97.
ONE BECOMES MORAL—but not because one is moral! Submission to morals may
be due to slavishness or vanity, egoism or resignation, dismal fanaticism
or thoughtlessness. It may, again, be an act of despair, such as
submission to the authority of a ruler; but there is nothing moral about
it _per se_.
98.
ALTERATIONS IN MORALS.—Morals are constantly undergoing changes and
transformations, occasioned by successful crimes. (To these, for example,
belong all innovations in moral judgments.)
99.
WHEREIN WE ARE ALL IRRATIONAL.—We still continue to draw conclusions from
judgments which we consider as false, or doctrines in which we no longer
believe,—through our feelings.
100.
AWAKING FROM A DREAM.—Noble and wise men once upon a time believed in the
music of the spheres; there are still noble and wise men who believe in
“the moral significance of existence,” but there will come a day when this
music of the spheres also will no longer be audible to them. They will
awake and perceive that their ears have been dreaming.
101.
OPEN TO DOUBT.—To accept a belief simply because it is customary implies
that one is dishonest, cowardly, and lazy.—Must dishonesty, cowardice, and
laziness, therefore, be the primary conditions of morality?
102.
THE MOST ANCIENT MORAL JUDGMENTS.—What attitude do we assume towards the
acts of our neighbour?—In the first place, we consider how they may
benefit ourselves—we see them only in this light. It is this effect which
we regard as the intention of the acts,—and in the end we come to look
upon these intentions of our neighbour as permanent qualities in him, and
we call him, for example, “a dangerous man.” Triple error! Triple and most
ancient mistake! Perhaps this inheritance comes to us from the animals and
their faculty of judgment! Must not the origin of all morality be sought
in these detestable narrow-minded conclusions: “Whatever injures me is
evil (something injurious in itself), whatever benefits me is good
(beneficial and profitable in itself), whatever injures me once or several
times is hostile _per se_; whatever benefits me once or several times is
friendly _per se_.” _O pudenda origo!_ Is not this equivalent to
interpreting the contemptible, occasional, and often merely accidental
relations of another person to us as his primary and most essential
qualities, and affirming that towards himself and every one else he is
only capable of such actions as we ourselves have experienced at his hands
once or several times! And is not this thorough folly based upon the most
immodest of all mental reservations: namely, that we ourselves must be the
standard of what is good, since we determine good and evil?
103.
THERE ARE TWO CLASSES OF PEOPLE WHO DENY MORALITY.—To deny morality may
mean, in the first place, to deny the moral inducements which, men
pretend, have urged them on to their actions,—which is equivalent to
saying that morality merely consists of words and forms, part of that
coarse and subtle deceit (especially self-deceit) which is characteristic
of mankind, and perhaps more especially of those men who are celebrated
for their virtues. In the second place, it may mean our denying that moral
judgments are founded on truths. It is admitted in such a case that these
judgments are, in fact, the motives of the actions, but that in this way
it is really errors as the basis of all moral judgments which urge men on
to their moral actions. This is my point of view; but I should be far from
denying that in very many cases a subtle suspicion in accordance with the
former point of view—_i.e._ in the spirit of La Rochefoucauld—is also
justifiable, and in any case of a high general utility.—Therefore I deny
morality in the same way as I deny alchemy, _i.e._ I deny its hypotheses;
but I do not deny that there have been alchemists who believed in these
hypotheses and based their actions upon them. I also deny immorality—not
that innumerable people feel immoral, but that there is any true reason
why they should feel so. 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.
104.
OUR VALUATIONS.—All actions may be referred back to valuations, and all
valuations are either one’s own or adopted, the latter being by far the
more numerous. Why do we adopt them? Through fear, _i.e._ we think it more
advisable to pretend that they are our own, and so well do we accustom
ourselves to do so that it at last becomes second nature to us. A
valuation of our own, which is the appreciation of a thing in accordance
with the pleasure or displeasure it causes us and no one else, is
something very rare indeed!—But must not our valuation of our
neighbour—which is prompted by the motive that we adopt his valuation in
most cases—proceed from ourselves and by our own decision? Of course, but
then we come to these decisions during our childhood, and seldom change
them. We often remain during our whole lifetime the dupes of our childish
and accustomed judgments in our manner of judging our fellow-men (their
minds, rank, morality, character, and reprehensibility), and we find it
necessary to subscribe to their valuations.
105.
PSEUDO-EGOISM.—The great majority of people, whatever they may think and
say about their “egoism,” do nothing for their ego all their life long,
but only for a phantom of this ego which has been formed in regard to them
by their friends and communicated to them. As a consequence, they all live
in a haze of impersonal and half-personal opinions and of arbitrary and,
as it were, poetic valuations: the one always in the head of another, and
this head, again, in the head of somebody else—a queer world of phantoms
which manages to give itself a rational appearance! This haze of opinions
and habits grows in extent and lives almost independently of the people it
surrounds; it is it which gives rise to the immense effect of general
judgments on “man”—all those men, who do not know themselves, believe in a
bloodless abstraction which they call “man,” _i.e._ in a fiction; and
every change caused in this abstraction by the judgments of powerful
individualities (such as princes and philosophers) produces an
extraordinary and irrational effect on the great majority,—for the simple
reason that not a single individual in this haze can oppose a real ego, an
ego which is accessible to and fathomed by himself, to the universal pale
fiction, which he could thereby destroy.
106.
AGAINST DEFINITIONS OF MORAL AIMS.—On all sides we now hear the aim of
morals defined as the preservation and advancement of humanity; but this
is merely the expression of a wish to have a formula and nothing more.
Preservation wherein? advancement whither? These are questions which must
at once be asked. Is not the most essential point, the answer to this
_wherein?_ and _whither?_ left out of the formula? What results therefrom,
so far as our own actions and duties are concerned, which is not already
tacitly and instinctively understood? Can we sufficiently understand from
this formula whether we must prolong as far as possible the existence of
the human race, or bring about the greatest possible disanimalisation of
man? How different the means, _i.e._ the practical morals, would have to
be in the two cases! Supposing that the greatest possible rationality were
given to mankind, this certainly would not guarantee the longest possible
existence for them! Or supposing that their “greatest happiness” was
thought to be the answer to the questions put, do we thereby mean the
highest degree of happiness which a few individuals might attain, or an
incalculable, though finally attainable, average state of happiness for
all? And why should morality be the way to it? Has not morality,
considered as a whole, opened up so many sources of displeasure as to lead
us to think that man up to the present, with every new refinement of
morality, has become more and more discontented with himself, with his
neighbour, and with his own lot? Has not the most moral of men hitherto
believed that the only justifiable state of mankind in the face of morals
is that of the deepest misery?
107.
OUR RIGHT TO OUR FOLLY.—How must we act? Why must we act? So far as the
coarse and immediate needs of the individual are concerned, it is easy to
answer these questions, but the more we enter upon the more important and
more subtle domains of action, the more does the problem become uncertain
and the more arbitrary its solution. An arbitrary decision, however, is
the very thing that must be excluded here,—thus commands the authority of
morals: an obscure uneasiness and awe must relentlessly guide man in those
very actions the objects and means of which he cannot at once perceive.
This authority of morals undermines our thinking faculty in regard to
those things concerning which it might be dangerous to think wrongly,—it
is in this way, at all events, that morality usually justifies itself to
its accusers. Wrong in this place means dangerous; but dangerous to whom?
It is not, as a rule, the danger of the doer of the action which the
supporters of authoritative morals have in view, but their own danger; the
loss which their power and influence might undergo if the right to act
according to their own greater or lesser reason, however wilfully and
foolishly, were accorded to all men. They on their part make unhesitating
use of their right to arbitrariness and folly,—they even command in cases
where it is hardly possible, or at all events very difficult, to answer
the questions, “How must they act, why must they act?” And if the reason
of mankind grows with such extraordinary slowness that it was often
possible to deny its growth during the whole course of humanity, what is
more to blame for this than this solemn presence, even omnipresence, of
moral commands, which do not even permit the individual question of how
and why to be asked at all? Have we not been educated precisely in such a
way as to make us feel pathetic, and thus to obscure our vision at the
very time when our reason should be able to see as clearly and calmly as
possible—_i.e._ in all higher and more important circumstances?
108.
SOME THESES.—We should not give the individual, in so far as he desires
his own happiness, any precepts or recommendations as to the road leading
to happiness; for individual happiness arises from particular laws that
are unknown to anybody, and such a man will only be hindered or obstructed
by recommendations which come to him from outside sources. Those precepts
which are called moral are in reality directed against individuals, and do
not by any means make for the happiness of such individuals. The
relationship of these precepts to the "happiness and well-being of
mankind" is equally slight, for it is quite impossible to assign a
definite conception to these words, and still less can they be employed as
guiding stars on the dark sea of moral aspirations. It is a prejudice to
think that morality is more favourable to the development of the reason
than immorality. It is erroneous to suppose that the unconscious aim in
the development of every conscious being (namely, animal, man, humanity,
etc.) is its “greatest happiness”: on the contrary, there is a particular
and incomparable happiness to be attained at every stage of our
development, one that is neither high nor low, but quite an individual
happiness. Evolution does not make happiness its goal; it aims merely at
evolution, and nothing else. It is only if humanity had a universally
recognised goal that we could propose to do this or that: for the time
being there is no such goal. It follows that the pretensions of morality
should not be brought into any relationship with mankind: this would be
merely childish and irrational. It is quite another thing to recommend a
goal to mankind: this goal would then be something that would depend upon
our own will and pleasure. Provided that mankind in general agreed to
adopt such a goal, it could then impose a moral law upon itself, a law
which would, at all events, be imposed by their own free will. Up to now,
however, the moral law has had to be placed above our own free will:
strictly speaking, men did not wish to impose this law upon themselves;
they wished to take it from somewhere, to discover it, or to let
themselves be commanded by it from somewhere.
