PRACTICAL PEOPLE.—We thinkers have the right of deciding good taste in all
things, and if necessary of decreeing it. The practical people finally
receive it from us: their dependence upon us is incredibly great, and is
one of the most ridiculous spectacles in the world, little though they
themselves know it and however proudly they like to carp at us unpractical
people. Nay, they would even go so far as to belittle their practical life
if we should show a tendency to despise it—whereto at times we might be
urged on by a slightly vindictive feeling.
506.
THE NECESSARY DESICCATION OF EVERYTHING GOOD.—What! must we conceive of a
work exactly in the spirit of the age that has produced it? but we
experience greater delight and surprise, and get more information out of
it when we do not conceive it in this spirit! Have you not remarked that
every new and good work, so long as it is exposed to the damp air of its
own age is least valuable—just because it still has about it all the odour
of the market, of opposition, of modern ideas, and of all that is
transient from day to day? Later on, however, it dries up, its “actuality”
dies away: and then only does it obtain its deep lustre and its
perfume—and also, if it is destined for it, the calm eye of eternity.
507.
AGAINST THE TYRANNY OF TRUTH.—Even if we were mad enough to consider all
our opinions as truth, we should nevertheless not wish them alone to
exist. I cannot see why we should ask for an autocracy and omnipotence of
truth: it is sufficient for me to know that it is a great power. Truth,
however, must meet with opposition and be able to fight, and we must be
able to rest from it at times in falsehood—otherwise truth will grow
tiresome, powerless, and insipid, and will render us equally so.
508.
NOT TO TAKE A THING PATHETICALLY.—What we do to benefit ourselves should
not bring us in any moral praise, either from others or from ourselves,
and the same remark applies to those things which we do to please
ourselves. It is looked upon as _bon ton_ among superior men to refrain
from taking things pathetically in such cases, and to refrain from all
pathetic feelings: the man who has accustomed himself to this has
retrieved his _naïveté_.
509.
THE THIRD EYE.—What! You are still in need of the theatre! are you still
so young? Be wise, and seek tragedy and comedy where they are better
acted, and where the incidents are more interesting, and the actors more
eager. It is indeed by no means easy to be merely a spectator in these
cases—but learn! and then, amid all difficult or painful situations, you
will have a little gate leading to joy and refuge, even when your passions
attack you. Open your stage eye, that big third eye of yours, which looks
out into the world through the other two.
510.
ESCAPING FROM ONE’S VIRTUES.—Of what account is a thinker who does not
know how to escape from his own virtues occasionally! Surely a thinker
should be more than “a moral being”!
511.
THE TEMPTRESS.—Honesty is the great temptress of all fanatics.(15) What
seemed to tempt Luther in the guise of the devil or a beautiful woman, and
from which he defended himself in that uncouth way of his, was probably
nothing but honesty, and perhaps in a few rarer cases even truth.
512.
BOLD TOWARDS THINGS.—The man who, in accordance with his character, is
considerate and timid towards persons, but is courageous and bold towards
things, is afraid of new and closer acquaintances, and limits his old ones
in order that he may thus make his incognito and his inconsiderateness
coincide with truth.
513.
LIMITS AND BEAUTY.—Are you looking for men with a fine culture? Then you
will have to be satisfied with restricted views and sights, exactly as
when you are looking for fine countries.—There are, of course, such
panoramic men: they are like panoramic regions, instructive and
marvellous: but not beautiful.
514.
TO THE STRONGER.—Ye stronger and arrogant intellects, we ask you for only
one thing: throw no further burdens upon our shoulders, but take some of
our burdens upon your own, since ye are stronger! but ye delight in doing
the exact contrary: for ye wish to soar, so that we must carry your burden
in addition to our own—we must crawl!
515.
THE INCREASE OF BEAUTY.—Why has beauty increased by the progress of
civilisation? because the three occasions for ugliness appear ever more
rarely among civilised men: first, the wildest outbursts of ecstasy;
secondly, extreme bodily exertion, and, thirdly, the necessity of inducing
fear by one’s very sight and presence—a matter which is so frequent and of
so great importance in the lower and more dangerous stages of culture that
it even lays down the proper gestures and ceremonials and makes ugliness a
duty.
516.
NOT TO IMBUE OUR NEIGHBOURS WITH OUR OWN DEMON.—Let us in our age continue
to hold the belief that benevolence and beneficence are the
characteristics of a good man; but let us not fail to add “provided that
in the first place he exhibits his benevolence and beneficence towards
himself.” For if he acts otherwise—that is to say, if he shuns, hates, or
injures himself—he is certainly not a good man. He then merely saves
himself through others: and let these others take care that they do not
come to grief through him, however well disposed he may appear to be to
them!—but to shun and hate one’s own ego, and to live in and for others,
this has up to the present, with as much thoughtlessness as conviction,
been looked upon as “unselfish,” and consequently as “good.”
