423.
IN THE GREAT SILENCE.—Here is the sea, here may we forget the town. It is
true that its bells are still ringing the Angelus—that solemn and foolish
yet sweet sound at the junction between day and night,—but one moment
more! now all is silent. Yonder lies the ocean, pale and brilliant; it
cannot speak. The sky is glistening with its eternal mute evening hues,
red, yellow, and green: it cannot speak. The small cliffs and rocks which
stretch out into the sea as if each one of them were endeavouring to find
the loneliest spot—they too are dumb. Beautiful and awful indeed is this
vast silence, which so suddenly overcomes us and makes our heart swell.
Alas! what deceit lies in this dumb beauty! How well could it speak, and
how evilly, too, if it wished! Its tongue, tied up and fastened, and its
face of suffering happiness—all this is but malice, mocking at your
sympathy: be it so! I do not feel ashamed to be the plaything of such
powers! but I pity thee, oh nature, because thou must be silent, even
though it be only malice that binds thy tongue: nay, I pity thee for the
sake of thy malice!
Alas! the silence deepens, and once again my heart swells within me: it is
startled by a fresh truth—it, too, is dumb; it likewise sneers when the
mouth calls out something to this beauty; it also enjoys the sweet malice
of its silence. I come to hate speaking; yea, even thinking. Behind every
word I utter do I not hear the laughter of error, imagination, and
insanity? Must I not laugh at my pity and mock my own mockery? Oh sea, oh
evening, ye are bad teachers! Ye teach man how to cease to be a man. Is he
to give himself up to you? Shall he become as you now are, pale,
brilliant, dumb, immense, reposing calmly upon himself?—exalted above
himself?
424.
FOR WHOM THE TRUTH EXISTS.—Up to the present time errors have been the
power most fruitful in consolations: we now expect the same effects from
accepted truths, and we have been waiting rather too long for them. What
if these truths could not give us this consolation we are looking for?
Would that be an argument against them? What have these truths in common
with the sick condition of suffering and degenerate men that they should
be useful to them? It is, of course, no proof against the truth of a plant
when it is clearly established that it does not contribute in any way to
the recovery of sick people. Formerly, however, people were so convinced
that man was the ultimate end of nature that they believed that knowledge
could reveal nothing that was not beneficial and useful to man—nay, there
could not, should not be, any other things in existence.
Perhaps all this leads to the conclusion that truth as an entity and a
coherent whole exists only for those natures who, like Aristotle, are at
once powerful and harmless, joyous and peaceful: just as none but these
would be in a position to seek such truths; for the others seek remedies
for themselves—however proud they may be of their intellect and its
freedom, they do not seek truth. Hence it comes about that these others
take no real joy in science, but reproach it for its coldness, dryness,
and inhumanity. This is the judgment of sick people about the games of the
healthy.—Even the Greek gods were unable to administer consolation; and
when at length the entire Greek world fell ill, this was a reason for the
destruction of such gods.
425.
WE GODS IN EXILE.—Owing to errors regarding their descent, their
uniqueness, their mission, and by claims based upon these errors, men have
again and again “surpassed themselves”; but through these same errors the
world has been filled with unspeakable suffering, mutual persecution,
suspicion, misunderstanding, and an even greater amount of individual
misery. Men have become suffering creatures in consequence of their
morals, and the sum-total of what they have obtained by those morals is
simply the feeling that they are far too good and great for this world,
and that they are enjoying merely a transitory existence on it. As yet the
“proud sufferer” is the highest type of mankind.
426.
THE COLOUR-BLINDNESS OF THINKERS.—How differently from us the Greeks must
have viewed nature, since, as we cannot help admitting, they were quite
colour-blind in regard to blue and green, believing the former to be a
deeper brown, and the latter to be yellow. Thus, for instance, they used
the same word to describe the colour of dark hair, of the corn-flower, and
the southern sea; and again they employed exactly the same expression for
the colour of the greenest herbs, the human skin, honey, and yellow
raisins: whence it follows that their greatest painters reproduced the
world they lived in only in black, white, red, and yellow. How different
and how much nearer to mankind, therefore, must nature have seemed to
them, since in their eyes the tints of mankind predominated also in
nature, and nature was, as it were, floating in the coloured ether of
humanity! (blue and green more than anything else dehumanise nature). It
is this defect which developed the playful facility that characterised the
Greeks of seeing the phenomena of nature as gods and demi-gods—that is to
say, as human forms.
Let this, however, merely serve as a simile for another supposition. Every
thinker paints his world and the things that surround him in fewer colours
than really exist, and he is blind to individual colours. This is
something more than a mere deficiency. Thanks to this nearer approach and
simplification, he imagines he sees in things those harmonies of colours
which possess a great charm, and may greatly enrich nature. Perhaps,
indeed, it was in this way that men first learnt to take delight in
viewing existence, owing to its being first of all presented to them in
one or two shades, and consequently harmonised. They practised these few
shades, so to speak, before they could pass on to any more. And even now
certain individuals endeavour to get rid of a partial colour-blindness
that they may obtain a richer faculty of sight and discernment, in the
course of which they find that they not only discover new pleasures, but
are also obliged to lose and give up some of their former ones.
427.
THE EMBELLISHMENT OF SCIENCE.—In the same way that the feeling that
“nature is ugly, wild, tedious—we must embellish it (_embellir la
nature_)”—brought about rococo horticulture, so does the view that
“science is ugly, difficult, dry, dreary and weary, we must embellish it,”
invariably gives rise to something called philosophy. This philosophy sets
out to do what all art and poetry endeavour to do, viz., giving amusement
above all else; but it wishes to do this, in conformity with its
hereditary pride, in a higher and more sublime fashion before an audience
of superior intellects. It is no small ambition to create for these
intellects a kind of horticulture, the principal charm of which—like that
of the usual gardening—is to bring about an optical illusion (by means of
temples, perspective, grottos, winding walks, and waterfalls, to speak in
similes), exhibiting science in a condensed form and in all kinds of
strange and unexpected illuminations, infusing into it as much indecision,
irrationality, and dreaminess as will enable us to walk about in it “as in
savage nature,” but without trouble and boredom.
