s anxiousness and coercion, and some of our

reverence for the authority of custom is lost: morality in general

undergoes a diminution. He who, on the other hand, wishes to increase it

must know how to prevent results from becoming controllable.

11.

MORALS AND MEDICINES OF THE PEOPLE.—Every one is continuously occupied in

bringing more or less influence to bear upon the morals which prevail in a

community: most of the people bring forward example after example to show

the _alleged relationship between cause and effect_, guilt and punishment,

thus upholding it as well founded and adding to the belief in it. A few

make new observations upon the actions and their consequences, drawing

conclusions therefrom and laying down laws; a smaller number raise

objections and allow belief in these things to become weakened.—But they

are all alike in the crude and _unscientific_ manner in which they set

about their work: if it is a question of objections to a law, or examples

or observations of it, or of its proof, confirmation, expression or

refutation, we always find the material and method entirely valueless, as

valueless as the material and form of all popular medicine. Popular

medicines and popular morals are closely related, and should not be

considered and valued, as is still customary, in so different a way: both

are most dangerous and make-believe sciences.

12.

CONSEQUENCE AS ADJUVANT CAUSE.—Formerly the consequences of an action were

considered, not as the result of that action, but a voluntary

adjuvant—_i.e._ on the part of God. Can a greater confusion be imagined?

Entirely different practices and means have to be brought into use for

actions and effects!

13.

TOWARDS THE NEW EDUCATION OF MANKIND.—Help us, all ye who are

well-disposed and willing to assist, lend your aid in the endeavour to do

away with that conception of punishment which has swept over the whole

world! No weed more harmful than this! It is not only to the consequences

of our actions that this conception has been applied—and how horrible and

senseless it is to confuse cause and effect with cause and punishment!—but

worse has followed: the pure accidentality of events has been robbed of

its innocence by this execrable manner of interpreting conception of

punishment. Yea, they have even pushed their folly to such extremes that

they would have us look upon existence itself as a punishment—from which

it would appear that the education of mankind had hitherto been confided

to cranky gaolers and hangmen.

14.

THE SIGNIFICATION OF MADNESS IN THE HISTORY OF MORALITY.—If, despite that

formidable pressure of the “morality of custom,” under which all human

communities lived—thousands of years before our own era, and during our

own era up to the present day (we ourselves are dwelling in the small

world of exceptions, and, as it were, in an evil zone):—if, I say, in

spite of all this, new and divergent ideas, valuations, and impulses have

made their appearance time after time, this state of things has been

brought about only with the assistance of a dreadful associate: it was

insanity almost everywhere that paved the way for the new thought and cast

off the spell of an old custom and superstition. Do ye understand why this

had to be done through insanity? by something which is in both voice and

appearance as horrifying and incalculable as the demoniac whims of wind

and sea, and consequently calling for like dread and respect? by something

bearing upon it the signs of entire lack of consciousness as clearly as

the convulsions and foam of the epileptic, which appeared to typify the

insane person as the mask and speaking-trumpet of some divine being? by

something that inspired even the bearer of the new thought with awe and

fear of himself, and that, suppressing all remorse, drove him on to become

its prophet and martyr?—Well, in our own time, we continually hear the

statement reiterated that genius is tinctured with madness instead of good

sense. Men of earlier ages were far more inclined to believe that,

wherever traces of insanity showed themselves, a certain proportion of

genius and wisdom was likewise present—something “divine,” as they

whispered to one another. More than this, they expressed their opinions on

the point with sufficient emphasis. “All the greatest benefits of Greece

have sprung from madness,” said Plato, setting on record the opinion of

the entire ancient world. Let us take a step further: all those superior

men, who felt themselves irresistibly urged on to throw off the yoke of

some morality or other, had no other resource—_if they were not really

mad_—than to feign madness, or actually to become insane. And this holds

good for innovators in every department of life, and not only in religion

and politics. Even the reformer of the poetic metre was forced to justify

himself by means of madness. (Thus even down to gentler ages madness

remained a kind of convention in poets, of which Solon, for instance, took

advantage when urging the Athenians to reconquer Salamis.)—“How can one

make one’s self mad when one is not mad and dare not feign to be so?”

Almost all the eminent men of antiquity have given themselves up to this

dreadful mode of reasoning: a secret doctrine of artifices and dietetic

jugglery grew up around this subject and was handed down from generation

to generation, together with the feeling of the innocence, even sanctity,

of such plans and meditations. The means of becoming a medicine-man among

the Indians, a saint among Christians of the Middle Ages, an angecok among

Greenlanders, a Pagee among Brazilians, are the same in essence: senseless

fasting, continual abstention from sexual intercourse, isolation in a

wilderness, ascending a mountain or a pillar, “sitting on an aged willow

that looks out upon a lake,” and thinking of absolutely nothing but what

may give rise to ecstasy or mental derangements.