517.
TEMPTING INTO LOVE.—We ought to fear a man who hates himself; for we are
liable to become the victims of his anger and revenge. Let us therefore
try to tempt him into self-love.
518.
RESIGNATION.—What is resignation? It is the most comfortable position of a
patient, who, after having suffered a long time from tormenting pains in
order to find it, at last became tired—and then found it.
519.
DECEPTION.—When you wish to act you must close the door upon doubt, said a
man of action.—And are you not afraid of being deceived in doing so?
replied the man of a contemplative mind.
520.
ETERNAL OBSEQUIES.—Both within and beyond the confines of history we might
imagine that we were listening to a continual funeral oration: we have
buried, and are still burying, all that we have loved best, our thoughts,
and our hopes, receiving in exchange pride, _gloria mundi_—that is, the
pomp of the graveside speech. It is thus that everything is made good!
Even at the present time the funeral orator remains the greatest public
benefactor.
521.
EXCEPTIONAL VANITY.—Yonder man possesses one great quality which serves as
a consolation for him: his look passes with contempt over the remainder of
his being, and almost his entire character is included in this. But he
recovers from himself when, as it were, he approaches his sanctuary;
already the road leading to it appears to him to be an ascent on broad
soft steps—and yet, ye cruel ones, ye call him vain on this account!
522.
WISDOM WITHOUT EARS.—To hear every day what is said about us, or even to
endeavour to discover what people think of us, will in the end kill even
the strongest man. Our neighbours permit us to live only that they may
exercise a daily claim upon us! They certainly would not tolerate us if we
wished to claim rights over them, and still less if we wished to be right!
In short, let us offer up a sacrifice to the general peace, let us not
listen when they speak of us, when they praise us, blame us, wish for us,
or hope for us—nay, let us not even think of it.
523.
A QUESTION OF PENETRATION.—When we are confronted with any manifestation
which some one has permitted us to see, we may ask: what is it meant to
conceal? What is it meant to draw our attention from? What prejudices does
it seek to raise? and again, how far does the subtlety of the
dissimulation go? and in what respect is the man mistaken?
524.
THE JEALOUSY OF THE LONELY ONES.—This is the difference between sociable
and solitary natures, provided that both possess an intellect: the former
are satisfied, or nearly satisfied, with almost anything whatever; from
the moment that their minds have discovered a communicable and happy
version of it they will be reconciled even with the devil himself! But the
lonely souls have their silent rapture, and their speechless agony about a
thing: they hate the ingenious and brilliant display of their inmost
problems as much as they dislike to see the women they love too loudly
dressed—they watch her mournfully in such a case, as if they were just
beginning to suspect that she was desirous of pleasing others. This is the
jealousy which all lonely thinkers and passionate dreamers exhibit with
regard to the _esprit_.
525.
THE EFFECT OF PRAISE.—Some people become modest when highly praised,
others insolent.
526.
UNWILLING TO BE A SYMBOL.—I sympathise with princes: they are not at
liberty to discard their high rank even for a short time, and thus they
come to know people only from the very uncomfortable position of constant
dissimulation—their continual compulsion to represent something actually
ends by making solemn ciphers of them.—Such is the fate of all those who
deem it their duty to be symbols.
527.
THE HIDDEN MEN.—Have you never come across those people who check and
restrain even their enraptured hearts, and who would rather become mute
than lose the modesty of moderation? and have you never met those
embarrassing, and yet so often good-natured people who do not wish to be
recognised, and who time and again efface the tracks they have made in the
sand? and who even deceive others as well as themselves in order to remain
obscure and hidden?
528.
UNUSUAL FORBEARANCE.—It is often no small indication of kindness to be
unwilling to criticise some one, and even to refuse to think of him.
529.
HOW MEN AND NATIONS GAIN LUSTRE.—How many really individual actions are
left undone merely because before performing them we perceive or suspect
that they will be misunderstood!—those actions, for example, which have
some intrinsic value, both in good and evil. The more highly an age or a
nation values its individuals, therefore, and the more right and
ascendancy we accord them, the more will actions of this kind venture to
make themselves known,—and thus in the long run a lustre of honesty, of
genuineness in good and evil, will spread over entire ages and nations, so
that they—the Greeks, for example—like certain stars, will continue to
shed light for thousands of years after their sinking.
530.
DIGRESSIONS OF THE THINKER.—The course of thought in certain men is strict
and inflexibly bold. At times it is even cruel towards such men, although
considered individually they may be gentle and pliable. With well-meaning
hesitation they will turn the matter ten times over in their heads, but
will at length continue their strict course. They are like streams that
wind their way past solitary hermitages: there are places in their course
where the stream plays hide and seek with itself, and indulges in short
idylls with islets, trees, grottos, and cascades—and then it rushes ahead
once more, passes by the rocks, and forces its way through the hardest
stones.