Those who are possessed of this ambition even dream of making religion
superfluous—religion, which among men of former times served as the
highest kind of entertainment. All this is now running its course, and
will one day attain its highest tide. Even now hostile voices are being
raised against philosophy, exclaiming: “Return to science, to nature, and
the naturalness of science!” and thus an age may begin which may discover
the most powerful beauty precisely in the “savage and ugly” domains of
science, just as it is only since the time of Rousseau that we have
discovered the sense for the beauty of high mountains and deserts.
428.
TWO KINDS OF MORALISTS.—To see a law of nature for the first time, and to
see it whole (for example, the law of gravity or the reflection of light
and sound), and afterwards to explain such a law, are two different things
and concern different classes of minds. In the same way, those moralists
who observe and exhibit human laws and habits—moralists with
discriminating ears, noses, and eyes—differ entirely from those who
interpret their observations. These latter must above all be inventive,
and must possess an imagination untrammelled by sagacity and knowledge.
429.
THE NEW PASSION.—Why do we fear and dread a possible return to barbarism?
Is it because it would make people less happy than they are now? Certainly
not! the barbarians of all ages possessed more happiness than we do: let
us not deceive ourselves on this point!—but our impulse towards knowledge
is too widely developed to allow us to value happiness without knowledge,
or the happiness of a strong and fixed delusion: it is painful to us even
to imagine such a state of things! Our restless pursuit of discoveries and
divinations has become for us as attractive and indispensable as hapless
love to the lover, which on no account would he exchange for
indifference,—nay, perhaps we, too, are hapless lovers! Knowledge within
us has developed into a passion, which does not shrink from any sacrifice,
and at bottom fears nothing but its own extinction. We sincerely believe
that all humanity, weighed down as it is by the burden of this passion,
are bound to feel more exalted and comforted than formerly, when they had
not yet overcome the longing for the coarser satisfaction which
accompanies barbarism.
It may be that mankind may perish eventually from this passion for
knowledge!—but even that does not daunt us. Did Christianity ever shrink
from a similar thought? Are not love and death brother and sister? Yes, we
detest barbarism,—we all prefer that humanity should perish rather than
that knowledge should enter into a stage of retrogression. And, finally,
if mankind does not perish through some passion it will perish through
some weakness: which would we prefer? This is the main question. Do we
wish its end to be in fire and light, or in the sands?
430.
LIKEWISE HEROIC.—To do things of the worst possible odour, things of which
we scarcely dare to speak, but which are nevertheless useful and
necessary, is also heroic. The Greeks were not ashamed of numbering even
the cleansing of a stable among the great tasks of Hercules.
431.
THE OPINIONS OF OPPONENTS.—In order to measure the natural subtlety or
weakness of even the cleverest heads, we must consider the manner in which
they take up and reproduce the opinions of their adversaries, for the
natural measure of any intellect is thereby revealed. The perfect sage
involuntarily idealises his opponent and frees his inconsistencies from
all defects and accidentalities: he only takes up arms against him when he
has thus turned his opponent into a god with shining weapons.
432.
INVESTIGATOR AND ATTEMPTER.—There is no exclusive method of knowing in
science. We must deal with things tentatively, treating them by turns
harshly or justly, passionately or coldly. One investigator deals with
things like a policeman, another like a confessor, and yet a third like an
inquisitive traveller. We force something from them now by sympathy and
now by violence: the one is urged onward and led to see clearly by the
veneration which the secrets of the things inspire in him, and the other
again by the indiscretion and malice met with in the explanation of these
secrets. We investigators, like all conquerors, explorers, navigators, and
adventurers, are men of a daring morality, and we must put up with our
liability to be in the main looked upon as evil.
433.
SEEING WITH NEW EYES.—Presuming that by the term “beauty in art” is always
implied the imitation of something that is happy—and this I consider to be
true—according as an age or a people or a great autocratic individuality
represents happiness: what then is disclosed by the so-called realism of
our modern artists in regard to the happiness of our epoch? It is
undoubtedly its type of beauty which we now understand most easily and
enjoy best of any. As a consequence, we are induced to believe that this
happiness which is now peculiar to us is based on realism, on the sharpest
possible senses, and on the true conception of the actual—that is to say,
not upon reality, but upon what we know of reality. The results of science
have already gained so much in depth and extent that the artists of our
century have involuntarily become the glorifiers of scientific “blessings”
_per se_.
434.
INTERCESSION.—Unpretentious regions are subjects for great landscape
painters; remarkable and rare regions for inferior painters: for the great
things of nature and humanity must intercede in favour of their little,
mediocre, and vain admirers—whereas the great man intercedes in favour of
unassuming things.
435.
NOT TO PERISH UNNOTICED.—It is not only once but continuously that our
excellence and greatness are constantly crumbling away; the weeds that
grow among everything and cling to everything ruin all that is great in
us—the wretchedness of our surroundings, which we always try to overlook
and which is before our eyes at every hour of the day, the innumerable
little roots of mean and petty feelings which we allow to grow up all
about us, in our office, among our companions, or our daily labours. If we
permit these small weeds to escape our notice we shall perish through them
unnoticed!—And, if you must perish, then do so immediately and suddenly;
for in that case you will perhaps leave proud ruins behind you! and not,
as is now to be feared, merely molehills, covered with grass and
weeds—these petty and miserable conquerors, as humble as ever, and too
wretched even to triumph.
436.
CASUISTIC.—We are confronted with a very bitter and painful dilemma, for
the solution of which not every one’s bravery and character are equal:
when, as passengers on board a steamer, we discover that the captain and
the helmsman are making dangerous mistakes, and that we are their
superiors in nautical science—and then we ask ourselves: “What would
happen if we organised a mutiny against them, and made them both
prisoners? Is it not our duty to do so in view of our superiority? and
would not they in their turn be justified in putting us in irons for
encouraging disobedience?”
This is a simile for higher and worse situations; and the final question
to be decided is, What guarantees our superiority and our faith in
ourselves in such a case? Success? but in order to do that we must do the
very thing in which all the danger lies—not only dangerous for ourselves,
but also for the ship.
437.
PRIVILEGES.—The man who really owns himself, that is to say, he who has
finally conquered himself, regards it as his own right to punish, to
pardon, or to pity himself: he need not concede this privilege to any one,
though he may freely bestow it upon some one else—a friend, for
example—but he knows that in doing this he is conferring a right, and that
rights can only be conferred by one who is in full possession of power.