109.
SELF-CONTROL AND MODERATION, AND THEIR FINAL MOTIVE.—I find not more than
six essentially different methods for combating the vehemence of an
impulse. First of all, we may avoid the occasion for satisfying the
impulse, weakening and mortifying it by refraining from satisfying it for
long and ever-lengthening periods. Secondly, we may impose a severe and
regular order upon ourselves in regard to the satisfying of our appetites.
By thus regulating the impulse and limiting its ebb and flow to fixed
periods, we may obtain intervals in which it ceases to disturb us; and by
beginning in this way we may perhaps be able to pass on to the first
method. In the third place, we may deliberately give ourselves over to an
unrestrained and unbounded gratification of the impulse in order that we
may become disgusted with it, and to obtain by means of this very disgust
a command over the impulse: provided, of course, that we do not imitate
the rider who rides his horse to death and breaks his own neck in doing
so. For this, unhappily, is generally the outcome of the application of
this third method.
In the fourth place, there is an intellectual trick, which consists in
associating the idea of the gratification so firmly with some painful
thought, that after a little practice the thought of gratification is
itself immediately felt as a very painful one. (For example, when the
Christian accustoms himself to think of the presence and scorn of the
devil in the course of sensual enjoyment, or everlasting punishment in
hell for revenge by murder; or even merely of the contempt which he will
meet with from those of his fellow-men whom he most respects, if he steals
a sum of money, or if a man has often checked an intense desire for
suicide by thinking of the grief and self-reproaches of his relations and
friends, and has thus succeeded in balancing himself upon the edge of
life: for, after some practice, these ideas follow one another in his mind
like cause and effect.) Among instances of this kind may be mentioned the
cases of Lord Byron and Napoleon, in whom the pride of man revolted and
took offence at the preponderance of one particular passion over the
collective attitude and order of reason. From this arises the habit and
joy of tyrannising over the craving and making it, as it were, gnash its
teeth. “I will not be a slave of any appetite,” wrote Byron in his diary.
In the fifth place, we may bring about a dislocation of our powers by
imposing upon ourselves a particularly difficult and fatiguing task, or by
deliberately submitting to some new charm and pleasure in order thus to
turn our thoughts and physical powers into other channels. It comes to the
same thing if we temporarily favour another impulse by affording it
numerous opportunities of gratification, and thus rendering it the
squanderer of the power which would otherwise be commandeered, so to
speak, by the tyrannical impulse. A few, perhaps, will be able to restrain
the particular passion which aspires to domination by granting their other
known passions a temporary encouragement and license in order that they
may devour the food which the tyrant wishes for himself alone.
In the sixth and last place, the man who can stand it, and thinks it
reasonable to weaken and subdue his entire physical and psychical
organisation, likewise, of course, attains the goal of weakening a single
violent instinct; as, for example, those who starve their sensuality and
at the same time their vigour, and often destroy their reason into the
bargain, such as the ascetics.—Hence, shunning the opportunities,
regulating the impulse, bringing about satiety and disgust in the impulse,
associating a painful idea (such as that of discredit, disgust, or
offended pride), then the dislocation of one’s forces, and finally general
debility and exhaustion: these are the six methods. But the will to combat
the violence of a craving is beyond our power, equally with the method we
adopt and the success we may have in applying it. In all this process our
intellect is rather merely the blind instrument of another rival craving,
whether it be the impulse to repose, or the fear of disgrace and other
evil consequences, or love. While “we” thus imagine that we are
complaining of the violence of an impulse, it is at bottom merely one
impulse which is complaining of another, _i.e._ the perception of the
violent suffering which is being caused us presupposes that there is
another equally or more violent impulse, and that a struggle is impending
in which our intellect must take part.
110.
THAT WHICH OPPOSES.—We may observe the following process in ourselves, and
I should like it to be often observed and confirmed. There arises in us
the scent of a kind of pleasure hitherto unknown to us, and consequently a
new craving. Now, the question is, What opposes itself to this craving? If
it be things and considerations of a common kind, or people whom we hold
in no very high esteem, the aim of the new craving assumes the appearance
of a “noble, good, praiseworthy feeling, and one worthy of sacrifice”: all
the moral dispositions which have been inherited will adopt it and will
add it to the number of those aims which we consider as moral—and now we
imagine that we are no longer striving after a pleasure, but after a
morality, which greatly increases our confidence in our aspirations.
111.
TO THE ADMIRERS OF OBJECTIVENESS.—He who, as a child, has observed in his
parents and acquaintances in the midst of whom he has grown up, certain
varied and strong feelings, with but little subtle discernment and
inclination for intellectual justice, and has therefore employed his best
powers and his most precious time in imitating these feelings, will
observe in himself when he arrives at years of discretion that every new
thing or man he meets with excites in him either sympathy or aversion,
envy or contempt. Under the domination of this experience, which he is
powerless to shake off, he admires neutrality of feeling or “objectivity”
as an extraordinary thing, as something connected with genius or a very
rare morality, and he cannot believe that even this neutrality is merely
the product of education and habit.
112.
ON THE NATURAL HISTORY OF DUTY AND RIGHT.—Our duties are the claims which
others have upon us. How did they acquire these claims? By the fact that
they considered us as capable of making and holding agreements and
contracts, by assuming that we were their like and equals, and by
consequently entrusting something to us, bringing us up, educating us, and
supporting us. We do our duty, _i.e._ we justify that conception of our
power for the sake of which all these things were done for us. We return
them in proportion as they were meted out to us. It is thus our pride that
orders us to do our duty—we desire to re-establish our own independence by
opposing to that which others have done for us something that we do for
them, for in that way the others invade our sphere of power, and would for
ever have a hand in it if we did not make reprisals by means of “duty,”
and thus encroach upon their power. The rights of others can only have
regard to that which lies within our power; it would be unreasonable on
their part to require something from us which does not belong to us. To
put the matter more accurately, their rights can only relate to what they
imagine to be in our power, provided that it is something that we
ourselves consider as being in our power. The same error may easily occur
on either side. The feeling of duty depends upon our having the same
belief in regard to the extent of our power as other people have, _i.e._
that we can promise certain things and undertake to do them freely (“free
will”).
My rights consist of that part of my power which others have not only
conceded to me, but which they wish to maintain for me. Why do they do it?
On the one hand they are actuated by wisdom, fear and prudence: whether
they expect something similar from us (the protection of their rights),
whether they consider a struggle with us as dangerous or inopportune, or
whether they see a disadvantage to themselves in every diminution of our
power, since in that case we should be ill adapted for an alliance with
them against a hostile third power. On the other hand rights are granted
by donations and cessions. In this latter case, the other people have not
only enough power, but more than enough, so that they can give up a
portion and guarantee it to the person to whom they give it: whereby they
presuppose a certain restricted sense of power in the person upon whom
they have bestowed the gift. In this way rights arise: recognised and
guaranteed degrees of power. When the relations of powers to one another
are materially changed, rights disappear and new ones are formed, as is
demonstrated by the constant flux and reflux of the rights of nations.
When our power diminishes to any great extent, the feelings of those who
hitherto guaranteed it undergo some change: they consider whether they
shall once again restore us to our former possession, and if they do not
see their way to do this they deny our “rights” from that time forward. In
the same way, if our power increases to a considerable extent the feelings
of those who previously recognised it, and whose recognition we no longer
require, likewise change: they will then try to reduce our power to its
former dimensions, and they will endeavour to interfere in our affairs,
justifying their interference by an appeal to their “duty.” But this is
merely useless word-quibbling. Where right prevails, a certain state and
degree of power is maintained, and all attempts at its augmentation and
diminution are resisted. The right of others is the concession of our
feeling of power to the feeling of power in these others. Whenever our
power shows itself to be thoroughly shattered and broken, our rights
cease: on the other hand, when we have become very much stronger, the
rights of others cease in our minds to be what we have hitherto admitted
them to be. The man who aims at being just, therefore, must keep a
constant lookout for the changes in the indicator of the scales in order
that he may properly estimate the degrees of power and right which, with
the customary transitoriness of human things, retain their equilibrium for
only a short time and in most cases continue to rise and fall. As a
consequence it is thus very difficult to be “just,” and requires much
experience, good intentions, and an unusually large amount of good sense.
113.
STRIVING FOR DISTINCTION.—When we strive after distinction we must
ceaselessly keep our eyes fixed on our neighbour and endeavour to
ascertain what his feelings are; but the sympathy and knowledge which are
necessary to satisfy this desire are far from being inspired by
harmlessness, compassion, or kindness. On the contrary, we wish to
perceive or find out in what way our neighbour suffers from us, either
internally or externally, how he loses control over himself and yields to
the impression which our hand or even our mere appearance makes on him.