531.
DIFFERENT FEELINGS TOWARDS ART.—From the time when we begin to live as a
hermit, consuming and consumed, our only company being deep and prolific
thoughts, we expect from art either nothing more, or else something quite
different from what we formerly expected—in a word, we change our taste.
For in former times we wished to penetrate for a moment by means of art
into the element in which we are now living permanently: at that time we
dreamt ourselves into the rapture of a possession which we now actually
possess. Indeed, flinging away from us for the time being what we now
have, and imagining ourselves to be poor, or to be a child, a beggar, or a
fool, may now at times fill us with delight.
532.
“LOVE EQUALISES.”—Love wishes to spare the other to whom it devotes itself
any feeling of strangeness: as a consequence it is permeated with disguise
and simulation; it keeps on deceiving continuously, and feigns an equality
which in reality does not exist. And all this is done so instinctively
that women who love deny this simulation and constant tender trickery, and
have even the audacity to assert that love equalises (in other words that
it performs a miracle)!
This phenomenon is a simple matter if one of the two permits himself or
herself to be loved, and does not deem it necessary to feign, but leaves
this to the other. No drama, however, could offer a more intricate and
confused instance than when both persons are passionately in love with one
another; for in this case both are anxious to surrender and to endeavour
to conform to the other, and finally they are both at a loss to know what
to imitate and what to feign. The beautiful madness of this spectacle is
too good for this world, and too subtle for human eyes.
533.
WE BEGINNERS.—How many things does an actor see and divine when he watches
another on the stage! He notices at once when a muscle fails in some
gesture; he can distinguish those little artificial tricks which are so
calmly practised separately before the mirror, and are not in conformity
with the whole; he feels when the actor is surprised on the stage by his
own invention, and when he spoils it amid this surprise.—How differently,
again, does a painter look at some one who happens to be moving before
him! He will see a great deal that does not actually exist in order to
complete the actual appearance of the person, and to give it its full
effect. In his mind he attempts several different illuminations of the
same object, and divides the whole by an additional contrast.—Oh, that we
now possessed the eyes of such an actor and such a painter for the
province of the human soul!
534.
SMALL DOSES.—If we wish a change to be as deep and radical as possible, we
must apply the remedy in minute doses, but unremittingly for long periods.
What great action can be performed all at once? Let us therefore be
careful not to exchange violently and precipitately the moral conditions
with which we are familiar for a new valuation of things,—nay, we may even
wish to continue living in the old way for a long time to come, until
probably at some very remote period we become aware of the fact that the
new valuation has made itself the predominating power within us, and that
its minute doses to which we must henceforth become accustomed have set up
a new nature within us.—We now also begin to understand that the last
attempt at a great change of valuations—that which concerned itself with
political affairs (the “great revolution”)—was nothing more than a
pathetic and sanguinary piece of quackery which, by means of sudden
crises, was able to inspire a credulous Europe with the hope of a sudden
recovery, and has therefore made all political invalids impatient and
dangerous up to this very moment.
535.
TRUTH REQUIRES POWER.—Truth in itself is no power at all, in spite of all
that flattering rationalists are in the habit of saying to the contrary.
Truth must either attract power to its side, or else side with power, for
otherwise it will perish again and again. This has already been
sufficiently demonstrated, and more than sufficiently!
536.
THE THUMBSCREW.—It is disgusting to observe with what cruelty every one
charges his two or three private virtues to the account of others who may
perhaps not possess them, and whom he torments and worries with them. Let
us therefore deal humanely with the “sense of honesty,” although we may
possess in it a thumbscrew with which we can worry to death all these
presumptuous egoists who even yet wish to impose their own beliefs upon
the whole world—we have tried this thumbscrew on ourselves!
537.
MASTERY.—We have reached mastery when we neither mistake nor hesitate in
the achievement.
538.
THE MORAL INSANITY OF GENIUS.—In a certain category of great intellects we
may observe a painful and partly horrible spectacle: in their most
productive moments their flights aloft and into the far distance appear to
be out of harmony with their general constitution and to exceed their
power in one way or another, so that each time there remains a deficiency,
and also in the long run a defectiveness in the entire machinery, which
latter is manifested among those highly intellectual natures by various
kinds of moral and intellectual symptoms more regularly than by conditions
of bodily distress.
Thus those incomprehensible characteristics of their nature—all their
timidity, vanity, hatefulness, envy, their narrow and narrowing
disposition—and that too personal and awkward element in natures like
those of Rousseau and Schopenhauer, may very well be the consequences of a
periodical attack of heart disease; and this in its turn may be the result
of a nervous complaint, and this latter the consequence of ——(16)
So long as genius dwells within us we are full of audacity, yea, almost
mad, and heedless of health, life, and honour; we fly through the day as
free and swift as an eagle, and in the darkness we feel as confident as an
owl.—But let genius once leave us and we are instantly overcome by a
feeling of the most profound despondency: we can no longer understand
ourselves; we suffer from everything that we experience and do not
experience; we feel as if we were in the midst of shelterless rocks with
the tempest raging round us, and we are at the same time like pitiful
childish souls, afraid of a rustle or a shadow.—Three-fourths of all the
evil committed in the world is due to timidity; and this is above all a
physiological process.