438.
MAN AND THINGS.—Why does the man not see the things? He himself is in the
way: he conceals the things.
439.
CHARACTERISTICS OF HAPPINESS.—There are two things common to all
sensations of happiness: a profusion of feelings, accompanied by animal
spirits, so that, like the fishes, we feel ourselves to be in our element
and play about in it. Good Christians will understand what Christian
exuberance means.
440.
NEVER RENOUNCE.—Renouncing the world without knowing it, like a nun,
results in a fruitless and perhaps melancholy solitude. This has nothing
in common with the solitude of the _vita contemplativa_ of the thinker:
when he chooses this form of solitude he wishes to renounce nothing; but
he would on the contrary regard it as a renunciation, a melancholy
destruction of his own self, if he were obliged to continue in the _vita
practica_. He forgoes this latter because he knows it, because he knows
himself. So he jumps into _his_ water, and thus gains _his_ cheerfulness.
441.
WHY THE NEAREST THINGS BECOME EVER MORE DISTANT FOR US.—The more we give
up our minds to all that has been and will be, the paler will become that
which actually is. When we live with the dead and participate in their
death, what are our “neighbours” to us? We grow lonelier simply because
the entire flood of humanity is surging round about us. The fire that
burns within us, and glows for all that is human, is continually
increasing—and hence we look upon everything that surrounds us as if it
had become more indifferent, more shadowy,—but our cold glance is
offensive.
442.
THE RULE.—“The rule always appears to me to be more interesting than the
exception”—whoever thinks thus has made considerable progress in
knowledge, and is one of the initiated.
443.
ON EDUCATION.—I have gradually come to see daylight in regard to the most
general defect in our methods of education and training: nobody learns,
nobody teaches, nobody wishes, to endure solitude.
444.
SURPRISE AT RESISTANCE.—Because we have reached the point of being able to
see through a thing we believe that henceforth it can offer us no further
resistance—and then we are surprised to find that we can see through it
and yet cannot penetrate through it. This is the same kind of foolishness
and surprise as that of the fly on a pane of glass.
445.
WHERE THE NOBLEST ARE MISTAKEN.—We give some one at length our dearest and
most valued possession, and then love has nothing more to give: but the
recipient of the gift will certainly not consider it as his dearest
possession, and will consequently be wanting in that full and complete
gratitude which we expect from him.
446.
HIERARCHY.—First and foremost, there are the superficial thinkers, and
secondly the profound thinkers—such as dive into the depths of a
thing,—thirdly, the thorough thinkers, who get to the bottom of a
thing—which is of much greater importance than merely diving into its
depths,—and, finally, those who leap head foremost into the marsh: though
this must not be looked upon as indicating either depth or thoroughness!
these are the lovers of obscurity.(13)
447.
MASTER AND PUPIL.—By cautioning his pupils against himself the teacher
shows his humanity.
448.
HONOURING REALITY.—How can we look at this exulting multitude without
tears and acquiescence? at one time we thought little of the object of
their exultation, and we should still think so if we ourselves had not
come through a similar experience. And what may these experiences lead us
to! what are our opinions! In order that we may not lose ourselves and our
reason we must fly from experiences. It was thus that Plato fled from
actuality, and wished to contemplate things only in their pale mental
concepts: he was full of sensitiveness, and knew how easily the waves of
this sensitiveness would drown his reason.—Must the sage therefore say, “I
will honour reality, but I will at the same time turn my back to it
because I know and dread it?” Ought he to behave as certain African tribes
do in the presence of their sovereign, whom they approach backwards, thus
showing their reverence at the same time as their dread?
449.
WHERE ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT?—Oh, how greatly it goes against my grain to
impose my own thoughts upon others! How I rejoice over every mood and
secret change within me as the result of which the thoughts of others are
victorious over my own! but from time to time I enjoy an even greater
satisfaction, when I am allowed to give away my intellectual possessions,
like the confessor sitting in his box and anxiously awaiting the arrival
of some distressed person who stands in need of consolation, and will be
only too glad to relate the full misery of his thoughts so that the
listener’s hand and heart will once again be filled, and the troubled soul
eased! Not only has the confessor no desire for renown: he would fain shun
gratitude as well, for it is obtrusive, and does not stand in awe of
solitude or silence.
But to live without a name, and even to be slightly sneered at; too
obscure to arouse envy or enmity; with a head free from fever, a handful
of knowledge, and a pocketful of experience; a physician, as it were, of
the poor in spirit, helping this one or that one whose head is troubled
with opinions, without the latter perceiving who has actually helped him!
without any desire to appear to be in the right in the presence of his
patient, or to carry off a victory. To speak to him in such a way that,
after a short and almost imperceptible hint or objection, the listener may
find out for himself what is right and proudly walk away! To be like an
obscure and unknown inn which turns no one away who is in need, but which
is afterwards forgotten and laughed at! To be without any advantages over
others—neither possessing better food nor purer air, nor a more cheerful
mind—but always to be giving away, returning, communicating, and becoming
poorer! To know how to be humble in order to be accessible to many people
and humiliating to none! To take a great deal of injustice on his
shoulders and creep through the cracks and crannies of all kinds of
errors, in order that we may reach many obscure souls on their secret
paths! ever in possession of some kind of love, and some kind of egoism
and self-enjoyment! in possession of power, and yet at the same time
hidden and resigned! constantly basking in the sunshine and sweetness of
grace, and yet knowing that quite near to us stands the ladder leading to
the sublime!—that would be life! that would indeed be a reason for a long
life!
450.
THE TEMPTATIONS OF KNOWLEDGE.—A glance through the gate of science acts
upon passionate spirits as the charm of charms: they will probably become
dreamers, or in the most favourable cases poets, so great is their desire
for the happiness of the man who can discern. Does it not enter into all
your senses, this note of sweet temptation by which science has announced
its joyful message in a thousand ways, and in the thousand and first way,
the noblest of all, “Begone, illusion! for then ‘Woe is me’ also vanished,
and with it woe itself is gone” (Marcus Aurelius).
451.