Even when he who aspires to distinction makes or wishes to make a joyful,
elevating, or cheerful impression, he does not enjoy this success in that
he rejoices, exalts, or cheers his neighbour, but in that he leaves his
impress on the latter’s soul, changing its form and dominating it
according to his will. The desire for distinction is the desire to subject
one’s neighbour, even if it be merely in an indirect fashion, one only
felt or even only dreamt of. There is a long series of stages in this
secretly-desired will to subdue, and a very complete record of them would
perhaps almost be like an excellent history of culture from the early
distortions of barbarism down to the caricatures of modern over-refinement
and sickly idealism.
This desire for distinction entails upon our neighbour—to indicate only a
few rungs of the long ladder—torture first of all, followed by blows, then
terror, anxious surprise, wonder, envy, admiration, elevation, pleasure,
joy, laughter, derision, mockery, sneers, scourging and self-inflicted
torture. There at the very top of the ladder stands the ascetic and
martyr, who himself experiences the utmost satisfaction, because he
inflicts on himself, as a result of his desire for distinction, that pain
which his opposite, the barbarian on the first rung of the ladder,
inflicts upon those others, upon whom and before whom he wishes to
distinguish himself. The triumph of the ascetic over himself, his
introspective glance, which beholds a man split up into a sufferer and a
spectator, and which henceforth never looks at the outside world but to
gather from it, as it were, wood for his own funeral pyre: this final
tragedy of the desire for distinction which shows us only one person who,
so to speak, is consumed internally—that is an end worthy of the
beginning: in both cases there is an inexpressible happiness at the sight
of torture; indeed, happiness considered as a feeling of power developed
to the utmost, has perhaps never reached a higher pitch of perfection on
earth than in the souls of superstitious ascetics. This is expressed by
the Brahmins in the story of King Visvamitra, who obtained so much
strength by thousands of years of penance that he undertook to construct a
new heaven. I believe that in the entire category of inward experiences
the people of our time are mere novices and clumsy guessers who “try to
have a shot at it”: four thousand years ago much more was known about
these execrable refinements of self-enjoyment. Perhaps at that time the
creation of the world was imagined by some Hindu dreamer to have been an
ascetic operation which a god took upon himself! Perhaps this god may have
wished to join himself to a mobile nature as an instrument of torture in
order thus to feel his happiness and power doubled! And even supposing him
to have been a god of love: what a delight it would have been for him to
create a suffering mankind in order that he himself might suffer divinely
and super-humanly from the sight of the continual torture of his
creatures, and thus to tyrannise over himself! And, again, supposing him
to have been not only a god of love, but also a god of holiness, we can
scarcely conceive the ecstasies of this divine ascetic while creating sins
and sinners and eternal punishment, and an immense place of eternal
torture below his throne where there is a continual weeping and wailing
and gnashing of teeth!
It is not by any means impossible that the soul of a St. Paul, a Dante, or
a Calvin, and people like them, may once have penetrated into the
terrifying secrets of such voluptuousness of power, and in view of such
souls we may well ask whether the circle of this desire for distinction
has come to a close with the ascetic. Might it not be possible for the
course of this circle to be traversed a second time, by uniting the
fundamental idea of the ascetic, and at the same time that of a
compassionate Deity? In other words, pain would be given to others in
order that pain might be given to one’s self, so that in this way one
could triumph over one’s self and one’s pity to enjoy the extreme
voluptuousness of power.—Forgive me these digressions, which come to my
mind when I think of all the possibilities in the vast domain of psychical
debaucheries to which one may be led by the desire for power!
114.
ON THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE SUFFERER.—The state of sick men who have suffered
long and terribly from the torture inflicted upon them by their illness,
and whose reason has nevertheless not been in any way affected, is not
without a certain amount of value in our search for knowledge—quite apart
from the intellectual benefits which follow upon every profound solitude
and every sudden and justified liberation from duties and habits. The man
who suffers severely looks forth with terrible calmness from his state of
suffering upon outside things: all those little lying enchantments, by
which things are usually surrounded when seen through the eye of a healthy
person, have vanished from the sufferer; his own life even lies there
before him, stripped of all bloom and colour. If by chance it has happened
that up to then he has lived in some kind of dangerous fantasy, this
extreme disenchantment through pain is the means, and possibly the only
means, of extricating him from it. (It is possible that this is what
happened to the Founder of Christianity when suspended from the Cross; for
the bitterest words ever pronounced, “My God, My God, why hast Thou
forsaken Me?” if understood in their deepest sense, as they ought to be
understood, contain the evidence of a complete disillusionment and
enlightenment in regard to the deceptions of life: in that moment of
supreme suffering Christ obtained a clear insight into Himself, just as in
the poet’s narrative did the poor dying Don Quixote.)
The formidable tension of the intellect that wishes to hold its own
against pain shows everything that one now looks upon in a new light, and
the inexpressible charm of this new light is often powerful enough to
withstand all the seductiveness of suicide and to make the continuation of
life seem very desirable to the sufferer. His mind scornfully turns to the
warm and comfortable dream-world in which the healthy man moves about
thoughtlessly, and he thinks with contempt of the noblest and most
cherished illusions in which he formerly indulged. He experiences delight
in conjuring up this contempt as if from the depths of hell, and thus
inflicting the bitterest sufferings upon his soul: it is by this
counterpoise that he bears up against physical suffering—he feels that
such a counterpoise is now essential! In one terrible moment of
clear-sightedness he says to himself, “Be for once thine own accuser and
hangman; for once regard thy suffering as a punishment which thou hast
inflicted on thyself! Enjoy thy superiority as a judge: better still,
enjoy thine own will and pleasure, thy tyrannical arbitrariness! Raise
thyself above thy life as above thy suffering, and look down into the
depth of reason and unreason!”
Our pride revolts as it never did before, it experiences an incomparable
charm in defending life against such a tyrant as suffering and against all
the insinuations of this tyrant, who would fain urge us to give evidence
against life,—we are taking the part of life in the face of this tyrant.
In this state of mind we take up a bitter stand against all pessimism in
order that it may not appear to be a consequence of our condition, and
thus humiliate us as conquered ones. The charm of being just in our
judgments was also never greater than now; for now this justice is a
triumph over ourselves and over so irritated a state of mind that
unfairness of judgment might be excused,—but we will not be excused, it is
now, if ever, that we wish to show that we need no excuse. We pass through
downright orgies of pride.
And now appears the first ray of relief, of recovery, and one of its first
effects is that we turn against the preponderance of our pride: we call
ourselves foolish and vain, as if we had undergone some unique experience.
We humiliate ungratefully this all-powerful pride, the aid of which
enabled us to endure the pain we suffered, and we call vehemently for some
antidote for this pride: we wish to become strangers to ourselves and to
be freed from our own person after pain has forcibly made us personal too
long. “Away with this pride,” we cry, “it was only another illness and
convulsion!” Once more we look longingly at men and nature and recollect
with a sorrowful smile that now since the veil has fallen we regard many
things concerning them in a new and different light,—but we are refreshed
by once more seeing the softened lights of life, and emerge from that
fearfully dispassionate daylight in which we as sufferers saw things and
through things. We do not get angry when we see the charms of health
resume their play, and we contemplate the sight as if transformed, gently
and still fatigued. In this state we cannot listen to music without
weeping.
115.
THE SO-CALLED “EGO.”—Language and the prejudices upon which language is
based very often act as obstacles in our paths when we proceed to explore
internal phenomena and impulses: as one example, we may instance the fact
that there are only words to express the superlative degrees of these
phenomena and impulses. Now, it is our habit no longer to observe
accurately when words fail us, since it is difficult in such cases to
think with precision: in former times, even, people involuntarily came to
the conclusion that where the domain of words ceased, the domain of
existence ceased also. Wrath, hatred, love, pity, desire, recognition,
joy, pain: all these are names indicating extreme conditions; the milder
and middle stages, and even more particularly the ever active lower
stages, escape our attention, and yet it is they which weave the warp and
woof of our character and destiny. It often happens that these extreme
outbursts—and even the most moderate pleasure or displeasure of which we
are actually conscious, whether in partaking of food or listening to a
sound, is possibly, if properly estimated, merely an extreme
outburst,—destroy the texture and are then violent exceptions, in most
cases the consequences of some congestions,—and how easily as such can
they mislead the observer! as indeed they mislead the person acting! We
are all of us not what we appear to be according to the conditions for
which alone we have consciousness and words, and consequently praise and
blame. We fail to recognise ourselves after these coarse outbursts which
are known to ourselves alone, we draw conclusions from data where the
exceptions prove stronger than the rules; we misinterpret ourselves in
reading our own ego’s pronouncements, which appeared to be so clear. But
our opinion of ourselves, this so-called ego which we have arrived at by
this wrong method, contributes henceforth to form our character and
destiny.
116.
THE UNKNOWN WORLD OF THE “SUBJECT.”—What men have found it so difficult to
understand from the most ancient times down to the present day is their
ignorance in regard to themselves, not merely with respect to good and
evil, but something even more essential. The oldest of illusions lives on,
namely, that we know, and know precisely in each case, how human action is
originated. Not only “God who looks into the heart,” not only the man who
acts and reflects upon his action, but everybody does not doubt that he
understands the phenomena of action in every one else. “I know what I want
and what I have done, I am free and responsible for my act, and I make
others responsible for their acts; I can mention by its name every moral
possibility and every internal movement which precedes an act,—ye may act
as ye will, I understand myself and I understand you all!” Such was what
every one thought once upon a time, and almost every one thinks so even
now. Socrates and Plato, who in this matter were great sceptics and
admirable innovators, were nevertheless intensely credulous in regard to
that fatal prejudice, that profound error, which holds that “The right
knowledge must necessarily be followed by the right action.” In holding
this principle they were still the heirs of the universal folly and
presumption that knowledge exists concerning the essence of an action.