539.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU WANT?—Have you never been troubled by the fear that
you might not be at all fitted for recognising what is true? by the fear
that your senses might be too dull, and even your delicacy of sight far
too blunt? If you could only perceive, even once, to what extent your
volition dominates your sight! How, for example, you wished yesterday to
see more than some one else, while to-day you wish to see it differently!
and how from the start you were anxious to see something which would be in
conformity with or in opposition to anything that people thought they had
observed up to the present. Oh, those shameful cravings! How often you
keep your eyes open for what is efficacious, for what is soothing, just
because you happen to be tired at the moment! Always full of secret
predeterminations of what truth should be like, so that you—you,
forsooth!—might accept it! or do you think that to-day, because you are as
frozen and dry as a bright winter morning, and because nothing is weighing
on your mind, you have better eyesight! Are not ardour and enthusiasm
necessary to do justice to the creations of thought?—and this indeed is
what is called sight! as if you could treat matters of thought any
differently from the manner in which you treat men. In all relations with
thought there is the same morality, the same honesty of purpose, the same
_arrière-pensée_, the same slackness, the same faint-heartedness—your
whole lovable and hateful self! Your physical exhaustion will lend the
things pale colours whilst your feverishness will turn them into monsters!
Does not your morning show the things in a different light from the
evening? Are you not afraid of finding in the cave of all knowledge your
own phantom, the veil in which truth is wrapped up and hidden from your
sight? Is it not a dreadful comedy in which you so thoughtlessly wish to
take part?
540.
LEARNING.—Michelangelo considered Raphael’s genius as having been acquired
by study, and upon his own as a natural gift: learning as opposed to
talent; though this is mere pedantry, with all due respect to the great
pedant himself. For what is talent but a name for an older piece of
learning, experience, exercise, appropriation, and incorporation, perhaps
as far back as the times of our ancestors, or even earlier! And again: he
who learns forms his own talents, only learning is not such an easy matter
and depends not only upon our willingness, but also upon our being able to
learn at all.
Jealousy often prevents this in an artist, or that pride which, when it
experiences any strange feeling, at once assumes an attitude of defence
instead of an attitude of scholarly receptiveness. Raphael, like Goethe,
lacked this pride, on which account they were great learners, and not
merely the exploiters of those quarries which had been formed by the
manifold genealogy of their forefathers. Raphael vanishes before our eyes
as a learner in the midst of that assimilation of what his great rival
called _his_ “nature”: this noblest of all thieves daily carried off a
portion of it; but before he had appropriated all the genius of
Michelangelo he died—and the final series of his works, because it is the
beginning of a new plan of study, is less perfect and good, for the simple
reason that the great student was interrupted by death in the midst of his
most difficult task, and took away with him that justifying and final goal
which he had in view.
541.
HOW WE SHOULD TURN TO STONE.—By slowly, very, very slowly, becoming hard
like a precious stone, and at last lie still, a joy to all eternity.
542.
THE PHILOSOPHER AND OLD AGE.—It is not wise to permit evening to act as a
judge of the day; for only too often in this case weariness becomes the
judge of success and good will. We should also take the greatest
precautions in regard to everything connected with old age and its
judgment upon life, more especially since old age, like the evening, is
fond of assuming a new and charming morality, and knows well enough how to
humiliate the day by the glow of the evening skies, twilight and a
peaceful and wistful silence. The reverence which we feel for an old man,
especially if he is an old thinker and sage, easily blinds us to the
deterioration of his intellect, and it is always necessary to bring to
light the hidden symptoms of such a deterioration and lassitude, that is
to say, to uncover the physiological phenomenon which is still concealed
behind the old man’s moral judgments and prejudices, in case we should be
deceived by our veneration for him, and do something to the disadvantage
of knowledge. For it is not seldom that the illusion of a great moral
renovation and regeneration takes possession of the old man. Basing his
views upon this, he then proceeds to express his opinions on the work and
development of his life as if he had only then for the first time become
clearsighted—and nevertheless it is not wisdom, but fatigue, which prompts
his present state of well-being and his positive judgments.
The most dangerous indication of this weariness is above all the belief in
genius, which as a rule only arises in great and semi-great men of
intellect at this period of their lives: the belief in an exceptional
position, and exceptional rights. The thinker who thus believes himself to
be inspired by genius henceforth deems it permissible for him to take
things more easily, and takes advantage of his position as a genius to
decree rather than to prove. It is probable, however, that the need felt
by the weary intellect for alleviation is the main source of this
belief—it precedes it in time, though appearances may indicate the
contrary.