Who would dare to glance at the desert of the bitterest and most

superfluous agonies of spirit, in which probably the most productive men

of all ages have pined away? Who could listen to the sighs of those lonely

and troubled minds: “O ye heavenly powers, grant me madness! Madness, that

I at length may believe in myself! Vouchsafe delirium and convulsions,

sudden flashes of light and periods of darkness; frighten me with such

shivering and feverishness as no mortal ever experienced before, with

clanging noises and haunting spectres; let me growl and whine and creep

about like a beast, if only I can come to believe in myself! I am devoured

by doubt. I have slain the law, and I now dread the law as a living person

dreads a corpse. If I am not _above_ the law, I am the most abandoned of

wretches. Whence cometh this new spirit that dwelleth within me but from

you? Prove to me, then, that I am one of you—nothing but madness will

prove it to me.” And only too often does such a fervour attain its object:

at the very time when Christianity was giving the greatest proof of its

fertility in the production of saints and martyrs, believing that it was

thus proving itself, Jerusalem contained large lunatic asylums for

shipwrecked saints, for those whose last spark of good sense had been

quenched by the floods of insanity.

15.

THE MOST ANCIENT MEANS OF SOLACE.—First stage: In every misfortune or

discomfort man sees something for which he must make somebody else suffer,

no matter who—in this way he finds out the amount of power still remaining

to him; and this consoles him. Second stage: In every misfortune or

discomfort, man sees a punishment, _i.e._ an expiation of guilt and the

means by which he may get rid of the malicious enchantment of a real or

apparent wrong. When he perceives the _advantage_ which misfortune bring

with it, he believes he need no longer make another person suffer for

it—he gives up this kind of satisfaction, because he now has another.

16.

FIRST PRINCIPLE OF CIVILISATION.—Among savage tribes there is a certain

category of customs which appear to aim at nothing but custom. They

therefore lay down strict, and, on the whole, superfluous regulations

(_e.g._ the rules of the Kamchadales, which forbid snow to be scraped off

the boots with a knife, coal to be stuck on the point of a knife, or a

piece of iron to be put into the fire—and death to be the portion of every

one who shall act contrariwise!) Yet these laws serve to keep people

continually reminded of the custom, and the imperative necessity on their

parts to conform to it: and all this in support of the great principle

which stands at the beginning of all civilisation: any custom is better

than none.

17.

GOODNESS AND MALIGNITY.—At first men imposed their own personalities on

Nature: everywhere they saw themselves and their like, _i.e._ their own

evil and capricious temperaments, hidden, as it were, behind clouds,

thunder-storms, wild beasts, trees, and plants: it was then that they

declared Nature was evil. Afterwards there came a time, that of Rousseau,

when they sought to distinguish themselves from Nature: they were so tired

of each other that they wished to have separate little hiding-places where

man and his misery could not penetrate: then they invented “nature is

good.”

18.

THE MORALITY OF VOLUNTARY SUFFERING.—What is the highest enjoyment for men

living in a state of war in a small community, the existence of which is

continually threatened, and the morality of which is the strictest

possible? _i.e._ for souls which are vigorous, vindictive, malicious, full

of suspicion, ready to face the direst events, hardened by privation and

morality? The enjoyment of cruelty: just as, in such souls and in such

circumstances, it would be regarded as a virtue to be ingenious and

insatiable in cruelty. Such a community would find its delight in

performing cruel deeds, casting aside, for once, the gloom of constant

anxiety and precaution. Cruelty is one of the most ancient enjoyments at

their festivities. As a consequence it is believed that the gods likewise

are pleased by the sight of cruelty and rejoice at it—and in this way the

belief is spread that _voluntary suffering_, self-chosen martyrdom, has a

high signification and value of its own. In the community custom gradually

brings about a practice in conformity with this belief: henceforward

people become more suspicious of all exuberant well-being, and more

confident as they find themselves in a state of great pain; they think

that the gods may be unfavourable to them on account of happiness, and

favourable on account of pain—not compassionate! For compassion is looked

upon with contempt, and unworthy of a strong and awe-inspiring soul—but

agreeable to them, because the sight of human suffering put these gods

into good humour and makes them feel powerful, and a cruel mind revels in

the sensation of power. It was thus that the “most moral man” of the

community was considered as such by virtue of his frequent suffering,

privation, laborious existence, and cruel mortification—not, to repeat it

again and again, as a means of discipline or self-control or a desire for

individual happiness—but a a virtue which renders the evil gods

well-disposed towards the community, a virtue which continually wafts up

to them the odour of an expiatory sacrifice. All those intellectual

leaders of the nations who reached the point of being able to stir up the

sluggish though prolific mire of their customs had to possess this factor

of voluntary martyrdom as well as insanity in order to obtain

belief—especially, and above all, as is always the case, belief in

themselves! The more their minds followed new paths, and were consequently

tormented by pricks of conscience, the more cruelly they battled against

their own flesh, their own desires, and their own health—as if they were

offering the gods a compensation in pleasure, lest these gods should wax

wroth at the neglect of ancient customs and the setting up of new aims.

Let no one be too hasty in thinking that we have now entirely freed

ourselves from such a logic of feeling! Let the most heroic souls among us

question themselves on this very point. The least step forward in the

domain of free thought and individual life has been achieved in all ages

to the accompaniment of physical and intellectual tortures: and not only

the mere step forward, no! but every form of movement and change has

rendered necessary innumerable martyrs, throughout the entire course of

thousands of years which sought their paths and laid down their

foundation-stones, years, however, which we do not think of when we speak

about “world-history,” that ridiculously small division of mankind’s

existence. And even in this so-called world-history, which in the main is

merely a great deal of noise about the latest novelties, there is no more

important theme than the old, old tragedy of the martyrs _who tried to

move the mire_. Nothing has been more dearly bought than the minute

portion of human reason and feeling of liberty upon which we now pride

ourselves. But it is this very pride which makes it almost impossible for

us to-day to be conscious of that enormous lapse of time, preceding the

period of “world-history” when “morality of custom” held the field, and to

consider this lapse of time as _the real and decisive epoch that

established the character of mankind_: an epoch when suffering was

considered as a virtue, cruelty as a virtue, hypocrisy as a virtue,

revenge as a virtue, and the denial of the reason as a virtue, whereas, on

the other hand, well-being was regarded as a danger, longing for knowledge

as a danger, peace as a danger, compassion as a danger: an epoch when

being pitied was looked upon as an insult, work as an insult, madness as a

divine attribute, and every kind of change as immoral and pregnant with

ruin! You imagine that all this has changed, and that humanity must

likewise have changed its character? Oh, ye poor psychologists, learn to

know yourselves better!