“It would indeed be dreadful if the comprehension of the essence of a
right action were not followed by that right action itself”—this was the
only manner in which these great men thought it necessary to demonstrate
this idea, the contrary seemed to them to be inconceivable and mad; and
nevertheless this contrary corresponds to the naked reality which has been
demonstrated daily and hourly from time immemorial. Is it not a “dreadful”
truth that all that we know about an act is never sufficient to accomplish
it, that the bridge connecting the knowledge of the act with the act
itself has never yet been built? Acts are never what they appear to us to
be. We have taken great pains to learn that external things are not as
they appear to us.—Well! It is the same with internal phenomena. All moral
acts are in reality “something different,”—we cannot say anything more
about them, and all acts are essentially unknown to us. The general
belief, however, has been and still is quite the contrary: the most
ancient realism is against us: up to the present humanity has thought, “An
action is what it appears to be.” (In re-reading these words a very
expressive passage from Schopenhauer occurs to me, and I will quote it as
a proof that he, too, without the slightest scruple, continued to adhere
to this moral realism: “Each one of us is in reality a competent and
perfect moral judge, knowing exactly good and evil, made holy by loving
good and despising evil,—such is every one of us in so far as the acts of
others and not his own are under consideration, and when he has merely to
approve or disapprove, whilst the burden of the performance of the acts is
borne by other shoulders. Every one is therefore justified in occupying as
confessor the place of God.”)
117.
IN PRISON.—My eye, whether it be keen or weak, can only see a certain
distance, and it is within this space that I live and move: this horizon
is my immediate fate, greater or lesser, from which I cannot escape. Thus,
a concentric circle is drawn round every being, which has a centre and is
peculiar to himself. In the same way our ear encloses us in a small space,
and so likewise does our touch. We measure the world by these horizons
within which our senses confine each of us within prison walls. We say
that this is near and that is far distant, that this is large and that is
small, that one thing is hard and another soft; and this appreciation of
things we call sensation—but it is all an error _per se_! According to the
number of events and emotions which it is on an average possible for us to
experience in a given space of time, we measure our lives; we call them
short or long, rich or poor, full or empty; and according to the average
of human life we estimate that of other beings,—and all this is an error
_per se_!
If we had eyes a hundred times more piercing to examine the things that
surround us, men would seem to us to be enormously tall; we can even
imagine organs by means of which men would appear to us to be of
immeasurable stature. On the other hand, certain organs could be so formed
as to permit us to view entire solar systems as if they were contracted
and brought close together like a single cell: and to beings of an inverse
order a single cell of the human body could be made to appear in its
construction, movement, and harmony as if it were a solar system in
itself. The habits of our senses have wrapped us up in a tissue of lying
sensations which in their turn lie at the base of all our judgments and
our “knowledge,”—there are no means of exit or escape to the real world!
We are like spiders in our own webs, and, whatever we may catch in them,
it will only be something that our web is capable of catching.
118.
WHAT IS OUR NEIGHBOUR?—What do we conceive of our neighbour except his
limits: I mean that whereby he, as it were, engraves and stamps himself in
and upon us? We can understand nothing of him except the changes which
take place upon our own person and of which he is the cause, what we know
of him is like a hollow, modelled space. We impute to him the feelings
which his acts arouse in us, and thus give him a wrong and inverted
positivity. We form him after our knowledge of ourselves into a satellite
of our own system, and if he shines upon us, or grows dark, and we in any
case are the ultimate cause of his doing so, we nevertheless still believe
the contrary! O world of phantoms in which we live! O world so perverted,
topsy-turvy and empty, and yet dreamt of as full and upright!
119.
EXPERIENCE AND INVENTION.—To however high a degree a man can attain to
knowledge of himself, nothing can be more incomplete than the conception
which he forms of the instincts constituting his individuality. He can
scarcely name the more common instincts: their number and force, their
flux and reflux, their action and counteraction, and, above all, the laws
of their nutrition, remain absolutely unknown to him. This nutrition,
therefore, becomes a work of chance: the daily experiences of our lives
throw their prey now to this instinct and now to that, and the instincts
gradually seize upon it; but the ebb and flow of these experiences does
not stand in any rational relationship to the nutritive needs of the total
number of the instincts. Two things, then, must always happen: some
cravings will be neglected and starved to death, while others will be
overfed. Every moment in the life of man causes some polypous arms of his
being to grow and others to wither away, in accordance with the nutriment
which that moment may or may not bring with it. Our experiences, as I have
already said, are all in this sense means of nutriment, but scattered
about with a careless hand and without discrimination between the hungry
and the overfed. As a consequence of this accidental nutrition of each
particular part, the polypus in its complete development will be something
just as fortuitous as its growth.
To put this more clearly: let us suppose that an instinct or craving has
reached that point when it demands gratification,—either the exercise of
its power or the discharge of it, or the filling up of a vacuum (all this
is metaphorical language),—then it will examine every event that occurs in
the course of the day to ascertain how it can be utilised with the object
of fulfilling its aim: whether the man runs or rests, or is angry, or
reads or speaks or fights or rejoices, the unsatiated instinct watches, as
it were, every condition into which the man enters, and, as a rule, if it
finds nothing for itself it must wait, still unsatisfied. After a little
while it becomes feeble, and at the end of a few days or a few months, if
it has not been satisfied, it will wither away like a plant which has not
been watered. This cruelty of chance would perhaps be more conspicuous if
all the cravings were as vehement in their demands as hunger, which
refuses to be satisfied with imaginary dishes; but the great majority of
our instincts, especially those which are called moral, are thus easily
satisfied,—if it be permitted to suppose that our dreams serve as
compensation to a certain extent for the accidental absence of “nutriment”
during the day. Why was last night’s dream full of tenderness and tears,
that of the night before amusing and gay, and the previous one adventurous
and engaged in some continual obscure search? How does it come about that
in this dream I enjoy indescribable beauties of music, and in that one I
soar and fly upwards with the delight of an eagle to the most distant
heights?
These inventions in which our instincts of tenderness, merriment, or
adventurousness, or our desire for music and mountains, can have free play
and scope—and every one can recall striking instances—are interpretations
of our nervous irritations during sleep, very free and arbitrary
interpretations of the movements of our blood and intestines, and the
pressure of our arm and the bed coverings, or the sound of a church bell,
the weathercocks, the moths, and so on. That this text, which on the whole
is very much the same for one night as another, is so differently
commented upon, that our creative reason imagines such different causes
for the nervous irritations of one day as compared with another, may be
explained by the fact that the prompter of this reason was different
to-day from yesterday—another instinct or craving wished to be satisfied,
to show itself, to exercise itself and be refreshed and discharged: this
particular one being at its height to-day and another one being at its
height last night. Real life has not the freedom of interpretation
possessed by dream life; it is less poetic and less unrestrained—but is it
necessary for me to show that our instincts, when we are awake, likewise
merely interpret our nervous irritations and determine their “causes” in
accordance with their requirements? that there is no really essential
difference between waking and dreaming! that even in comparing different
degrees of culture, the freedom of the conscious interpretation of the one
is not in any way inferior to the freedom in dreams of the other! that our
moral judgments and valuations are only images and fantasies concerning
physiological processes unknown to us, a kind of habitual language to
describe certain nervous irritations? that all our so-called consciousness
is a more or less fantastic commentary of an unknown text, one which is
perhaps unknowable but yet felt?
Consider some insignificant occurrence. Let us suppose that some day as we
pass along a public street we see some one laughing at us. In accordance
with whatever craving has reached its culminating point within us at that
moment, this incident will have this or that signification for us; and it
will be a very different occurrence in accordance with the class of men to
which we belong. One man will take it like a drop of rain, another will
shake it off like a fly, a third person will try to pick a quarrel on
account of it, a fourth will examine his garments to see if there is
anything about them likely to cause laughter, and a fifth will in
consequence think about what is ridiculous _per se_, a sixth will be
pleased at having involuntarily contributed to add a ray of sunshine and
mirth to the world,—in all these cases some craving is gratified, whether
anger, combativeness, meditation, or benevolence. This instinct, whatever
it may be, has seized upon that incident as its prey: why that particular
one? Because, hungry and thirsty, it was lying in ambush.
Not long ago at 11 o’clock in the morning a man suddenly collapsed and
fell down in front of me as if struck by lightning. All the women who were
near at once gave utterance to cries of horror, while I set the man on his
feet again and waited until he recovered his speech. During this time no
muscle of my face moved and I experienced no sensation of fear or pity; I
simply did what was most urgent and reasonable and calmly proceeded on my
way. Supposing some one had told me on the previous evening that at 11
o’clock on the following day a man would fall down in front of me like
this, I should have suffered all kinds of agonies in the interval, lying
awake all night, and at the decisive moment should also perhaps have
fallen down like the man instead of helping him; for in the meantime all
the imaginable cravings within me would have had leisure to conceive and
to comment upon this incident. What are our experiences, then? Much more
what we attribute to them than what they really are. Or should we perhaps
say that nothing is contained in them? that experiences in themselves are
merely works of fancy?