At this time too, as the result of the love which all weary and old people
feel for enjoyment, such men as those I am speaking of wish to enjoy the
results of their thinking instead of again testing them and scattering the
seeds abroad once more. This leads them to make their thoughts palatable
and enjoyable, and to take away their dryness, coldness, and want of
flavour; and thus it comes about that the old thinker apparently raises
himself above his life’s work, while in reality he spoils it by infusing
into it a certain amount of fantasy, sweetness, flavour, poetic mists, and
mystic lights. This is how Plato ended, as did also that great and honest
Frenchman, Auguste Comte, who, as a conqueror of the exact sciences,
cannot be matched either among the Germans or the Englishmen of this
century.
There is a third symptom of fatigue: that ambition which actuated the
great thinker when he was young, and which could not then find anything to
satisfy it, has also grown old, and, like one that has no more time to
lose, it begins to snatch at the coarser and more immediate means of its
gratification, means which are peculiar to active, dominating, violent,
and conquering dispositions. From this time onwards the thinker wishes to
found institutions which shall bear his name, instead of erecting mere
brain-structures. What are now to him the ethereal victories and honours
to be met with in the realm of proofs and refutations, or the perpetuation
of his fame in books, or the thrill of exultation in the soul of the
reader? But the institution, on the other hand, is a temple, as he well
knows—a temple of stone, a durable edifice, which will keep its god alive
with more certainty than the sacrifices of rare and tender souls.(17)
Perhaps, too, at this period of his life the old thinker will for the
first time meet with that love which is fitted for a god rather than for a
human being, and his whole nature becomes softened and sweetened in the
rays of such a sun, like fruit in autumn. Yes, he grows more divine and
beautiful, this great old man,—and nevertheless it is old age and
weariness which permit him to ripen in this way, to grow more silent, and
to repose in the luminous adulation of a woman. Now it is all up with his
former desire—a desire which was superior even to his own ego—for real
disciples, followers who would carry on his thought, that is, true
opponents. This desire arose from his hitherto undiminished energy, the
conscious pride he felt in being able at any time to become an opponent
himself,—nay, even the deadly enemy of his own doctrine,—but now his
desire is for resolute partisans, unwavering comrades, auxiliary forces,
heralds, a pompous train of followers. He is now no longer able to bear
that dreadful isolation in which every intellect that advances beyond the
others is compelled to live. From this time forward he surrounds himself
with objects of veneration, companionship, tenderness, and love; but he
also wishes to enjoy the privileges of all religious people, and to
worship what he venerates most highly in his little community—he will even
go as far as to invent a religion for the purpose of having a community.
Thus lives the wise old man, and in living thus he falls almost
imperceptibly into such a deplorable proximity to priestly and poetic
extravagances that it is difficult to recollect all his wise and severe
period of youth, the former rigid morality of his mind, and his truly
virile dread of fancies and misplaced enthusiasm. When he was formerly in
the habit of comparing himself with the older thinkers, he did so merely
that he might measure his weakness against their strength, and that he
might become colder and more audacious towards himself; but now he only
makes this comparison to intoxicate himself with his own delusions.
Formerly he looked forward with confidence to future thinkers, and he even
took a delight in imagining himself to be cast into the shade by their
brighter light. Now, however, he is mortified to think that he cannot be
the last: he endeavours to discover some way of imposing upon mankind,
together with the inheritance which he is leaving to them, a restriction
of sovereign thinking. He fears and reviles the pride and the love of
freedom of individual minds: after him no one must allow his intellect to
govern with absolute unrestriction: he himself wishes to remain for ever
the bulwark on which the waves of ideas may break—these are his secret
wishes, and perhaps, indeed, they are not always secret.
The hard fact upon which such wishes are based, however, is that he
himself has come to a halt before his teaching, and has set up his
boundary stone, his “thus far and no farther.” In canonising himself he
has drawn up his own death warrant: from now on his mind cannot develop
further. His race is run; the hour-hand stops. Whenever a great thinker
tries to make himself a lasting institution for posterity, we may readily
suppose that he has passed the climax of his powers, and is very tired,
very near the setting of his sun.
543.
WE MUST NOT MAKE PASSION AN ARGUMENT FOR TRUTH.—Oh, you kind-hearted and
even noble enthusiasts, I know you! You wish to seem right in our eyes as
well as in your own, but especially in your own!—and an irritable and
subtle evil conscience so often spurs you on against your very enthusiasm!
How ingenious you then become in deceiving your conscience, and lulling it
to sleep! How you hate honest, simple, and clean souls; how you avoid
their innocent glances! That better knowledge whose representatives they
are, and whose voice you hear only too distinctly within yourselves when
it questions your belief,—how you try to cast suspicion upon it as a bad
habit, as a disease of the age, as the neglect and infection of your own
intellectual health! It drives you on to hate even criticism, science,
reason! You must falsify history to make it testify in your favour; you
must deny virtues in case they should obscure those of your own idols and
ideals.