19.

MORALITY AND STUPEFACTION.—Custom represents the experiences of men of

earlier times in regard to what they considered as useful and harmful; but

the _feeling of custom_ (morality) does not relate to these feelings as

such, but to the age, the sanctity, and the unquestioned authority of the

custom. Hence this feeling hinders our acquiring new experiences and

amending morals: _i.e._ morality is opposed to the formation of new and

better morals: it stupefies.

20.

FREE-DOERS AND FREE-THINKERS.—Compared with free-thinkers, free-doers are

at a disadvantage, because it is evident that men suffer more from the

consequences of actions than of thoughts. If we remember, however, that

both seek their own satisfaction, and that free-thinkers have already

found their satisfaction in reflection upon and utterance of forbidden

things, there is no difference in the motives; but in respect of the

consequences the issue will be decided against the free-thinker, provided

that it be not judged from the most superficial and vulgar external

appearance, _i.e._ not as every one would judge it. We must make up for a

good deal of the calumny with which men have covered all those who have,

by their actions, broken away from the authority of some custom—they are

generally called criminals. Every one who has hitherto overthrown a law of

established morality has always at first been considered as a _wicked

man_: but when it was afterwards found impossible to re-establish the law,

and people gradually became accustomed to the change, the epithet was

changed by slow degrees. History deals almost exclusively with these

_wicked men_, who later on came to be recognised as _good men_.

21.

“FULFILMENT OF THE LAW.”—In cases where the observance of a moral precept

has led to different consequence from that expected and promised, and does

not bestow upon the moral man the happiness he had hoped for, but leads

rather to misfortune and misery, the conscientious and timid man has

always his excuse ready: “Something was lacking in the proper _carrying

out_ of the law.” If the worst comes to the worst, a deeply-suffering and

down-trodden humanity will even decree: “It is impossible to carry out the

precept faithfully: we are too weak and sinful, and, in the depths of our

soul, incapable of morality: consequently we have no claim to happiness

and success. Moral precepts and promises have been given for better beings

than ourselves.”

22.

WORKS AND FAITH.—Protestant teachers are still spreading the fundamental

error that faith only is of consequence, and that works must follow

naturally upon faith. This doctrine is certainly not true, but it is so

seductive in appearance that it has succeeded in fascinating quite other

intellects than that of Luther (_e.g._ the minds of Socrates and Plato):

though the plain evidence and experience of our daily life prove the

contrary. The most assured knowledge and faith cannot give us either the

strength or the dexterity required for action, or the practice in that

subtle and complicated mechanism which is a prerequisite for anything to

be changed from an idea into action. Then, I say, let us first and

foremost have works! and this means practice! practice! practice! The

necessary faith will come later—be certain of that!

23.

IN WHAT RESPECT WE ARE MOST SUBTLE.—By the fact that, for thousands of

years, _things_ (nature, tools, property of all kinds) were thought to be

alive and to possess souls, and able to hinder and interfere with the

designs of man, the feeling of impotence among men has become greater and

more frequent than it need have been: for one had to secure one’s things

like men and beasts, by means of force, compulsion, flattery, treaties,

sacrifices—and it is here that we may find the origin of the greater

number of superstitious customs, _i.e._ of an important, _perhaps

paramount_, and nevertheless wasted and useless division of mankind’s

activity!—But since the feeling of impotence and fear was so strong, and

for such a length of time in a state of constant stimulation, the feeling

of _power_ in man has been developed in so subtle a manner that, in this

respect, he can compare favourably with the most delicately-adjusted

balance. This feeling has become his strongest propensity: and the means

he discovered for creating it form almost the entire history of culture.

24.

THE PROOF OF A PRECEPT.—The worth or worthlessness of a recipe—that for

baking bread, for example—is proved, generally speaking, by the result

expected coming to pass or not, provided, of course, that the directions

given have been carefully followed. The case is different, however, when

we come to deal with moral precepts, for here the results cannot be

ascertained, interpreted, and divined. These precepts, indeed, are based

upon hypotheses of but little scientific value, the proof or refutation of

which by means of results is impossible:—but in former ages, when all

science was crude and primitive, and when a matter was _taken for granted_

on the smallest evidence, then the worth or worthlessness of a moral

recipe was determined as we now determine any other precept: by reference

to the results. If the natives of Alaska believe in a command which says:

“Thou shalt not throw a bone into the fire or give it to a dog,” this will

be proved by the warning: “If thou dost thou wilt have no luck when

hunting.” Yet, in one sense or another, it almost invariably happens that

one has “no luck when hunting.” It is no easy matter to _refute_ the worth

of the precept in this way, the more so as it is the community, and not

the individual, which is regarded as the bearer of the punishment; and,

again, some occurrence is almost certain to happen which seems to prove

the rule.