120.
TO TRANQUILLISE THE SCEPTIC.—“I don’t know at all what I am doing. I don’t
know in the least what I ought to do!”—You are right, but be sure of this:
you are being done at every moment! Mankind has at all times mistaken the
active for the passive: it is its eternal grammatical blunder.
121.
CAUSE AND EFFECT.—On this mirror—and our intellect is a mirror—something
is going on that indicates regularity: a certain thing is each time
followed by another certain thing. When we perceive this and wish to give
it a name, we call it cause and effect,—fools that we are! as if in this
we had understood or could understand anything! For, of course, we have
seen nothing but the images of causes and effects, and it is just this
figurativeness which renders it impossible for us to see a more
substantial relation than that of sequence!
122.
THE PURPOSES IN NATURE.—Any impartial investigator who examines the
history of the eye and its form in the lower creatures, and sees how the
visual organ was slowly developed, cannot help recognising that sight was
not the first purpose of the eye, but probably only asserted itself when
pure hazard had contributed to bring together the apparatus. One single
example of this kind, and the “final purposes” fall from our eyes like
scales.
123.
REASON.—How did reason come into the world? As is only proper, in an
irrational manner; by accident. We shall have to guess at this accident as
a riddle.
124.
WHAT IS VOLITION?—We laugh at a man who, stepping out of his room at the
very minute when the sun is rising, says, “It is my _will_ that the sun
shall rise”; or at him who, unable to stop a wheel, says, “I _wish_ it to
roll”; or, again, at him who, thrown in a wrestling match, says, “Here I
lie, but here I _wish_ to lie.” But, joking apart, do we not act like one
of these three persons whenever we use the expression “I wish”?
125.
ON THE DOMAIN OF FREEDOM.—We can _think_ many more things than we can do
and experience—_i.e._ our faculty of thinking is superficial and is
satisfied with what lies on the surface, it does not even perceive this
surface. If our intellect were strictly developed in proportion to our
power, and our exercise of this power, the primary principle of our
thinking would be that we can understand only that which we are able to
do—if, indeed, there is any understanding at all. The thirsty man is
without water, but the creations of his imagination continually bring the
image of water to his sight, as if nothing could be more easily procured.
The superficial and easily satisfied character of the intellect cannot
understand real need, and thus feels itself superior. It is proud of being
able to do more, to run faster, and to reach the goal almost within the
twinkling of an eye: and in this way the domain of thought, when
contrasted with the domain of action, volition, and experience, appears to
be the domain of liberty, while, as I have already stated, it is nothing
but the domain of superficiality and self-sufficiency.
126.
FORGETFULNESS.—It has never yet been proved that there is such a thing as
forgetfulness: all that we know is that we have no power over
recollection. In the meantime we have filled up this gap in our power with
the word “forgetfulness,” exactly as if it were another faculty added to
our list. But, after all, what is within our power? If that word fills up
a gap in our power, might not the other words be found capable of filling
up a gap in the knowledge which we possess of our power?
127.
FOR A DEFINITE PURPOSE.—Of all human actions probably the least understood
are those which are carried out for a definite purpose, because they have
always been regarded as the most intelligible and commonplace to our
intellect. The great problems can be picked up in the highways and byways.
128.
DREAMING AND RESPONSIBILITY.—You would wish to be responsible for
everything except your dreams! What miserable weakness, what lack of
logical courage! Nothing contains more of your own work than your dreams!
Nothing belongs to you so much! Substance, form, duration, actor,
spectator—in these comedies you act as your complete selves! And yet it is
just here that you are afraid and ashamed of yourselves, and even Oedipus,
the wise Oedipus, derived consolation from the thought that we cannot be
blamed for what we dream. From this I must conclude that the great
majority of men must have some dreadful dreams to reproach themselves
with. If it were otherwise, to how great an extent would these nocturnal
fictions have been exploited in the interests of man’s pride! Need I add
that the wise Oedipus was right, that we are really not responsible for
our dreams any more than for our waking hours, and that the doctrine of
free will has as its parents man’s pride and sense of power! Perhaps I say
this too often; but that does not prove that it is not true.
129.
THE ALLEGED COMBAT OF MOTIVES.—People speak of the “combat of motives,”
but they designate by this expression that which is not a combat of
motives at all. What I mean is that, in our meditative consciousness, the
consequences of different actions which we think we are able to carry out
present themselves successively, one after the other, and we compare these
consequences in our mind. We think we have come to a decision concerning
an action after we have established to our own satisfaction that the
consequences of this action will be favourable. Before we arrive at this
conclusion, however, we often seriously worry because of the great
difficulties we experience in guessing what the consequences are likely to
be, and in seeing them in their full importance, without exception—and,
after all this, we must reckon up any fortuitous elements that are likely
to arise. Then comes the chief difficulty: all the consequences which we
have with such difficulty determined one by one must be weighed on some
scales against each other; and it only too often comes about that, owing
to the difference in the quality of all the conceivable consequences, both
scales and weights are lacking for this casuistry of advantage.
Even supposing, however, that in this case we are able to overcome the
difficulty, and that mere hazard has placed in our scales results which
permit of a mutual balance, we have now, in the idea of the consequences
of a particular action, a motive for performing this very action, but only
one motive! When we have finally decided to act, however, we are fairly
often influenced by another order of motives than those of the “image of
the consequences.” What brings this about may be the habitual working of
our inner machinery, or some little encouragement on the part of a person
whom we fear or honour or love, or the love of comfort which prefers to do
that which lies nearest; or some stirring of the imagination provoked at
the decisive moment by some event of trifling importance; or some physical
influence which manifests itself quite unexpectedly; a mere whim brings it
about; or the outburst of a passion which, as it accidentally happens, is
ready to burst forth—in a word, motives operate which we do not understand
very well, or which we do not understand at all, and which we can never
balance against one another in advance.
It is probable that a contest is going on among these motives too, a
driving backwards and forwards, a rising and lowering of the parts, and it
is this which would be the real “contest of motives,” something quite
invisible and unknown to us. I have calculated the consequences and the
successes, and in doing so have set a very necessary motive in the line of
combat with the other motives,—but I am as little able to draw up this
battle line as to see it: the battle itself is hidden from my sight, as
likewise is the victory, as victory; for I certainly come to know what I
shall finally do, but I cannot know what motive has in the end proved to
be the victor. Nevertheless, we are decidedly not in the habit of taking
all these unconscious phenomena into account, and we generally conceive of
the preliminary stages of an action only so far as they are conscious:
thus we mistake the combat of the motives for a comparison of the possible
consequences of different actions,—a mistake that brings with it most
important consequences, and consequences that are most fatal to the
development of morals.
130.
AIMS? WILL?—We have accustomed ourselves to believe in two kingdoms, the
domain of purposes and volition, and the domain of chance. In this latter
domain everything is done senselessly, there is a continual going to and
fro without any one being able to say why or wherefore. We stand in awe of
this powerful realm of the great cosmic stupidity, for in most instances
we learn to know it when it falls down upon the other world, that of aims
and intentions, like a slate from a roof, always overwhelming some
beautiful purpose of ours.
This belief in these two kingdoms arises from ancient romanticism and
legend: we clever dwarfs, with all our will and aims, are interfered with,
knocked down, and very often crushed to death by those ultra-stupid
giants, the accidents,—but in spite of this we should not like to be
deprived of the fearful poetry of their proximity, for these monsters very
often make their appearance when life in the spider’s web of definite aims
has become too tiresome or too anxious for us, and they sometimes bring
about a divine diversion when their hands for once tear the whole web in
pieces,—not that these irrational beings ever intend to do what they do,
or even observe it. But their coarse and bony hands rend our web as if it
were thin air.
Moira was the name given by the Greeks to this realm of the incalculable
and of sublime and eternal limitedness; and they set it round their gods
like a horizon beyond which they could neither see nor act,—with that
secret defiance of the gods which one meets with in different nations; the
gods are worshipped, but a final trump card is held in readiness to play
against them. As instances of this we may recollect that the Indians and
the Persians, who conceived all their gods as having to depend upon the
sacrifices of mortals, so that if it came to the worst the mortals could,
at least, let the gods die of starvation; or the gods of the stubborn and
melancholy Scandinavians, who enjoyed a quiet revenge in the thought that
a twilight of the gods was to come as some compensation for the perpetual
fear which their evil gods caused them. The case of Christianity was very
different, for its essential feelings were not those of the Indians,
Persians, Greeks, or Scandinavians. Christianity commanded its disciples
to worship in the dust the spirit of power, and to kiss the very dust. It
gave the world to understand that this omnipotent “realm of stupidity” was
not so stupid as it seemed, and that we, on the contrary, were stupid when
we could not perceive that behind this realm stood God Himself: He who,
although fond of dark, crooked and wonderful ways, at last brought
everything to a “glorious end.” This new myth of God, who had hitherto
been mistaken for a race of giants or Moira, and who was now Himself the
spinner and weaver of webs and purposes even more subtle than those of our
own intellect—so subtle, indeed, that they appear to be incomprehensible
and even unreasonable—this myth was so bold a transformation and so daring
a paradox that the over-refined ancient world could not resist it, however
extravagant and contradictory the thing seemed: for, let it be said in
confidence, there was a contradiction in it,—if our intellect cannot
divine the intellect and aims of God, how did it divine this quality of
its intellect and this quality of God’s intellect?