FOR WHOM A COURT JESTER IS NEEDFUL.—Those who are very beautiful, very
good, and very powerful scarcely ever learn the full and naked truth about
anything,—for in their presence we involuntarily lie a little, because we
feel their influence, and in view of this influence convey a truth in the
form of an adaptation (by falsifying the shades and degrees of facts, by
omitting or adding details, and withholding that which is insusceptible of
adaptation). If, however, in spite of all this, people of this description
insist upon hearing the truth, they must keep a court jester—a being with
the madman’s privilege of being unable to adapt himself.
452.
IMPATIENCE.—There is a certain degree of impatience in men of thought and
action, which in cases of failure at once drives them to the opposite
camp, induces them to take a great interest in it, and to give themselves
up to new undertakings—until here again the slowness of their success
drives them away. Thus they rove about, like so many reckless adventurers,
through the practices of many kingdoms and natures; and in the end, as the
result of their wide knowledge of men and things, acquired by their
unheard of travel and practice, and with a certain moderation of their
craving, they become powerful practical men. Hence a defect in character
may become the school of genius.
453.
A MORAL INTERREGNUM.—Who is now in a position to describe that which will
one day supplant moral feelings and judgments!—however certain we may be
that these are founded on error, and that the building erected upon such
foundations cannot be repaired: their obligation must gradually diminish
from day to day, in so far as the obligation of reason does not diminish!
To carry out the task of re-establishing the laws of life and action is
still beyond the power of our sciences of physiology and medicine, society
and solitude: though it is only from them that we can borrow the
foundation-stones of new ideals (but not the ideals themselves). Thus we
live a preliminary or after existence, according to our tastes and
talents, and the best we can do in this interregnum is to be as much as
possible our own “_reges_,” and to establish small experimental states. We
are experiments: if we want to be so!
454.
A DIGRESSION.—A book like this is not intended to be read through at once,
or to be read aloud. It is intended more particularly for reference,
especially on our walks and travels: we must take it up and put it down
again after a short reading, and, more especially, we ought not to be
amongst our usual surroundings.
455.
THE PRIMARY NATURE.—As we are now brought up, we begin by acquiring a
secondary nature, and we possess it when the world calls us mature, of
age, efficient. A few have sufficient of the serpent about them to cast
this skin some day, when their primary nature has come to maturity under
it. But in the majority of people the germ of it withers away.
456.
A VIRTUE IN PROCESS OF BECOMING.—Such assertions and promises as those of
the ancient philosophers on the unity of virtue and felicity, or that of
Christianity, “Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and
all these things shall be added unto you,” have never been made with
absolute sincerity, but always without a bad conscience nevertheless.
People were in the habit of boldly laying down principles—which they
wished to be true—exactly as if they were truth itself, in spite of all
appearances to the contrary, and in doing this they felt neither religious
nor moral compunction; for it was _in honorem maiorem_ of virtue or of God
that one had gone beyond truth, without, however, any selfish intention!
Many good people still act up to this degree of truthfulness: when they
feel unselfish they think it permissible to treat truth more lightly. Let
it be remembered that the word honesty is neither to be found among the
Socratic nor the Christian virtues: it is one of our most recent virtues,
not yet quite mature, frequently misconstrued and misunderstood, scarcely
conscious of itself—something in embryo, which we may either promote or
check according to our inclination.
457.
FINAL TACITURNITY.—There are some men who fare like the digger after
hidden treasures: they quite accidentally discover the carefully-preserved
secrets of another’s soul, and as a result come into the possession of
knowledge which it is often a heavy burden to bear. In certain
circumstances we may know the living and the dead, and sound their inmost
thoughts to such an extent that it becomes painful to us to speak to
others about them: at every word we utter we are afraid of being
indiscreet.—I can easily imagine a sudden silence on the part of the
wisest historian.
458.
THE GREAT PRIZE.—There is a very rare thing, but a very delightful one,
viz. the man with a nobly-formed intellect who possesses at the same time
the character and inclinations, and even meets with the experiences,
suited to such an intellect.
459.
THE MAGNANIMITY OF THE THINKER.—Both Rousseau and Schopenhauer were proud
enough to inscribe upon their lives the motto, _Vitam impendere vero_. And
how they both must have suffered in their pride because they could not
succeed in _verum impendere vitæ!_—_verum_, such as each of them
understood it,—when their lives ran side by side with their knowledge like
an uncouth bass which is not in tune with the melody.
Knowledge, however, would be in a bad way if it were measured out to every
thinker only in proportion as it can be adapted to his own person. And
thinkers would be in a bad way if their vanity were so great that they
could only endure such an adaptation, for the noblest virtue of a great
thinker is his magnanimity, which urges him on in his search for knowledge
to sacrifice himself and his life unshrinkingly, often shamefacedly, and
often with sublime scorn, and smiling.
460.
UTILISING OUR HOURS OF DANGER.—Those men and conditions whose every
movement may mean danger to our possessions, honour, and life or death,
and to those most dear to us, we shall naturally learn to know thoroughly.
Tiberius, for instance, must have meditated much more deeply on the
character and methods of government of the Emperor Augustus, and must have
known far more about them than even the wisest historian.
At the present day we all live, relatively speaking, in a security which
is much too great to make us true psychologists: some survey their
fellow-men as a hobby, others out of ennui, and others again merely from
habit; but never to the extent they would do if they were told “Discern or
perish!” As long as truths do not cut us to the quick we assume an
attitude of contempt towards them: they still appear to us too much like
the “winged dreams,” as if we could or could not have them at our
discretion, as if we could likewise be aroused from these truths as from a
dream!
461.
_HIC RHODUS, HIC SALTA._—Our music, which can and must change into
everything, because like the demon of the sea, it has no character of its
own: this music in former times devoted its attention to the Christian
savant, and transposed his ideals into sounds: why cannot it likewise find
those brighter, more cheerful, and universal sounds which correspond to
the ideal thinker?—a music which could rock itself at ease in the vast
floating vaults of the soul? So far our music has been so great and so
good; nothing seemed impossible to its powers. May it therefore prove
possible to create these three sensations at one time: sublimity, deep and
warm light, and rapture of the greatest possible consistency!
462.