25.

CUSTOMS AND BEAUTY.—In justice to custom it must not be overlooked that,

in the case of all those who conform to it whole-heartedly from the very

start, the organs of attack and defence, both physical and intellectual,

begin to waste away; _i.e._ these individuals gradually become more

beautiful! For it is the exercise of these organs and their corresponding

feelings that brings about ugliness and helps to preserve it. It is for

this reason that the old baboon is uglier than the young one, and that the

young female baboon most closely resembles man, and is hence the most

handsome.—Let us draw from this our own conclusions as to the origin of

female beauty!

26.

ANIMALS AND MORALS.—The rules insisted upon in polite society, such, for

example, as the avoidance of everything ridiculous, fantastic,

presumptuous; the suppression of one’s virtues just as much as of one’s

most violent desires, the instant bringing of one’s self down to the

general level, submitting one’s self to etiquette and self-depreciation:

all this, generally speaking, is to be found, as a social morality, even

in the lowest scale of the animal world—and it is only in this low scale

that we see the innermost plan of all these amiable precautionary

regulations: one wishes to escape from one’s pursuers and to be aided in

the search for plunder. Hence animals learn to control and to disguise

themselves to such an extent that some of them can even adapt the colour

of their bodies to that of their surroundings (by means of what is known

as the “chromatic function”). Others can simulate death, or adopt the

forms and colours of other animals, or of sand, leaves, moss, or fungi

(known to English naturalists as “mimicry”).

It is in this way that an individual conceals himself behind the

universality of the generic term “man” or “society,” or adapts and

attaches himself to princes, castes, political parties, current opinions

of the time, or his surroundings: and we may easily find the animal

equivalent of all those subtle means of making ourselves happy, thankful,

powerful, and fascinating. Even that sense of truth, which is at bottom

merely the sense of security, is possessed by man in common with the

animals: we do not wish to be deceived by others or by ourselves; we hear

with some suspicion the promptings of our own passions, we control

ourselves and remain on the watch against ourselves. Now, the animal does

all this as well as man; and in the animal likewise self-control

originates in the sense of reality (prudence). In the same way, the animal

observes the effects it exercises on the imagination of other beasts: it

thus learns to view itself from their position, to consider itself

“objectively”; it has its own degree of self-knowledge. The animal judges

the movements of its friends and foes, it learns their peculiarities by

heart and acts accordingly: it gives up, once and for all, the struggle

against individual animals of certain species, and it likewise recognises,

in the approach of certain varieties, whether their intentions are

agreeable and peaceful. The beginnings of justice, like those of wisdom—in

short, everything which we know as the _Socratic virtues_—are of an

_animal_ nature: a consequence of those instincts which teach us to search

for food and to avoid our enemies. If we remember that the higher man has

merely raised and refined himself in the _quality_ of his food and in the

conception of what is contrary to his nature, it may not be going too far

to describe the entire moral phenomenon as of an animal origin.

27.

THE VALUE OF THE BELIEF IN SUPERHUMAN PASSIONS.—The institution of

marriage stubbornly upholds the belief that love, although a passion, is

nevertheless capable of duration as such, yea, that lasting, lifelong love

may be taken as a general rule. By means of the tenacity of a noble

belief, in spite of such frequent and almost customary refutations—thereby

becoming a _pia fraus_—marriage has elevated love to a higher rank. Every

institution which has conceded to a passion the _belief in the duration of

the latter_, and responsibility for this duration, in spite of the nature

of the passion itself, has raised the passion to a higher level: and he

who is thenceforth seized with such a passion does not, as formerly, think

himself lowered in the estimation of others or brought into danger on that

account, but on the contrary believes himself to be raised, both in the

opinion of himself and of his equals. Let us recall institutions and

customs which, out of the fiery devotion of a moment, have created eternal

fidelity; out of the pleasure of anger, eternal vengeance; out of despair,

eternal mourning; out of a single hasty word, eternal obligation. A great

deal of hypocrisy and falsehood came into the world as the result of such

transformations; but each time, too, at the cost of such disadvantages, a

new and _superhuman_ conception which elevates mankind.

28.

STATE OF MIND AS ARGUMENT.—Whence arises within us a cheerful readiness

for action?—such is the question which has greatly occupied the attention

of men. The most ancient answer, and one which we still hear, is: God is

the cause; in this way He gives us to understand that He approves of our

actions. When, in former ages, people consulted the oracles, they did so

that they might return home strengthened by this cheerful readiness; and

every one answered the doubts which came to him, if alternative actions

suggested themselves, by saying: “I shall do whatever brings about that

feeling.” They did not decide, in other words, for what was most

reasonable, but upon some plan the conception of which imbued the soul

with courage and hope. A cheerful outlook was placed in the scales as an

argument and proved to be heavier than reasonableness; for the state of

mind was interpreted in a superstitious manner as the action of a god who

promises success; and who, by this argument, lets his reason speak as the

highest reasonableness. Now, let the consequences of such a prejudice be

considered when shrewd men, thirsting for power, availed themselves of

it—and still do so! “Bring about the right state of mind!”—in this way you

can do without all arguments and overcome every objection!

29.