In more modern times, indeed, the doubt has increased as to whether the
slate that falls from the roof is really thrown by “Divine love,” and
mankind again harks back to the old romance of giants and dwarfs. Let us
learn then, for it is time we did so, that even in our supposed separate
domain of aims and reason the giants likewise rule. And our aims and
reason are not dwarfs, but giants. And our own webs are just as often and
as clumsily rent by ourselves as by the slate. And not everything is
purpose that is called purpose, and still less is everything will that is
called will. And if you come to the conclusion, “Then there is only one
domain, that of stupidity and hazard?” it must be added that possibly
there is only one domain, possibly there is neither will nor aim, and we
may only have imagined these things. Those iron hands of necessity that
shake the dice-box of chance continue their game indefinitely: hence, it
must happen that certain throws perfectly resemble every degree of
appropriateness and good sense. It may be that our own voluntary acts and
purposes are merely such throws, and that we are too circumscribed and
vain to conceive our extremely circumscribed state! that we ourselves
shake the dice-box with iron hands, and do nothing in our most deliberate
actions but play the game of necessity. Possibly! To rise beyond this
“possibly” we should indeed have been guests in the Underworld, playing at
dice and betting with Proserpine at the table of the goddess herself.
131.
MORAL FASHIONS.—How moral judgments as a whole have changed! The greatest
marvels of the morality of antiquity, such as Epictetus, knew nothing of
the glorification, now so common, of the spirit of sacrifice, of living
for others: after the fashion of morality now prevailing we should really
call them immoral; for they fought with all their strength for their own
ego and against all sympathy for others, especially for the sufferings and
moral imperfections of others. Perhaps they would reply to us by saying,
“If you feel yourselves to be such dull and ugly people, by all means
think of others more than yourselves. You will be quite right in doing
so!”
132.
THE LAST ECHOES OF CHRISTIANITY IN MORALS.—“On n’est bon que par la pitié:
il faut donc qu’il y ait quelque pitié dans tous nos sentiments”—so says
morality nowadays. And how does this come about? The fact that the man who
performs social, sympathetic, disinterested, and benevolent actions is now
considered as the moral man: this is perhaps the most general effect, the
most complete transformation, that Christianity has produced in Europe;
perhaps in spite of itself, and not by any means because this was part of
its essential doctrine. But this was the residuum of those Christian
feelings that prevailed at the time when the contrary and thoroughly
selfish faith in the “one thing needful,” the absolute importance of
eternal and personal salvation, together with the dogmas upon which this
belief had rested, were gradually receding, and when the auxiliary beliefs
in “love” and “love of one’s neighbour,” harmonising with the
extraordinary practice of charity by the Church, were thereby coming to
the front. The more people gradually became separated from the dogmas, the
more did they seek some sort of justification for this separation in a
cult of the love of humanity: not to fall short in this respect of the
Christian ideal, but to excel it if possible, was the secret stimulus of
all the French free-thinkers from Voltaire to Auguste Comte; and this
latter with his famous moral formula “vivre pour autrui” has indeed
out-christianised even Christianity!
It was Schopenhauer in Germany and John Stuart Mill in England who were
the means of bringing into the greatest prominence this doctrine of
sympathetic affections and of pity or utility to others as a principle of
action; but these men themselves were only echoes. From about the time of
the French Revolution these doctrines have manifested themselves in
various places with enormous force. Since then they have shown themselves
in their coarsest as well has their most subtle form, and all Socialistic
principles have almost involuntarily taken their stand on the common
ground of this doctrine. At the present time there is perhaps no more
widely spread prejudice than that of thinking that we know what really and
truly constitutes morality. Every one now seems to learn with satisfaction
that society is beginning to adapt the individual to the general needs,
and that it is at the same time the happiness and sacrifice of each one to
consider himself as a useful member and instrument of the whole. They have
still, however, doubts as to the form in which this whole is to be looked
for, whether in a state already existing, or in one which has yet to be
established, or in a nation, or in an international brotherhood, or in new
and small economic communities. On this point there is still much
reflection, doubt, struggling, excitement, and passion; but it is pleasant
and wonderful to observe the unanimity with which the “ego” is called upon
to practice self-denial, until, in the form of adaptation to the whole, it
once again secures its own fixed sphere of rights and duties,—until,
indeed, it has become something quite new and different. Nothing else is
being attempted, whether admitted or not, than the complete
transformation, even the weakening and suppression of the individual: the
supporters of the majority never tire of enumerating and anathematising
all that is bad, hostile, lavish, expensive, and luxurious in the form of
individual existence that has hitherto prevailed; they hope that society
may be administered in a cheaper, less dangerous, more uniform, and more
harmonious way when nothing is left but large corporations and their
members. All that is considered as good which in any way corresponds to
this desire for grouping men into one particular society, and to the minor
cravings which necessarily accompany this desire,—this is the chief moral
current of our time; sympathy and social feelings are working hand in
glove. (Kant is still outside of this movement: he expressly teaches that
we should be insensible to the sufferings of others if our benevolence is
to have any moral value,—a doctrine which Schopenhauer, very angrily, as
may easily be imagined, described as the Kantian absurdity.)
133.
“NO LONGER THINKING OF ONE’S SELF.”—Let us seriously consider why we
should jump into the water to rescue some one who has just fallen in
before our eyes, although we may have no particular sympathy for him. We
do it for pity’s sake; no one thinks now but of his neighbour,—so says
thoughtlessness. Why do we experience grief and uneasiness when we see
some one spit blood, although we may be really ill-disposed towards him
and wish him no good? Out of pity; we have ceased to think of
ourselves,—so says thoughtlessness again. The truth is that in our pity—I
mean by this what we erroneously call “pity”—we no longer think
consciously of ourselves, but quite unconsciously, exactly as when
slipping we unconsciously make the best counter-motions possible in order
to recover our balance, and in doing so clearly use all our intelligence.
A mishap to another offends us; it would bring our impotence, or perhaps
our cowardice, into strong relief if we could do nothing to help him; or
in itself it would give rise to a diminution of our honour in the eyes of
others and of ourselves. Or again, accidents that happen to others act as
finger-posts to point out our own danger, and even as indications of human
peril and frailty they can produce a painful effect upon us. We shake off
this kind of pain and offence, and balance it by an act of pity behind
which may be hidden a subtle form of self-defence or even revenge. That at
bottom we strongly think of ourselves may easily be divined from the
decision that we arrive at in all cases where we can avoid the sight of
those who are suffering or starving or wailing. We make up our minds not
to avoid such people when we can approach them as powerful and helpful
ones, when we can safely reckon upon their applause, or wish to feel the
contrast of our own happiness, or, again, when we hope to get rid of our
own boredom. It is misleading to call the suffering that we experience at
such a sight, and which may be of a very different kind, commiseration.
For in all cases it is a suffering from which the suffering person before
us is free: it is our own suffering, just as his suffering is his own. It
is thus only this personal feeling of misery that we get rid of by acts of
compassion. Nevertheless, we never act thus from one single motive: as it
is certain that we wish to free ourselves from suffering thereby, it is
also certain that by the same action we yield to an impulse of pleasure.
Pleasure arises at the sight of a contrast to our own condition, at the
knowledge that we should be able to help if only we wished to do so, at
the thought of the praise and gratitude which we should gain if we did
help, at the very act of helping, in so far as this might prove successful
(and because something which is gradually seen to be successful gives
pleasure to the doer); but even more particularly at the feeling that our
intervention brings to an end some deplorable injustice,—even the outburst
of one’s indignation is invigorating.
All this, including even things still more subtle, comprises “pity.” How
clumsily with this one word does language fall foul of such a complex and
polyphonous organism! That pity, on the other hand, is identical with the
suffering the sight of which brings it about, or that it has a
particularly subtle and penetrating comprehension of it: this is in
contradiction to experience, and he who has glorified pity under these two
heads lacked sufficient experience in the domain of morals. That is why I
am seized with some doubts when reading of the incredible things
attributed by Schopenhauer to pity. It is obvious that he thereby wished
to make us believe in the great novelty he brought forward, viz., that
pity—the pity which he observed so superficially and described so
badly—was the source of all and every past and future moral action,—and
all this precisely because of those faculties which he had begun by
attributing to it.
What is it in the end that distinguishes men without pity from men who are
really compassionate? In particular, to give merely an approximate
indication, they have not the sensitive feeling for fear, the subtle
faculty for perceiving danger: nor yet is their vanity so easily wounded
if something happens which they might have been able to prevent,—the
caution of their pride commands them not to interfere uselessly with the
affairs of others; they even act on the belief that every one should help
himself and play his own cards. Again, in most cases they are more
habituated to bearing pain than compassionate men, and it does not seem at
all unjust to them that others should suffer, since they themselves have
suffered. Lastly, the state of soft-heartedness is as painful to them as
is the state of stoical impassability to compassionate men: they have only
disdainful words for sensitive hearts, as they think that such a state of
feeling is dangerous to their own manliness and calm bravery,—they conceal
their tears from others and wipe them off, angry with themselves. They
belong to a different type of egoists from the compassionate men,—but to
call them, in a distinct sense, evil and the compassionate ones good, is
merely a moral fashion which has had its innings, just as the reverse
fashion had also its innings, and a long innings, too.