Coloured images where arguments are needed! Ardour and power of
expression! Silver mists! Ambrosian nights! well do you know how to
enlighten and to darken—to darken by means of light! and indeed when your
passion can no longer be kept within bounds the moment comes when you say
to yourselves, “Now I have won for myself a good conscience, now I am
exalted, courageous, self-denying, magnanimous; now I am honest!” How you
long for these moments when your passion will confer upon you full and
absolute rights, and also, as it were, innocence. How happy you are when
engaged in battle and inspired with ecstasy or courage, when you are
elated beyond yourself, when gnawing doubt has left you, and when you can
even decree: “Any man who is not in ecstasy as we are cannot by any chance
know what or where truth is.” How you long to meet with those who share
your belief in this state—which is a state of intellectual depravity—and
to set your own fire alight with their flames! Oh, for your martyrdom,
your victory of the sanctified lie! Must you really inflict so much pain
upon yourselves?—_Must_ you?
544.
HOW PHILOSOPHY IS NOW PRACTISED.—I can see quite well that our
philosophising youths, women, and artists require from philosophy exactly
the opposite of what the Greeks derived from it. What does he who does not
hear the continual exultation that resounds through every speech and
counter-argument in a Platonic dialogue, this exultation over the new
invention of rational thinking, know about Plato or about ancient
philosophy? At that time souls were filled with enthusiasm when they gave
themselves up to the severe and sober sport of ideas, generalisations,
refutations,—that enthusiasm which perhaps those old, great, severe, and
prudent contrapuntists in music have also known. At that time the Greek
palate still possessed that older and formerly omnipotent taste: and by
the side of this taste their new taste appeared to be enveloped in so much
charm that the divine art of dialectic was sung by hesitating voices as if
its followers were intoxicated with the frenzy of love. That old form of
thinking, however, was thought within the bounds of morality, and for it
nothing existed but fixed judgments and established facts, and it had no
reasons but those of authority. Thinking, therefore, was simply a matter
of repetition, and all the enjoyment of speech and dialogue could only lie
in their form.
Wherever the substance of a thing is looked upon as eternal and
universally approved, there is only one great charm, the charm of variable
forms, that is, of fashion. Even in the poets ever since the time of
Homer, and later on in the case of the sculptors, the Greeks did not enjoy
originality, but its contrary. It was Socrates who discovered another
charm, that of cause and effect, of reason and sequence, and we moderns
have become so used to it, and have been brought up to the necessity of
logic that we look upon it as the normal taste, and as such it cannot but
be repugnant to ardent and presumptuous people. Such people are pleased by
whatever stands out boldly from the normal: their more subtle ambition
leads them to believe only too readily that they are exceptional souls,
not dialectic and rational beings, but, let us say, “intuitive” beings
gifted with an “inner sense,” or with a certain “intellectual perception.”
Above all, however, they wish to be “artistic natures” with a genius in
their heads, and a demon in their bodies, and consequently with special
rights in this world and in the world to come—especially the divine
privilege of being incomprehensible.
And people like these are “going in for” philosophy nowadays! I fear they
will discover one day that they have made a mistake—what they are looking
for is religion!
545.
BUT WE DO NOT BELIEVE YOU.—You would fain pass for psychologists, but we
shall not allow it! Are we not to notice that you pretend to be more
experienced, profound, passionate, and perfect than you actually are?—just
as we notice in yonder painter that there is a trifling presumptuousness
in his manner of wielding the brush, and in yonder musician that he brings
forward his theme with the desire to make it appear superior to what it
really is. Have you experienced history within yourselves, commotions,
earthquakes, long and profound sadness, and sudden flashes of happiness?
Have you acted foolishly with great and little fools? Have you really
undergone the delusions and woe of the good people? and also the woe and
the peculiar happiness of the most evil? Then you may speak to me of
morality, but not otherwise!
546.
SLAVE AND IDEALIST.—The followers of Epictetus would doubtless not be to
the taste of those who are now striving after the ideal. The constant
tension of his being, the indefatigable inward glance, the prudent and
reserved incommunicativeness of his eye whenever it happens to gaze upon
the outer world, and above all, his silence or laconic speech: all these
are characteristics of the strictest fortitude,—and what would our
idealists, who above all else are desirous of expansion, care for this?
But in spite of all this the Stoic is not fanatical. He detests the
display and boasting of our idealists: his pride, however great it may be,
is not eager to disturb others. It permits of a certain gentle approach,
and has no desire to spoil anybody’s good humour—nay, it can even smile. A
great deal of ancient humanity is to be seen exemplified in this ideal.