ACTORS OF VIRTUE AND SIN.—Among the ancients who became celebrated for

their virtue there were many, it would seem, _who acted to themselves_,

especially the Greeks, who, being actors by nature, must have acted quite

unconsciously, seeing no reason why they should not do so. In addition,

every one was striving to outdo some one else’s virtue with his own, so

why should they not have made use of every artifice to show off their

virtues, especially among themselves, if only for the sake of practice! Of

what use was a virtue which one could not display, and which did not know

how to display itself!—Christianity put an end to the career of these

actors of virtue; instead it devised the disgusting ostentation and

parading of sins: it brought into the world a state of _mendacious

sinfulness_ (even at the present day this is considered as _bon ton_ among

orthodox Christians).

30.

REFINED CRUELTY AS VIRTUE.—Here we have a morality which is based entirely

upon our thirst for distinction—do not therefore entertain too high an

opinion of it! Indeed, we may well ask what kind of an impulse it is, and

what is its fundamental signification? It is sought, by our appearance, to

grieve our neighbour, to arouse his envy, and to awaken his feelings of

impotence and degradation; we endeavour to make him taste the bitterness

of his fate by dropping a little of _our_ honey on his tongue, and, while

conferring this supposed benefit on him, looking sharply and triumphantly

into his eyes.

Behold such a man, now become humble, and perfect in his humility—and seek

those for whom, through his humility, he has for a long time been

preparing a torture; for you are sure to find them! Here is another man

who shows mercy towards animals, and is admired for doing so—but there are

certain people on whom he wishes to vent his cruelty by this very means.

Look at that great artist: the pleasure he enjoyed beforehand in

conceiving the envy of the rivals he had outstripped, refused to let his

powers lie dormant until he became a great man—how many bitter moments in

the souls of other men has he asked for as payment for his own greatness!

The nun’s chastity: with what threatening eyes she looks into the faces of

other women who live differently from her! what a vindictive joy shines in

those eyes! The theme is short, and its variations, though they might well

be innumerable, could not easily become tiresome—for it is still too

paradoxical a novelty, and almost a painful one, to affirm that the

morality of distinction is nothing, at bottom, but joy in refined cruelty.

When I say “at bottom,” I mean here, every time in the first generation.

For, when the habit of some distinguished action becomes _hereditary_, its

root, so to speak, is not transmitted, but only its fruits (for only

feelings, and not thoughts, can become hereditary): and, if we presuppose

that this root is not reintroduced by education, in the second generation

the joy in the cruelty is no longer felt: but only pleasure in the habit

as such. _This_ joy, however, is the first degree of the “good.”

31.

PRIDE IN SPIRIT.—The pride of man, which strives to oppose the theory of

our own descent from animals and establishes a wide gulf between nature

and man himself—this pride is founded upon a prejudice as to what the mind

is; and this prejudice is relatively recent. In the long prehistorical

period of humanity it was supposed that the mind was everywhere, and men

did not look upon it as a particular characteristic of their own. Since,

on the contrary, everything spiritual (including all impulses,

maliciousness, and inclinations) was regarded as common property, and

consequently accessible to everybody, primitive mankind was not ashamed of

being descended from animals or trees (the noble races thought themselves

honoured by such legends), and saw in the spiritual that which unites us

with nature, and not that which severs us from her. Thus man was brought

up in modesty—and this likewise was the result of a prejudice.

32.

THE BRAKE.—To suffer morally, and then to learn afterwards that this kind

of suffering was founded upon an error, shocks us. For there is a unique

consolation in acknowledging, by our suffering, a “deeper world of truth”

than any other world, and we would much rather suffer and feel ourselves

above reality by doing so (through the feeling that, in this way, we

approach nearer to that “deeper world of truth”), than live without

suffering and hence without this feeling of the sublime. Thus it is pride,

and the habitual fashion of satisfying it, which opposes this new

interpretation of morality. What power, then, must we bring into operation

to get rid of this brake? Greater pride? A new pride?

33.

THE CONTEMPT OF CAUSES, CONSEQUENCES, AND REALITY.—Those unfortunate

occurrences which take place at times in the community, such as sudden

storms, bad harvests, or plagues, lead members of the community to suspect

that offences against custom have been committed, or that new customs must

be invented to appease a new demoniac power and caprice. Suspicion and

reasoning of this kind, however, evade an inquiry into the real and

natural causes, and take the demoniac cause for granted. This is one

source of the hereditary perversion of the human intellect; and the other

one follows in its train, for, proceeding on the same principle, people

paid much less attention to the real and natural consequences of an action

than to the supernatural consequences (the so-called punishments and

mercies of the Divinity). It is commanded, for instance, that certain

baths are to be taken at certain times: and the baths are taken, not for

the sake of cleanliness, but because the command has been made. We are not

taught to avoid the real consequences of dirt, but merely the supposed

displeasure of the gods because a bath has been omitted. Under the

pressure of superstitious fear, people began to suspect that these

ablutions were of much greater importance than they seemed; they ascribed

inner and supplementary meanings to them, gradually lost their sense of

and pleasure in reality, and finally reality is considered as valuable

_only to the extent that it is a symbol._ Hence a man who is under the

influence of the morality of custom comes to despise causes first of all,

secondly consequences, and thirdly reality, and weaves all his higher

feelings (reverence, sublimity, pride, gratitude, love) _into an imaginary

world_: the so-called higher world. And even to-day we can see the

consequences of this: wherever, and in whatever fashion, man’s feelings

are raised, that imaginary world is in evidence. It is sad to have to say

it; but for the time being _all higher sentiments_ must be looked upon

with suspicion by the man of science, to so great an extent are they

intermingled with illusion and extravagance. Not that they need

necessarily be suspected _per se_ and for ever; but there is no doubt

that, of all the gradual _purifications_ which await humanity, the

purification of the higher feelings will be one of the slowest.