134.
TO WHAT EXTENT WE MUST BEWARE OF PITY.—Pity, in so far as it actually
gives rise to suffering—and this must be our only point of view here—is a
weakness, like every other indulgence in an injurious emotion. It
increases suffering throughout the world, and although here and there a
certain amount of suffering may be indirectly diminished or removed
altogether as a consequence of pity, we must not bring forward these
occasional consequences, which are on the whole insignificant, to justify
the nature of pity which, as has already been stated, is prejudicial.
Supposing that it prevailed, even if only for one day, it would bring
humanity to utter ruin. In itself the nature of pity is no better than
that of any other craving; it is only where it is called for and
praised—and this happens when people do not understand what is injurious
in it, but find in it a sort of joy—that a good conscience becomes
attached to it; it is only then that we willingly yield to it, and do not
shrink from acknowledging it. In other circumstances where it is
understood to be dangerous, it is looked upon as a weakness; or, as in the
case of the Greeks, as an unhealthy periodical emotion the danger of which
might be removed by temporary and voluntary discharges. If a man were to
undertake the experiment of deliberately devoting his attention to the
opportunities afforded by practical life for the exercise of pity, and
were over and over again to picture in his own mind the misery he might
meet with in his immediate surroundings, he would inevitably become
melancholy and ill. If, however, he wished in any sense of the word to
serve humanity as a physician, he would have to take many precautions with
respect to this feeling, as otherwise it would paralyse him at all
critical moments, undermine the foundations of his knowledge, and unnerve
his helpful and delicate hand.
135.
AROUSING PITY.—Among savages men think with a moral shudder of the
possibility of becoming an object of pity, for such a state they regard as
deprived of all virtue. Pitying is equivalent to despising: they do not
want to see a contemptible being suffer, for this would afford them no
enjoyment. On the other hand, to behold one of their enemies suffering,
some one whom they look upon as their equal in pride, but whom torture
cannot induce to give up his pride, and in general to see some one suffer
who refuses to lower himself by appealing for pity—which would in their
eyes be the most profound and shameful humiliation—this is the very joy of
joys. Such a spectacle excites the deepest admiration in the soul of the
savage, and he ends by killing such a brave man when it is in his power,
afterwards according funeral honours to the unbending one. If he had
groaned, however; if his countenance had lost its expression of calm
disdain; if he had shown himself to be contemptible,—well, in such a case
he might have been allowed to live like a dog: he would no longer have
aroused the pride of the spectator, and pity would have taken the place of
admiration.
136.
HAPPINESS IN PITY.—If, as is the case among the Hindus, we decree the end
and aim of all intellectual activity to be the knowledge of human misery,
and if for generation after generation this dreadful resolution be
steadily adhered to, pity in the eyes of such men of hereditary pessimism
comes to have a new value as a preserver of life, something that helps to
make existence endurable, although it may seem worthy of being rejected
with horror and disgust. Pity becomes an antidote to suicide, a sentiment
which brings pleasure with it and enables us to taste superiority in small
doses. It gives some diversion to our minds, makes our hearts full,
banishes fear and lethargy, and incites us to speak, to complain, or to
act: it is a relative happiness when compared with the misery of the
knowledge that hampers the individual on every side, bewilders him, and
takes away his breath. Happiness, however, no matter of what nature it may
be, gives us air and light and freedom of movement.
137.
WHY DOUBLE THE “EGO”?—To view our own experiences in the same light as we
are in the habit of looking at those of others is very comforting and an
advisable medicine. On the other hand, to look upon the experiences of
others and adopt them as if they were our own—which is called for by the
philosophy of pity—would ruin us in a very short time: let us only make
the experiment without trying to imagine it any longer! The first maxim
is, in addition, undoubtedly more in accordance with reason and goodwill
towards reason; for we estimate more objectively the value and
significance of an event when it happens to others,—the value, for
instance, of a death, loss of money or slander. But pity, taking as its
principle of action the injunction, “Suffer the misfortune of another as
much as he himself,” would lead the point of view of the ego with all its
exaggerations and deviations to become the point of view of the other
person, the sympathiser: so that we should have to suffer at the same time
from our own ego and the other’s ego. In this way we would voluntarily
overload ourselves with a double irrationality, instead of making the
burden of our own as light as possible.
138.
BECOMING MORE TENDER.—Whenever we love some one and venerate and admire
him, and afterwards come to perceive that he is suffering—which always
causes us the utmost astonishment, since we cannot but feel that the
happiness we derive from him must flow from a superabundant source of
personal happiness—our feelings of love, veneration, and admiration are
essentially changed: they become more tender; that is, the gap that
separates us seems to be bridged over and there appears to be an approach
to equality. It now seems possible to give him something in return, whilst
we had previously imagined him as being altogether above our gratitude.
Our ability to requite him for what we have received from him arouses in
us feelings of much joy and pleasure. We endeavour to ascertain what can
best calm the grief of our friend, and we give it to him; if he wishes for
kind words, looks, attentions, services, or presents, we give them; but,
above all, if he would like to see us suffering from the sight of his
suffering, we pretend to suffer, for all this secures for us the enjoyment
of active gratitude, which is equivalent in a way to good-natured revenge.
If he wants none of these things, and refuses to accept them from us, we
depart from him chilled and sad, almost mortified; it appears to us as if
our gratitude had been declined, and on this point of honour even the best
of men is still somewhat touchy. It results from all this that even in the
best case there is something humiliating in suffering, and something
elevating and superior in sympathy,—a fact which will keep the two
feelings apart for ever and ever.
139.
HIGHER IN NAME ONLY.—You say that the morality of pity is a higher
morality than that of stoicism? Prove it! But take care not to measure the
“higher” and “lower” degrees of morality once more by moral yardsticks;
for there are no absolute morals. So take your yardstick from somewhere
else, and be on your guard!
140.
PRAISE AND BLAME.—When a war has come to an unsuccessful conclusion we try
to find the man who is to blame for the war; when it comes to a successful
conclusion we praise the man who is responsible for it. In all
unsuccessful cases attempts are made to blame somebody, for non-success
gives rise to dejection, against which the single possible remedy is
involuntarily applied; a new incitement of the sense of power; and this
incitement is found in the condemnation of the “guilty” one. This guilty
one is not perhaps the scapegoat of the faults of others; he is merely the
victim of the feeble, humiliated, and depressed people who wish to prove
upon some one that they have not yet lost all their power. Even
self-condemnation after a defeat may be the means of restoring the feeling
of power.
On the other hand, glorification of the originator is often but an equally
blind result of another instinct that demands its victim,—and in this case
the sacrifice appears to be sweet and attractive even for the victim. This
happens when the feeling of power is satiated in a nation or a society by
so great and fascinating a success that a weariness of victory supervenes
and pride wishes to be discharged: a feeling of self-sacrifice is aroused
and looks for its object. Thus, whether we are blamed or praised we
merely, as a rule, provide opportunities for the gratification of others,
and are only too often caught up and whirled away for our neighbours to
discharge upon us their accumulated feelings of praise or blame. In both
cases we confer a benefit upon them for which we deserve no credit and
they no thanks.
141.
MORE BEAUTIFUL BUT LESS VALUABLE.—Picturesque morality: such is the
morality of those passions characterised by sudden outbursts, abrupt
transitions; pathetic, impressive, dreadful, and solemn attitudes and
gestures. It is the semi-savage stage of morality: never let us be tempted
to set it on a higher plane merely on account of its æsthetic charms.
142.
SYMPATHY.—In order to understand our neighbour, that is, in order to
reproduce his sentiments in ourselves, we often, no doubt, plumb the cause
of his feelings, as, for example, by asking ourselves, Why is he sad? in
order that we may become sad ourselves for the same reason. But we much
more frequently neglect to act thus, and we produce these feelings in
ourselves in accordance with the _effects_ which they exhibit in the
person we are studying,—by imitating in our own body the expression of his
eyes, his voice, his gait, his attitude (or, at any rate, the likeness of
these things in words, pictures, and music), or we may at least endeavour
to mimic the action of his muscles and nervous system. A like feeling will
then spring up in us as the result of an old association of movements and
sentiments which has been trained to run backwards and forwards. We have
developed to a very high pitch this knack of sounding the feelings of
others, and when we are in the presence of any one else we bring this
faculty of ours into play almost involuntarily,—let the inquirer observe
the animation of a woman’s countenance and notice how it vibrates and
quivers with animation as the result of the continual imitation and
reflection of what is going on around her.
It is music, however, more than anything else that shows us what
past-masters we are in the rapid and subtle divination of feelings and
sympathy; for even if music is only the imitation of an imitation of
feelings, nevertheless, despite its distance and vagueness, it often
enables us to participate in those feelings, so that we become sad without
any reason for feeling so, like the fools that we are, merely because we
hear certain sounds and rhythms that somehow or other remind us of the
intonation and the movements, or perhaps even only of the behaviour, of
sorrowful people. It is related of a certain Danish king that he was
wrought up to such a pitch of warlike enthusiasm by the song of a minstrel
that he sprang to his feet and killed five persons of his assembled court:
there was neither war nor enemy; there was rather the exact opposite; yet
the power of the retrospective inference from a feeling to the cause of it
was sufficiently strong in this king to overpower both his observation and
his reason. Such, however, is almost invariably the effect of music
(provided that it thrills us), and we have no need of such paradoxical
instances to recognise this,—the state of feeling into which music
transports us is almost always in contradiction to the appearance of our
actual state, and of our reasoning power which recognises this actual
state and its causes.