The most excellent feature about it, however, is that the thinker is
completely free from the fear of God, strictly believes in reason, and is
no preacher of penitence.
Epictetus was a slave: his ideal man is without any particular rank, and
may exist in any grade of society, but above all he is to be sought in the
deepest and lowest social classes, as the silent and self-sufficient man
in the midst of a general state of servitude, a man who defends himself
alone against the outer world, and is constantly living in a state of the
highest fortitude. He is distinguished from the Christian especially,
because the latter lives in hope in the promise of “unspeakable glory,”
permits presents to be made to him, and expects and accepts the best
things from divine love and grace, and not from himself. Epictetus, on the
other hand, neither hopes nor allows his best treasure to be given him—he
possesses it already, holds it bravely in his hand, and defies the world
to take it away from him. Christianity was devised for another class of
ancient slaves, for those who had a weak will and weak reason—that is to
say, for the majority of slaves.
547.
THE TYRANTS OF THE INTELLECT.—The progress of science is at the present
time no longer hindered by the purely accidental fact that man attains to
about seventy years, which was the case far too long. In former times
people wished to master the entire extent of knowledge within this period,
and all the methods of knowledge were valued according to this general
desire. Minor questions and individual experiments were looked upon as
unworthy of notice: people wanted to take the shortest path under the
impression that, since everything in this world seemed to be arranged with
a view to man’s needs, even the acquirement of knowledge was regulated in
view of the limits of human life.
To solve everything at a single stroke, with one word—this was the secret
desire; and the task was represented in the symbol of the Gordian knot or
the egg of Columbus. No one doubted that it was possible to reach the goal
of knowledge after the manner of Alexander or Columbus, and to settle all
questions with one answer. “There is a mystery to be solved,” seemed to be
the aim of life in the eyes of the philosopher: it was necessary in the
first place to find out what this enigma was, and to condense the problem
of the world into the simplest enigmatical formula possible. The boundless
ambition and delight of being the “unraveller of the world” charmed the
dreams of many a thinker: nothing seemed to him worth troubling about in
this world but the means of bringing everything to a satisfactory
conclusion. Philosophy thus became a kind of supreme struggle for the
tyrannical sway over the intellect, and no one doubted that such a
tyrannical domination was reserved for some very happy, subtle, ingenious,
bold, and powerful person—a single individual!—and many (the last was
Schopenhauer) fancied themselves to be this privileged person.
From this it follows that, on the whole, science has up to the present
remained in a rather backward state owing to the moral narrow-mindedness
of its disciples, and that henceforth it will have to be pursued from a
higher and more generous motive. “What do I matter?” is written over the
door of the thinker of the future.
548.
VICTORY OVER POWER.—If we consider all that has been venerated up to the
present as “superhuman intellect” or “genius,” we must come to the sad
conclusion that, considered as a whole, the intellectuality of mankind
must have been extremely low and poor: so little mind has hitherto been
necessary in order to feel at once considerably superior to all this! Alas
for the cheap glory of “genius”! How quickly has it been raised to the
throne, and its worship grown into a custom! We still fall on our knees
before power—according to the old custom of slaves—and nevertheless, when
the degree of venerability comes to be determined, only the degree of
reason in the power will be the deciding factor. We must find out, indeed,
to how great an extent power has been overcome by something higher, which
it now obeys as a tool and instrument.
As yet, however, there have been too few eyes for such investigations:
even in the majority of cases the mere valuation of genius has almost been
looked upon as blasphemy. And thus perhaps everything that is most
beautiful still takes place in the midst of darkness and vanishes in
endless night almost as soon as it has made its appearance,—I refer to the
spectacle of that power which a genius does not lay out upon works, but
upon himself as a work, that is, his own self-control, the purifying of
his own imagination, the order and selection in his inspirations and
tasks. The great man ever remains invisible in the greatest thing that
claims worship, like some distant star: his victory over power remains
without witnesses, and hence also without songs and singers. The hierarchy
of the great men in all the past history of the human race has not yet
been determined.
549.
FLIGHT FROM ONE’S SELF.—Those sufferers from intellectual spasms who are
impatient towards themselves and look upon themselves with a gloomy
eye—such as Byron or Alfred de Musset—and who, in everything that they do,
resemble runaway horses, and from their own works derive only a transient
joy and an ardent passion which almost bursts their veins, followed by
sterility and disenchantment—how are they able to bear up! They would fain
attain to something “beyond themselves.” If we happen to be Christians,
and are seized by such a desire as this, we strive to reach God and to
become one with Him; if we are a Shakespeare we shall be glad to perish in
images of a passionate life; if we are like Byron we long for actions,
because these detach us from ourselves to an even greater extent than
thoughts, feelings, and works.