SLOW CURES.—Chronic illnesses of the soul, like those of the body, are
very rarely due to one gross offence against physical and mental reason,
but as a general rule they arise from innumerable and petty negligences of
a minor order.—A man, for example, whose breathing becomes a trifle weaker
every day, and whose lungs, by inhaling too little air, are deprived of
their proper amount of exercise, will end by being struck down by some
chronic disease of the lungs. The only remedy for cases like these is a
countless number of minor exercises of a contrary tendency—making it a
rule, for example, to take a long and deep breath every quarter of an
hour, lying flat on the ground if possible. For this purpose a clock which
strikes the quarters should be chosen as a lifelong companion.
All these remedies are slow and trifling; but yet the man who wishes to
cure his soul will carefully consider a change, even in his least
important habits. Many a man will utter a cold and angry word to his
surroundings ten times a day without thinking about it, and he will forget
that after a few years it will have become a regular habit with him to put
his surroundings out of temper ten times a day. But he can also acquire
the habit of doing good to them ten times.
463.
ON THE SEVENTH DAY.—“You praise this as my creation? but I have only put
aside what was a burden to me! my soul is above the vanity of
creators.—You praise this as my resignation? but I have only stripped
myself of what had become burdensome! My soul is above the vanity of the
resigned ones!”
464.
THE DONOR’S MODESTY.—There is such a want of generosity in always posing
as the donor and benefactor, and showing one’s face when doing so! But to
give and bestow, and at the same time to conceal one’s name and favour! or
not to have a name at all, like nature, in whom this fact is more
refreshing to us than anything else—here at last we no more meet with the
giver and bestower, no more with a “gracious countenance.”—It is true that
you have now forfeited even this comfort, for you have placed a God in
this nature—and now everything is once again fettered and oppressed! Well?
are we never to have the right of remaining alone with ourselves? are we
always to be watched, guarded, surrounded by leading strings and gifts? If
there is always some one round about us, the best part of courage and
kindness will ever remain impossible of attainment in this world. Are we
not tempted to fly to hell before this continual obtrusiveness of heaven,
this inevitable supernatural neighbour? Never mind, it was only a dream;
let us wake up!
465.
AT A MEETING.—
_A._ What are you looking at? you have been standing here for a very long
time.
_B._ Always the new and the old over again! the helplessness of a thing
urges me on to plunge into it so deeply that I end by penetrating to its
deepest depths, and perceive that in reality it is not worth so very much.
At the end of all experiences of this kind we meet with a kind of sorrow
and stupor. I experience this on a small scale several times a day.
466.
A LOSS OF RENOWN.—What an advantage it is to be able to speak as a
stranger to mankind! When they take away our anonymity, and make us
famous, the gods deprive us of “half our virtue.”
467.
DOUBLY PATIENT.—“By doing this you will hurt many people.”—I know that,
and I also know that I shall have to suffer for it doubly: in the first
place out of pity for their suffering, and secondly from the revenge they
will take on me. But in spite of this I cannot help doing what I do.
468.
THE KINGDOM OF BEAUTY IS GREATER.—We move about in nature, cunning and
cheerful, in order that we may surprise everything in the beauty peculiar
to it; we make an effort, whether in sunshine or under a stormy sky, to
see a distant part of the coast with its rocks, bays, and olive and pine
trees under an aspect in which it achieves its perfection and
consummation. Thus also we should walk about among men as their
discoverers and explorers, meting out to them good and evil in order that
we may unveil the peculiar beauty which is seen with some in the sunshine,
in others under thunder-clouds, or with others again only in twilight and
under a rainy sky.
Are we then forbidden to enjoy the evil man like some savage landscape
which possesses its own bold and daring lines and luminous effects, while
this same man, so long as he behaves well, and in conformity with the law,
appears to us to be an error of drawing, and a mere caricature which
offends us like a defect in nature?—Yes, this is forbidden: for as yet we
have only been permitted to seek beauty in anything that is morally
good,—and this is sufficient to explain why we have found so little and
have been compelled to look for beauty without either flesh or bones!—in
the same way as evil men are familiar with innumerable kinds of happiness
which the virtuous never dream of, we may also find among them innumerable
types of beauty, many of them as yet undiscovered.
469.
THE INHUMANITY OF THE SAGE.—The heavy and grinding progress of the sage,
who in the words of the Buddhist song, “Wanders lonely like the
rhinoceros,” now and again stands in need of proofs of a conciliatory and
softened humanity, and not only proofs of those accelerated steps, those
polite and sociable witticisms; not only of humour and a certain
self-mockery, but likewise of contradictions and occasional returns to the
predominating inconsistencies. In order that he may not resemble the heavy
roller that rolls along like fate, the sage who wishes to teach must take
advantage of his defects, and utilise them for his own adornment; and when
saying “despise me” he will implore permission to be the advocate of a
presumptuous truth.
This sage wishes to lead you to the mountains, and he will perhaps
endanger your life: therefore as the price of his enjoyment he willingly
authorises you to take your revenge either before or afterwards on such a
guide. Do you remember what thoughts came into your head when he once led
you to a gloomy cavern over a slippery path? Your distrustful heart beat
rapidly, and said inwardly, “This guide might surely do something better
than crawl about here! he is one of those idle people who are full of
curiosity—is it not doing him too much honour to appear to attach any
value at all to him by following him?”
470.
MANY AT THE BANQUET.—How happy we are when we are fed like the birds by
the hand of some one who throws them their crumbs without examining them
too closely, or inquiring into their worthiness! To live like a bird which
comes and flies away, and does not carry its name on its beak! I take
great pleasure in satisfying my appetite at the banquet of the many.
471.
ANOTHER TYPE OF LOVE FOR ONE’S NEIGHBOUR.—Everything that is agitated,
noisy, fitful, and nervous forms a contrast to the great passion which,
glowing in the heart of man like a quiet and gloomy flame, and gathering
about it all that is flaming and ardent, gives to man the appearance of
coldness and indifference, and stamps a certain impassiveness on his
features. Such men are occasionally capable of showing their love for
their neighbour, but this love is different from that of sociable people
who are anxious to please. It is a mild, contemplative, and calm
amiability: these people, as it were, look out of the windows of the
castle which serves them as a stronghold, and consequently as a prison;
for the outlook into the far distance, the open air, and a different world
is so pleasant for them!
472.