If we inquire how it happened that this imitation of the feelings of
others has become so common, there will be no doubt as to the answer: man
being the most timid of all beings because of his subtle and delicate
nature has been made familiar through his timidity with this sympathy for,
and rapid comprehension of, the feelings of others, even of animals. For
century after century he saw danger in everything that was unfamiliar to
him, in anything that happened to be alive, and whenever the spectacle of
such things and creatures came before his eyes he imitated their features
and attitude, drawing at the same time his own conclusion as to the nature
of the evil intentions they concealed. This interpretation of all
movements and all facial characteristics in the sense of intentions, man
has even brought to bear on things inanimate,—urged on as he was by the
illusion that there was nothing inanimate. I believe that this is the
origin of everything that we now call a feeling for nature, that sensation
of joy which men experience at the sight of the sky, the fields, the
rocks, the forests, the storms, the stars, the landscapes, and spring:
without our old habits of fear which forced us to suspect behind
everything a kind of second and more recondite sense, we should now
experience no delight in nature, in the same way as men and animals do not
cause us to rejoice if we have not first been deterred by that source of
all understanding, namely, fear. For joy and agreeable surprise, and
finally the feeling of ridicule, are the younger children of sympathy, and
the much younger brothers and sisters of fear. The faculty of rapid
perception, which is based on the faculty of rapid dissimulation,
decreases in proud and autocratic men and nations, as they are less timid;
but, on the other hand, every category of understanding and dissimulation
is well known to timid peoples, and among them is to be found the real
home of imitative arts and superior intelligence.
When, proceeding from the theory of sympathy such as I have just outlined,
I turn my attention to the theory, now so popular and almost sacrosanct,
of a mystical process by means of which pity blends two beings into one,
and thus permits them immediately to understand one another, when I
recollect that even so clear a brain as Schopenhauer’s delighted in such
fantastic nonsense, and that he in his turn transplanted this delight into
other lucid and semi-lucid brains, I feel unlimited astonishment and
compassion. How great must be the pleasure we experience in this senseless
tomfoolery! How near must even a sane man be to insanity as soon as he
listens to his own secret intellectual desires!—Why did Schopenhauer
really feel so grateful, so profoundly indebted to Kant? He revealed on
one occasion the undoubted answer to this question. Some one had spoken of
the way in which the _qualitias occulta_ of Kant’s Categorical Imperative
might be got rid of, so that the theory itself might be rendered
intelligible. Whereupon Schopenhauer gave utterance to the following
outburst: “An intelligible Categorical Imperative! Preposterous idea!
Stygian darkness! God forbid that it should ever become intelligible! The
fact that there is actually something unintelligible, that this misery of
the understanding and its conceptions is limited, conditional, final, and
deceptive,—this is beyond question Kant’s great gift.” Let any one
consider whether a man can be in possession of a desire to gain an insight
into moral things when he feels himself comforted from the start by a
belief in the inconceivableness of these things! one who still honestly
believes in illuminations from above, in magic, in ghostly appearances,
and in the metaphysical ugliness of the toad!
143.
WOE TO US IF THIS IMPULSE SHOULD RAGE!—Supposing that the impulse towards
devotion and care for others (“sympathetic affection”) were doubly as
strong as it now is, life on earth could not be endured. Let it only be
considered how many foolish things every one of us does day by day and
hour by hour, merely out of solicitude and devotion for himself, and how
unbearable he seems in doing so: and what then would it be like if we were
to become for other people the object of the stupidities and importunities
with which up to the present they have only tormented themselves! Should
we not then take precipitately to our heels as soon as one of our
neighbours came towards us? And would it not be necessary to overwhelm
this sympathetic affection with the abuse that we now reserve for egoism?
144.
CLOSING OUR EARS TO THE COMPLAINTS OF OTHERS.—When we let our sky be
clouded by the complaints and suffering of other mortals, who must bear
the consequences of such gloom? No doubt those other mortals, in addition
to all their other burdens! If we are merely to be the echoes of their
complaints, we cannot accord them either help or comfort; nor can we do so
if we were continually keeping our ears open to listen to them,—unless we
have learnt the art of the Olympians, who, instead of trying to make
themselves unhappy, endeavoured to feel edified by the misfortunes of
mankind. But this is something too Olympian for us, although, in our
enjoyment of tragedy, we have already taken a step towards this ideal
divine cannibalism.
145.
“UNEGOISTIC.”—This man is empty and wishes to be filled, that one is
over-full and wishes to be emptied: both of them feel themselves urged on
to look for an individual who can help them. And this phenomenon,
interpreted in a higher sense, is in both cases known by the same name,
“love.” Well? and could this love be something unegoistic?
146.
LOOKING BEYOND OUR NEIGHBOUR.—What? Ought the nature of true morality to
consist for us in fixing our eyes upon the most direct and immediate
consequences of our action for other people, and in our coming to a
decision accordingly? This is only a narrow and bourgeois morality, even
though it may be a morality: but it seems to me that it would be more
superior and liberal to look beyond these immediate consequences for our
neighbour in order to encourage more distant purposes, even at the risk of
making others suffer,—as, for example, by encouraging the spirit of
knowledge in spite of the certainty that our free-thought will have the
instant effect of plunging others into doubt, grief, and even worse
afflictions. Have we not at least the right to treat our neighbour as we
treat ourselves? And if, where we are concerned, we do not think in such a
narrow and bourgeois fashion of immediate consequences and sufferings, why
should we be compelled to act thus in regard to our neighbour? Supposing
that we felt ready to sacrifice ourselves, what is there to prevent us
from sacrificing our neighbour together with ourselves,—just as States and
Sovereigns have hitherto sacrificed one citizen to the others, “for the
sake of the general interest,” as they say?
We too, however, have general interests, perhaps even more general than
theirs: so why may we not sacrifice a few individuals of this generation
for the benefit of generations to come? so that their affliction, anxiety,
despair, blunders, and misery may be deemed essential because a new plough
is to break up the ground and render it fertile for all. Finally, we
communicate the disposition to our neighbour by which he is enabled to
feel himself a victim: we persuade him to carry out the task for which we
employ him. Are we then devoid of all pity? If, however, we wish to
achieve a victory over ourselves beyond our pity, is not this a higher and
more liberal attitude and disposition than that in which we only feel safe
after having ascertained whether an action benefits or harms our
neighbour? On the contrary, it is by means of such sacrifice—including the
sacrifice of ourselves, as well as of our neighbours—that we should
strengthen and elevate the general sense of human power, even supposing
that we attain nothing more than this. But even this itself would be a
positive increase of happiness. Then, if even this ... but not a word
more! You have understood me at a glance.
147.
THE CAUSE OF “ALTRUISM.”—Men have on the whole spoken of love with so much
emphasis and adoration because they have hitherto always had so little of
it, and have never yet been satiated with this food: in this way it became
their ambrosia. If a poet wished to show universal benevolence in the
image of a Utopia, he would certainly have to describe an agonising and
ridiculous state of things, the like of which was never seen on
earth,—every one would be surrounded, importuned, and sighed for, not as
at present, by one lover, but by thousands, by everybody indeed, as the
result of an irresistible craving which would then be as vehemently
insulted and cursed as selfishness has been by men of past ages. The poets
of this new condition of things, if they had sufficient leisure to write,
would be dreaming of nothing but the blissful and loveless past, the
divine selfishness of yore, and the wonderful possibilities in former
times of remaining alone, not being run after by one’s friends, and of
even being hated and despised—or any other odious expressions which the
beautiful animal world in which we live chooses to coin.
148.
LOOKING FAR AHEAD.—If, in accordance with the present definition, only
those actions are moral which are done for the sake of others, and for
their sake only, then there are no moral actions at all! If, in accordance
with another definition, only those actions are moral which spring from
our own free will, then there are no moral actions in this case either!
What is it, then, that we designate thus, which certainly exists and
wishes as a consequence to be explained? It is the result of a few
intellectual blunders; and supposing that we were able to free ourselves
from these errors, what would then become of “moral actions”? It is due to
these errors that we have up to the present attributed to certain actions
a value superior to what was theirs in reality: we separated them from
“egoistic” and “non-free” actions. When we now set them once more in the
latter categories, as we must do, we certainly reduce their value (their
own estimate of value) even below its reasonable level, because “egoistic”
and “non-free” actions have up to the present been under-valued owing to
that alleged profound and essential difference.
In future, then, will these very actions be less frequently performed,
since they will be less highly esteemed? Inevitably! Or at all events for
a fairly long time, as long as the scale of valuations remains under the
reacting influence of former mistakes! But we make some return for this by
giving back to men their good courage for the carrying out of actions that
are now reputed to be selfish, and thus restore their value,—we relieve
men’s bad consciences! and as up to the present egoistic actions have been
by far the most frequent, and will be so to all eternity, we free the
whole conception of these actions and of life from its evil appearance!
This is a very high and important result. When men no longer believe
themselves to be evil, they cease to be so.