34.

MORAL FEELINGS AND CONCEPTIONS.—It is clear that moral feelings are

transmitted in such a way that children perceive in adults violent

predilections and aversions for certain actions, and then, like born apes,

imitate such likes and dislikes. Later on in life, when they are

thoroughly permeated by these acquired and well-practised feelings, they

think it a matter of propriety and decorum to provide a kind of

justification for these predilections and aversions. These

“justifications,” however, are in no way connected with the origin or the

degree of the feeling: people simply accommodate themselves to the rule

that, as rational beings, they must give reasons for their pros and cons,

reasons which must be assignable and acceptable into the bargain. Up to

this extent the history of the moral feelings is entirely different from

the history of moral conceptions. The first-mentioned are powerful

_before_ the action, and the latter especially after it, in view of the

necessity for making one’s self clear in regard to them.

35.

FEELINGS AND THEIR DESCENT FROM JUDGMENTS.—“Trust in your feelings!” But

feelings comprise nothing final, original; feelings are based upon the

judgments and valuations which are transmitted to us in the shape of

feelings (inclinations, dislikes). The inspiration which springs from a

feeling is the grandchild of a judgment—often an erroneous judgment!—and

certainly not one’s own judgment! Trusting in our feelings simply means

obeying our grandfather and grandmother more than the gods within

_ourselves_: our reason and experience.

36.

A FOOLISH PIETY, WITH _ARRIÈRE-PENSÉES_.—What! the inventors of ancient

civilisations, the first makers of tools and tape lines, the first

builders of vehicles, ships, and houses, the first observers of the laws

of the heavens and the multiplication tables—is it contended that they

were entirely different from the inventors and observers of our own time,

and superior to them? And that the first slow steps forward were of a

value which has not been equalled by the discoveries we have made with all

our travels and circumnavigations of the earth? It is the voice of

prejudice that speaks thus, and argues in this way to depreciate the

importance of the modern mind. And yet it is plain to be seen that, in

former times, hazard was the greatest of all discoverers and observers and

the benevolent prompter of these ingenious ancients, and that, in the case

of the most insignificant invention now made, a greater intellect,

discipline, and scientific imagination are required than formerly existed

throughout long ages.

37.

WRONG CONCLUSIONS FROM USEFULNESS.—When we have demonstrated the highest

utility of a thing, we have nevertheless made no progress towards an

explanation of its origin; in other words, we can never explain, by mere

utility, the necessity of existence. But precisely the contrary opinion

has been maintained up to the present time, even in the domain of the most

exact science. In astronomy, for example, have we not heard it stated that

the (supposed) usefulness of the system of satellites—(replacing the light

which is diminished in intensity by the greater distance of the sun, in

order that the inhabitants of the various celestial bodies should not want

for light)—was the final object of this system and explained its origin?

Which may remind us of the conclusions of Christopher Columbus The earth

has been created for man, ergo, if there are countries, they must be

inhabited. “Is it probable that the sun would throw his rays on nothing,

and that the nocturnal vigils of the stars should be wasted upon

untravelled seas and unpeopled countries?”

38.

IMPULSES TRANSFORMED BY MORAL JUDGMENTS.—The same impulse, under the

impression of the blame cast upon it by custom, develops into the painful

feeling of cowardice, or else the pleasurable feeling of _humility_, in

case a morality, like that of Christianity, has taken it to its heart and

called it _good_. In other words, this instinct will fall under the

influence of either a good conscience or a bad one! In itself, _like every

instinct_, it does not possess either this or indeed any other moral

character and name, or even a definite accompanying feeling of pleasure or

displeasure; it does not acquire all these qualities as its second nature

until it comes into contact with impulses which have already been baptized

as good and evil, or has been recognised as the attribute of beings

already weighed and valued by the people from a moral point of view. Thus

the ancient conception of envy differed entirely from ours. Hesiod reckons

it among the qualities of the _good_, benevolent Eris, and it was not

considered as offensive to attribute some kind of envy even to the gods.

This is easy to understand in a state of things inspired mainly by

emulation, but emulation was looked upon as good, and valued accordingly.

The Greeks were likewise different from us in the value they set upon

hope: they conceived it as blind and deceitful. Hesiod in one of his poems

has made a strong reference to it—a reference so strong, indeed, that no

modern commentator has quite understood it; for it runs contrary to the

modern mind, which has learnt from Christianity to look upon hope as a

virtue. Among the Greeks, on the other hand, the portal leading to a

knowledge of the future seemed only partly closed, and, in innumerable

instances, it was impressed upon them as a religious obligation to inquire

into the future, in those cases where we remain satisfied with hope. It

thus came about that the Greeks, thanks to their oracles and seers, held

hope in small esteem, and even lowered it to the level of an evil and a

danger.

The Jews, again, took a different view of anger from that held by us, and

sanctified it: hence they have placed the sombre majesty of the wrathful

man at an elevation so high that a European cannot conceive it. They

moulded their wrathful and holy Jehovah after the images of their wrathful

and holy prophets. Compared with them, all the Europeans who have

exhibited the greatest wrath are, so to speak, only second-hand creatures.