NOT JUSTIFYING ONESELF.—
_A._ But why are you not willing to justify yourself?
_B._ I could do it in this instance, as in dozens of others; but I despise
the pleasure which lies in justification, for all that matters little to
me, and I would rather bear a stained reputation than give those petty
folks the spiteful pleasure of saying, “He takes these things very
seriously.” This is not true. Perhaps I ought to have more consideration
for myself, and look upon it as a duty to rectify erroneous opinions about
myself—I am too indifferent and too indolent regarding myself, and
consequently also regarding everything that is brought about through my
agency.
473.
WHERE TO BUILD ONE’S HOUSE.—If you feel great and productive in solitude,
society will belittle and isolate you, and _vice versa_. A powerful
mildness such as that of a father:—wherever this feeling takes possession
of you, _there_ build your house, whether in the midst of the multitude,
or on some silent spot. _Ubi pater sum, ibi patria._(14)
474.
THE ONLY MEANS.—“Dialectic is the only means of reaching the divine
essence, and penetrating behind the veil of appearance.” This declaration
of Plato in regard to dialectic is as solemn and passionate as that of
Schopenhauer in regard to the contrary of dialectic—and both are wrong.
For that to which they wish to point out the way to us does not exist.—And
so far have not all the great passions of mankind been passions for
something non-existent?—and all their ceremonies—ceremonies for something
non-existent also?
475.
BECOMING HEAVY.—You know him not; whatever weights he may attach to
himself he will nevertheless be able to raise them all with him. But you,
judging from the weak flapping of your own wings, come to the conclusion
that he wishes to remain below, merely because he does burden himself with
those weights.
476.
AT THE HARVEST THANKSGIVING OF THE INTELLECT.—There is a daily increase
and accumulation of experiences, events, opinions upon these experiences
and events, and dreams upon these opinions—a boundless and delightful
display of wealth! its aspect dazzles the eyes: I can no longer understand
how the poor in spirit can be called blessed! Occasionally, however, I
envy them when I am tired: for the superintendence of such vast wealth is
no easy task, and its weight frequently crushes all happiness.—Alas, if
only the mere sight of it were sufficient! If only we could be misers of
our knowledge!
477.
FREED FROM SCEPTICISM.—
_A._ Some men emerge from a general moral scepticism bad-tempered and
feeble, corroded, worm-eaten, and even partly consumed—but I on the other
hand, more courageous and healthier than ever, and with my instincts
conquered once more. Where a strong wind blows, where the waves are
rolling angrily, and where more than usual danger is to be faced, there I
feel happy. I did not become a worm, although I often had to work and dig
like a worm.
_B._ You have just ceased to be a sceptic; for you deny!
_A._ And in doing so I have learnt to say yea again.
478.
LET US PASS BY.—Spare him! Leave him in his solitude! Do you wish to crush
him down entirely? He became cracked like a glass into which some hot
liquid was poured suddenly—and he was such a precious glass!
479.
LOVE AND TRUTHFULNESS.—Through our love we have become dire offenders
against truth, and even habitual dissimulators and thieves, who give out
more things as true than seem to us to be true. On this account the
thinker must from time to time drive away those whom he loves (not
necessarily those who love him), so that they may show their sting and
wickedness, and cease to tempt him. Consequently the kindness of the
thinker will have its waning and waxing moon.
480.
INEVITABLE.—No matter what your experience may be, any one who does not
feel well disposed towards you will find in this experience some pretext
for disparaging you! You may undergo the greatest possible revolutions of
mind and knowledge, and at length, with the melancholy smile of the
convalescent, you may be able to step out into freedom and bright
stillness, and yet some one will say: “This fellow looks upon his illness
as an argument, and takes his impotence to be a proof of the impotence of
all others—he is vain enough to fall ill that he may feel the superiority
of the sufferer.” And again, if somebody were to break the chains that
bound him down, and wounded himself severely in doing so, some one else
would point at him mockingly and cry: “How awkward he is! there is a man
who had got accustomed to his chains, and yet he is fool enough to burst
them asunder!”
481.
TWO GERMANS.—If we compare Kant and Schopenhauer with Plato, Spinoza,
Pascal, Rousseau, and Goethe, with reference to their souls and not their
intellects, we shall see that the two first-named thinkers are at a
disadvantage: their thoughts do not constitute a passionate history of
their souls—we are not led to expect in them romance, crises,
catastrophies, or death struggles. Their thinking is not at the same time
the involuntary biography of a soul, but in the case of Kant merely of a
head; and in the case of Schopenhauer again merely the description and
reflection of a character (“the invariable”) and the pleasure which this
reflection causes, that is to say, the pleasure of meeting with an
intellect of the first order.
Kant, when he shimmers through his thoughts, appears to us as an honest
and honourable man in the best sense of the words, but likewise as an
insignificant one: he is wanting in breadth and power; he had not come
through many experiences, and his method of working did not allow him
sufficient time to undergo experiences. Of course, in speaking of
experiences, I do not refer to the ordinary external events of life, but
to those fatalities and convulsions which occur in the course of the most
solitary and quiet life which has some leisure and glows with the passion
for thinking. Schopenhauer has at all events one advantage over him; for
he at least was distinguished by a certain fierce ugliness of disposition,
which showed itself in hatred, desire, vanity, and suspicion: he was of a
rather more ferocious disposition, and had both time and leisure to
indulge this ferocity. But he lacked “development,” which was also wanting
in his range of thought: he had no “history.”
482.
SEEKING ONE’S COMPANY.—Are we then looking for too much when we seek the
company of men who have grown mild, agreeable to the taste, and nutritive,
like chestnuts which have been put into the fire and taken out just at the
right moment? Of men who expect little from life, and prefer to accept
this little as a present rather than as a merit of their own, as if it
were carried to them by birds and bees? Of men who are too proud ever to
feel themselves rewarded, and too serious in their passion for knowledge
and honesty to have time for or pleasure in fame? Such men we should call
philosophers; but they themselves will always find some more modest
designation.
483.
SATIATED WITH MANKIND.—
_A._ Seek for knowledge! Yes! but always as a man! What? must I always be
a spectator of the same comedy, and always play a part in the same comedy,
without ever being able to observe things with other eyes than those? and
yet there may be countless types of beings whose organs are better adapted
for knowledge than ours! At the end of all their searching for knowledge
what will men at length come to know? Their organs! which perhaps is as
much as to say: the impossibility of knowledge! misery and disgust!
_B._ This is a bad attack you have—reason is attacking you! to-morrow,
however, you will again be in the midst of knowledge, and hence of
irrationality—that is to say, delighted about all that is human. Let us go
to the sea!
484.
GOING OUR OWN WAY.—When we take the decisive step, and make up our minds
to follow our own path, a secret is suddenly revealed to us: it is clear
that all those who had hitherto been friendly to us and on intimate terms
with us judged themselves to be superior to us, and are offended now. The
best among them are indulgent, and are content to wait patiently until we
once more find the “right path”—they know it, apparently. Others make fun
of us, and pretend that we have been seized with a temporary attack of
mild insanity, or spitefully point out some seducer. The more malicious
say we are vain fools, and do their best to blacken our motives; while the
worst of all see in us their greatest enemy, some one who is thirsting for
revenge after many years of dependence,—and are afraid of us. What, then,
are we to do? My own opinion is that we should begin our sovereignty by
promising to all our acquaintances in advance a whole year’s amnesty for
sins of every kind.
485.
FAR-OFF PERSPECTIVES.—
_A._ But why this solitude?
_B._ I am not angry with anybody. But when I am alone it seems to me that
I can see my friends in a clearer and rosier light than when I am with
them; and when I loved and felt music best I lived far from it. It would
seem that I must have distant perspectives in order that I may think well
of things.
486.
GOLD AND HUNGER.—Here and there we meet with a man who changes into gold
everything that he touches. But some fine evil day he will discover that
he himself must starve through this gift of his. Everything around him is
brilliant, superb, and unapproachable in its ideal beauty, and now he
eagerly longs for things which it is impossible for him to turn into
gold—and how intense is this longing! like that of a starving man for a
meal! Query: What will he seize?
487.
SHAME.—Look at that noble steed pawing the ground, snorting, longing for a
ride, and loving its accustomed rider—but, shameful to relate, the rider
cannot mount to-day, he is tired.—Such is the shame felt by the weary
thinker in the presence of his own philosophy!
488.
AGAINST THE WASTE OF LOVE.—Do we not blush when we surprise ourselves in a
state of violent aversion? Well, then, we should also blush when we find
ourselves possessed of strong affections on account of the injustice
contained in them. More: there are people who feel their hearts weighed
down and oppressed when some one gives them the benefit of his love and
sympathy to the extent that he deprives others of a share. The tone of his
voice reveals to us the fact that we have been specially selected and
preferred! but, alas! I am not thankful for being thus selected: I
experience within myself a certain feeling of resentment against him who
wishes to distinguish me in this way—he shall not love me at the expense
of others! I shall always try to look after myself and to endure myself,
and my heart is often filled to overflowing, and with some reason. To such
a man nothing ought to be given of which others stand so greatly in need.
489.
FRIENDS IN NEED.—We may occasionally remark that one of our friends
sympathises with another more than with us. His delicacy is troubled
thereby, and his selfishness is not equal to the task of breaking down his
feelings of affection: in such a case we should facilitate the separation
for him, and estrange him in some way in order to widen the distance
between us.—This is also necessary when we fall into a habit of thinking
which might be detrimental to him: our affection for him should induce us
to ease his conscience in separating himself from us by means of some
injustice which we voluntarily take upon ourselves.
490.
THOSE PETTY TRUTHS.—“You know all that, but you have never lived through
it—so I will not accept your evidence. Those ‘petty truths’—you deem them
petty because you have not paid for them with your blood!”—But are they
really great, simply because they have been bought at so high a price? and
blood is always too high a price!—“Do you really think so? How stingy you
are with your blood!”
491.
SOLITUDE, THEREFORE!—
_A._ So you wish to go back to your desert?
_B._ I am not a quick thinker; I must wait for myself a long time—it is
always later and later before the water from the fountain of my own ego
spurts forth, and I have often to go thirsty longer than suits my
patience. That is why I retire into solitude in order that I may not have
to drink from the common cisterns. When I live in the midst of the
multitude my life is like theirs, and I do not think like myself; but
after some time it always seems to me as if the multitude wished to banish
me from myself and to rob me of my soul. Then I get angry with all these
people, and afraid of them; and I must have the desert to become well
disposed again.
492.
UNDER THE SOUTH WIND.—
_A._ I can no longer understand myself! It was only yesterday that I felt
myself so tempestuous and ardent, and at the same time so warm and sunny
and exceptionally bright! but to-day! Now everything is calm, wide,
oppressive, and dark like the lagoon at Venice. I wish for nothing, and
draw a deep breath, and yet I feel inwardly indignant at this “wish for
nothing”—so the waves rise and fall in the ocean of my melancholy.
_B._ You describe a petty, agreeable illness. The next wind from the
north-east will blow it away.
_A._ Why so?
493.
ON ONE’S OWN TREE.—
_A._ No thinker’s thoughts give me so much pleasure as my own: this, of
course, proves nothing in favour of their value; but I should be foolish
to neglect fruits which are tasteful to me only because they happen to
grow on my own tree!—and I was once such a fool.
_B._ Others have the contrary feeling: which likewise proves nothing in
favour of their thoughts, nor yet is it any argument against their value.
494.
THE LAST ARGUMENT OF THE BRAVE MAN.—There are snakes in this little clump
of trees.—Very well, I will rush into the thicket and kill them.—But by
doing that you will run the risk of falling a victim to them, and not they
to you.—But what do I matter?
495.
OUR TEACHERS.—During our period of youth we select our teachers and guides
from our own times, and from those circles which we happen to meet with:
we have the thoughtless conviction that the present age must have teachers
who will suit us better than any others, and that we are sure to find them
without having to look very far. Later on we find that we have to pay a
heavy penalty for this childishness: we have to expiate our teachers in
ourselves, and then perhaps we begin to look for the proper guides. We
look for them throughout the whole world, including even present and past
ages—but perhaps it may be too late, and at the worst we discover that
they lived when we were young—and that at that time we lost our
opportunity.
496.