39.

THE PREJUDICE CONCERNING “PURE SPIRIT.”—Wherever the doctrine of _pure

spirituality_ has prevailed, its excesses have resulted in the destruction

of the tone of the nerves: it taught that the body should be despised,

neglected, or tormented, and that, on account of his impulses, man himself

should be tortured and regarded with contempt. It gave rise to gloomy,

strained, and downcast souls—who, besides, thought they knew the reason of

their misery and how it might possibly be relieved! “It _must_ be in the

body! For it still _thrives_ too well!”—such was their conclusion, whilst

the fact was that the body, through its agonies, protested time after time

against this never-ending mockery. Finally, a universal and chronic

hyper-nervousness seized upon those virtuous representatives of the pure

spirit: they learned to recognise joy only in the shape of ecstasies and

other preliminary symptoms of insanity—and their system reached its climax

when it came to look upon ecstasy as the highest aim of life, and as the

standard by which all earthly things must be _condemned_.

40.

MEDITATIONS UPON OBSERVANCES.—Numerous moral precepts, carelessly drawn

from a single event, quickly became incomprehensible; it was as difficult

a matter to deduce their intentions with any degree of certainty as it was

to recognise the punishment which was to follow the breaking of the rule.

Doubts were even held regarding the order of the ceremonies; but, while

people guessed at random about such matters, the object of their

investigations increased in importance, it was precisely the greatest

absurdity of an observance that developed into a holy of holies. Let us

not think too little of the energy wasted by man in this regard throughout

thousands of years, and least of all of the effects of such _meditations

upon observances_! Here we find ourselves on the wide training-ground of

the intellect—not only do religions develop and continue to increase

within its boundaries: but here also is the venerable, though dreadful,

primeval world of science; here grow up the poet, the thinker, the

physician, the lawgiver. The dread of the unintelligible, which, in an

ambiguous fashion, demanded ceremonies from us, gradually assumed the

charm of the intricate, and where man could not unravel he learnt to

create.

41.

TO DETERMINE THE VALUE OF THE _VITA CONTEMPLATIVA_.—Let us not forget, as

men leading a contemplative life, what kind of evil and misfortunes have

overtaken the men of the _vita activa_ as the result of contemplation—in

short, what sort of contra-account the _vita activa_ has to offer _us_, if

we exhibit too much boastfulness before it with respect to our good deeds.

It would show us, in the first place, those so-called religious natures,

who predominate among the lovers of contemplation and consequently

represent their commonest type. They have at all times acted in such a

manner as to render life difficult to practical men, and tried to make

them disgusted with it, if possible: to darken the sky, to obliterate the

sun, to cast suspicion upon joy, to depreciate hope, to paralyse the

active hand—all this they knew how to do, just as, for miserable times and

feelings, they had their consolations, alms, blessings, and benedictions.

In the second place, it can show us the artists, a species of men leading

the _vita contemplativa_, rarer than the religious element, but still

often to be met with. As beings, these people are usually intolerable,

capricious, jealous, violent, quarrelsome: this, however, must be deduced

from the joyous and exalting effects of their works.

Thirdly, we have the philosophers, men who unite religious and artistic

qualities, combined, however, with a third element, namely, dialectics and

the love of controversy. They are the authors of evil in the same sense as

the religious men and artists, in addition to which they have wearied many

of their fellow-men with their passion for dialectics, though their number

has always been very small. Fourthly, the thinkers and scientific workers.

They but rarely strove after effects, and contented themselves with

silently sticking to their own groove. Thus they brought about little envy

and discomfort, and often, as objects of mockery and derision, they

served, without wishing to do so, to make life easier for the men of the

_vita activa_. Lastly, science ended by becoming of much advantage to all;

and if, _on account of this utility_, many of the men who were destined

for the _vita activa_ are now slowly making their way along the road to

science in the sweat of their brow, and not without brain-racking and

maledictions, this is not the fault of the crowd of thinkers and

scientific workers: it is “self-wrought pain.”(3)

42.

ORIGIN OF THE _VITA CONTEMPLATIVA_.—During barbarous ages, when

pessimistic judgments held sway over men and the world, the individual, in

the consciousness of his full power, always endeavoured to act in

conformity with such judgments, that is to say, he put his ideas into

action by means of hunting, robbery, surprise attacks, brutality, and

murder: including the weaker forms of such acts, as far as they are

tolerated within the community. When his strength declines, however, and

he feels tired, ill, melancholy, or satiated—consequently becoming

temporarily void of wishes or desires—he is a relatively better man, that

is to say, less dangerous; and his pessimistic ideas will now discharge

themselves only in words and reflections—upon his companions, for example,

or his wife, his life, his gods,—his judgments will be _evil_ ones. In

this frame of mind he develops into a thinker and prophet, or he adds to

his superstitions and invents new observances, or mocks his enemies.

Whatever he may devise, however, all the productions of his brain will

necessarily reflect his frame of mind, such as the increase of fear and

weariness, and the lower value he attributes to action and enjoyment. The

substance of these productions must correspond to the substance of these

poetic, thoughtful, and priestly moods; the evil judgment must be supreme.

In later years, all those who acted continuously as this man did in those

special circumstances—_i.e._ those who gave out pessimistic judgments, and

lived a melancholy life, poor in action—were called poets, thinkers,

priests, or “medicine-men.” The general body of men would have liked to

disregard such people, because they were not active enough, and to turn

them out of the community; but there was a certain risk in doing so: these

inactive men had found out and were following the tracks of superstition

and divine power, and no one doubted that they had unknown means of power

at their disposal. This was the value which was set upon _the ancient race

of contemplative natures_—despised as they were in just the same degree as

they were not dreaded! In such a masked form, in such an ambiguous aspect,

with an evil heart and often with a troubled head, did Contemplation make

its first appearance on earth: both weak and terrible at the same time,

despised in secret, and covered in public with every mark of superstitious

veneration. Here, as always, we must say: _pudenda origo_!

43.

HOW MANY FORCES MUST NOW BE UNITED IN A THINKER.—To rise superior to

considerations of the senses, to raise one’s self to abstract

contemplations: this is what was formerly regarded as _elevation_; but now

it is not practicable for us to share the same feelings. Luxuriating in

the most shadowy images of words and things; playing with those invisible,

inaudible, imperceptible beings, was considered as existence in another

and _higher_ world, a world that sprang from the deep contempt felt for

the world which was perceptible to the senses, this seductive and wicked

world of ours. “These _abstracta_ no longer mislead us, but they may lead

us”—with such words men soared aloft. It was not the _substance_ of these

intellectual sports, but the sports themselves, which was looked upon as

“the higher thing” in the primeval ages of science. Hence we have Plato’s

admiration for dialectics, and his enthusiastic belief in the necessary

relationship of dialectics to the good man who has risen superior to the

considerations of his senses. It was not only knowledge that was

discovered little by little, but also the different means of acquiring it,

the conditions and operations which precede knowledge in man. And it

always seemed as if the newly-discovered operation or the

newly-experienced condition were not a means of acquiring knowledge, but

was even the substance, goal, and sum-total of everything that was worth

knowing. What does the thinker require?—imagination, inspiration,

abstraction, spirituality, invention, presentiment, induction, dialectics,

deduction, criticism, ability to collect materials, an impersonal mode of

thinking, contemplation, comprehensiveness, and lastly, but not least,

justice, and love for everything that exists—but each one of these means

was at one time considered, in the history of the _vita contemplativa_, as

a goal and final purpose, and they all secured for their inventors that

perfect happiness which fills the human soul when its final purpose dawns

upon it.

44.

ORIGIN AND MEANING.—Why does this thought come into my mind again and

again, always in more and more vivid colours?—that, in former times,

investigators, in the course of their search for the origin of things,

always thought that they found something which would be of the highest

importance for all kinds of action and judgment: yea, that they even

invariably postulated that the salvation of mankind depended upon _insight

into the origin of things_—whereas now, on the other hand, the more we

examine into origins, the less do they concern our interests: on the

contrary, all the valuations and interestedness which we have placed upon

things begin to lose their meaning, the more we retrogress where knowledge

is concerned and approach the things themselves. _The origin becomes of

less significance in proportion as we acquire insight into it_; whilst

things nearest to ourselves, around and within us, gradually begin to

manifest their wealth of colours, beauties, enigmas, and diversity of

meaning, of which earlier humanity never dreamed. In former ages thinkers

used to move furiously about, like wild animals in cages, steadily glaring

at the bars which hemmed them in, and at times springing up against them

in a vain endeavour to break through them: and happy indeed was he who

could look through a gap to the outer world and could fancy that he saw

something of what lay beyond and afar off.

45.

A TRAGIC TERMINATION TO KNOWLEDGE.—Of all the means of exaltation, human

sacrifices have at times done most to elevate man. And perhaps the one

powerful thought—the idea of _self-sacrificing humanity_—might be made to

prevail over every other aspiration, and thus to prove the victor over

even the most victorious. But to whom should the sacrifice be made? We may

already swear that, if ever the constellation of such an idea appeared on

the horizon, the knowledge of truth would remain the single but enormous

object with which a sacrifice of such a nature would be

commensurate—because no sacrifice is too great for it. In the meantime the

problem has never been expounded as to how far humanity, considered as a

whole, could take steps to encourage the advancement of knowledge; and

even less as to what thirst for knowledge could impel humanity to the

point of sacrificing itself with the light of an anticipated wisdom in its

eyes. When, perhaps, with a view to the advancement of knowledge, we are

able to enter into communication with the inhabitants of other stars, and

when, during thousands of years, wisdom will have been carried from star

to star, the enthusiasm of knowledge may rise to such a dizzy height!

46.

DOUBT IN DOUBT.—“What a good pillow doubt is for a well-balanced head!”

This saying of Montaigne always made Pascal angry, for nobody ever wanted

a good pillow so much as he did. Whatever was the matter with him?

47.

WORDS BLOCK UP OUR PATH.—Wherever primitive men put down a word, they

thought they had made a discovery. How different the case really was!—they

had come upon a problem, and, while they thought they had solved it, they

had in reality placed an obstacle in the way of its solution. Now, with

every new piece of knowledge, we stumble over petrified words and

mummified conceptions, and would rather break a leg than a word in doing

so.

48.

“KNOW THYSELF” IS THE WHOLE OF SCIENCE.—Only when man shall have acquired

a knowledge of all things will he be able to know himself. For things are

but the boundaries of man.

49.