THE EVIL PRINCIPLE.—Plato has marvellously described how the philosophic
thinker must necessarily be regarded as the essence of depravity in the
midst of every existing society: for as the critic of all its morals he is
naturally the antagonist of the moral man, and, unless he succeeds in
becoming the legislator of new morals, he lives long in the memory of men
as an instance of the “evil principle.” From this we may judge to how
great an extent the city of Athens, although fairly liberal and fond of
innovations, abused the reputation of Plato during his lifetime. What
wonder then that he—who, as he has himself recorded, had the “political
instinct” in his body—made three different attempts in Sicily, where at
that time a united Mediterranean Greek State appeared to be in process of
formation?
It was in this State, and with its assistance, that Plato thought he could
do for the Greeks what Mohammed did for the Arabs several centuries later:
viz. establishing both minor and more important customs, and especially
regulating the daily life of every man. His ideas were quite practicable
just as certainly as those of Mohammed were practicable; for even much
more incredible ideas, those of Christianity, proved themselves to be
practicable! a few hazards less and a few hazards more—and then the world
would have witnessed the Platonisation of Southern Europe; and, if we
suppose that this state of things had continued to our own days, we should
probably be worshipping Plato now as the “good principle.” But he was
unsuccessful, and so his traditional character remains that of a dreamer
and a Utopian—stronger epithets than these passed away with ancient
Athens.
497.
THE PURIFYING EYE.—We have the best reason for speaking of “genius” in
men—for example, Plato, Spinoza, and Goethe—whose minds appear to be but
loosely linked to their character and temperament, like winged beings
which easily separate themselves from them, and then rise far above them.
On the other hand, those who never succeeded in cutting themselves loose
from their temperament, and who knew how to give to it the most
intellectual, lofty, and at times even cosmic expression (Schopenhauer,
for instance) have always been very fond of speaking about their genius.
These geniuses could not rise above themselves, but they believed that,
fly where they would, they would always find and recover themselves—this
is their “greatness,” and this can be greatness!—The others who are
entitled to this name possess the pure and purifying eye which does not
seem to have sprung out of their temperament and character, but separately
from them, and generally in contradiction to them, and looks out upon the
world as on a God whom it loves. But even people like these do not come
into possession of such an eye all at once: they require practice and a
preliminary school of sight, and he who is really fortunate will at the
right moment also fall in with a teacher of pure sight.
498.
NEVER DEMAND!—You do not know him! it is true that he easily and readily
submits both to men and things, and that he is kind to both—his only wish
is to be left in peace—but only in so far as men and things do not
_demand_ his submission. Any demand makes him proud, bashful, and warlike.
499.
THE EVIL ONE.—“Only the solitary are evil!”—thus spake Diderot, and
Rousseau at once felt deeply offended. Thus he proved that Diderot was
right. Indeed, in society, or amid social life, every evil instinct is
compelled to restrain itself, to assume so many masks, and to press itself
so often into the Procrustean bed of virtue, that we are quite justified
in speaking of the martyrdom of the evil man. In solitude, however, all
this disappears. The evil man is still more evil in solitude—and
consequently for him whose eye sees only a drama everywhere he is also
more beautiful.
500.
AGAINST THE GRAIN.—A thinker may for years at a time force himself to
think against the grain: that is, not to pursue the thoughts that spring
up within him, but, instead, those which he is compelled to follow by the
exigencies of his office, an established division of time, or any
arbitrary duty which he may find it necessary to fulfil. In the long run,
however, he will fall ill; for this apparently moral self-command will
destroy his nervous system as thoroughly and completely as regular
debauchery.
501.
MORTAL SOULS.—Where knowledge is concerned perhaps the most useful
conquest that has ever been made is the abandonment of the belief in the
immortality of the soul. Humanity is henceforth at liberty to wait: men
need no longer be in a hurry to swallow badly-tested ideas as they had to
do in former times. For in those times the salvation of this poor
“immortal soul” depended upon the extent of the knowledge which could be
acquired in the course of a short existence: decisions had to be reached
from one day to another, and “knowledge” was a matter of dreadful
importance!
Now we have acquired good courage for errors, experiments, and the
provisional acceptance of ideas—all this is not so very important!—and for
this very reason individuals and whole races may now face tasks so vast in
extent that in former years they would have looked like madness, and
defiance of heaven and hell. Now we have the right to experiment upon
ourselves! Yes, men have the right to do so! the greatest sacrifices have
not yet been offered up to knowledge—nay, in earlier periods it would have
been sacrilege, and a sacrifice of our eternal salvation, even to surmise
such ideas as now precede our actions.
502.
ONE WORD FOR THREE DIFFERENT CONDITIONS.—When in a state of passion one
man will be forced to let loose the savage, dreadful, unbearable animal.
Another when under the influence of passion will raise himself to a high,
noble, and lofty demeanour, in comparison with which his usual self
appears petty. A third, whose whole person is permeated with nobility of
feeling, has also the most noble storm and stress: and in this state he
represents Nature in her state of savageness and beauty, and stands only
one degree lower than Nature in her periods of greatness and serenity,
which he usually represents. It is while in this state of passion,
however, that men understand him better, and venerate him more highly at
these moments—for then he is one step nearer and more akin to them. They
feel at once delighted and horrified at such a sight and call it—divine.
503.
FRIENDSHIP.—The objection to a philosophic life that it renders us useless
to our friends would never have arisen in a modern mind: it belongs rather
to classical antiquity. Antiquity knew the stronger bonds of friendship,
meditated upon it, and almost took it to the grave with it. This is the
advantage it has over us: we, on the other hand, can point to our
idealisation of sexual love. All the great excellencies of ancient
humanity owed their stability to the fact that man was standing side by
side with man, and that no woman was allowed to put forward the claim of
being the nearest and highest, nay even sole object of his love, as the
feeling of passion would teach. Perhaps our trees do not grow so high now
owing to the ivy and the vines that cling round them.
504.
RECONCILIATION.—Should it then be the task of philosophy to reconcile what
the child has learnt with what the man has come to recognise? Should
philosophy be the task of young men because they stand midway between
child and man and possess intermediate necessities? It would almost appear
to be so if you consider at what ages of their life philosophers are now
in the habit of setting forth their conceptions: at a time when it is too
late for faith and too early for knowledge.