And should the desire for performing great deeds really be at bottom
nothing but a flight from our own selves?—as Pascal would ask us. And
indeed this assertion might be proved by considering the most noble
representations of this desire for action: in this respect let us
remember, bringing the knowledge of an alienist to our aid, that four of
the greatest men of all ages who were possessed of this lust for action
were epileptics—Alexander the Great, Cæsar, Mohammed, and Napoleon; and
Byron likewise was subject to the same complaint.
550.
KNOWLEDGE AND BEAUTY.—If men, as they are still in the habit of doing,
reserve their veneration and feelings of happiness for works of fancy and
imagination, we should not be surprised if they feel chilled and
displeased by the contrary of fancy and imagination. The rapture which
arises from even the smallest, sure, and definite step in advance into
insight, and which our present state of science yields to so many in such
abundance—this rapture is in the meantime not believed in by all those who
are in the habit of feeling enraptured only when they leave reality
altogether and plunge into the depths of vague appearance—romanticism.
These people look upon reality as ugly, but they entirely overlook the
fact that the knowledge of even the ugliest reality is beautiful, and that
the man who can discern much and often is in the end very far from
considering as ugly the main items of that reality, the discovery of which
has always inspired him with the feeling of happiness.
Is there anything “beautiful in itself”? The happiness of those who can
recognise augments the beauty of the world, bathing everything that exists
in a sunnier light: discernment not only envelops all things in its own
beauty, but in the long run permeates the things themselves with its
beauty—may ages to come bear witness to the truth of this statement! In
the meantime let us recall an old experience: two men so thoroughly
different in every respect as Plato and Aristotle were agreed in regard to
what constituted superior happiness—not merely their own and that of men
in general, but happiness in itself, even the happiness of the gods. They
found this happiness to lie in knowledge, in the activity of a well
practised and inventive understanding (not in “intuition” like the German
theologians and semi-theologians; not in visions, like the mystics; and
not in work, like the merely practical men). Similar opinions were
expressed by Descartes and Spinoza. What great delight must all these men
have felt in knowledge! and how great was the danger that their honesty
might give way, and that they themselves might become panegyrists of
things!
551.
FUTURE VIRTUES.—How has it come about that, the more intelligible the
world has become, the more all kinds of ceremonies have diminished? Was
fear so frequently the fundamental basis of that awe which overcame us at
the sight of anything hitherto unknown and mysterious, and which taught us
to fall upon our knees before the unintelligible, and to beg for mercy?
And has the world, perhaps, through the very fact that we have grown less
timid, lost some of the charms it formerly had for us? Is it not possible
that our own dignity and stateliness, our formidable character, has
decreased together with our spirit of dread? Perhaps we value the world
and ourselves less highly since we have begun to think more boldly about
it and ourselves? Perhaps there will come a moment in the future when this
courageous spirit of thinking will have reached such a point that it will
feel itself soaring in supreme pride, far above men and things—when the
wise man, being also the boldest, will see himself and even more
particularly existence, the lowest of all beneath himself?
This type of courage, which is not far removed from excessive generosity,
has been lacking in humanity up to the present.—Oh, that our poets might
once again become what they once were: seers, telling us something about
what might possibly happen! now that what is real and what is past are
being ever more and more taken from them, and must continue to be taken
from them—for the time of innocent counterfeiting is at an end! Let them
try to enable us to anticipate future virtues, or virtues that will never
be found on earth, although they may exist somewhere in the
world!—purple-glowing constellations and whole Milky Ways of the
beautiful! Where are ye, ye astronomers of the ideal?
552.
IDEAL SELFISHNESS.—Is there a more sacred state than that of pregnancy? To
perform every one of our actions in the silent conviction that in one way
or another it will be to the benefit of that which is being generated
within us—that it must augment its mysterious value, the very thought of
which fills us with rapture? At such a time we refrain from many things
without having to force ourselves to do so: we suppress the angry word, we
grasp the hand forgivingly; our child must be born from all that is best
and gentlest. We shun our own harshness and brusqueness in case it should
instil a drop of unhappiness into the cup of the beloved unknown.
Everything is veiled, ominous; we know nothing about what is going on, but
simply wait and try to be prepared. During this time, too, we experience a
pure and purifying feeling of profound irresponsibility, similar to that
felt by a spectator before a drawn curtain; _it_ is growing, _it_ is
coming to light; we have nothing to do with determining its value, or the
hour of its arrival. We are thrown back altogether upon indirect,
beneficent and defensive influences. “Something greater than we are is
growing here”—such is our most secret hope: we prepare everything with a
view to his birth and prosperity—not merely everything that is useful, but
also the noblest gifts of our souls.
We should, and can, live under the influence of such a blessed
inspiration! Whether what we are looking forward to is a thought or a
deed, our relationship to every essential achievement is none other than
that of pregnancy, and all our vainglorious boasting about “willing” and
“creating” should be cast to the winds! True and ideal selfishness
consists in always watching over and restraining the soul, so that our
productiveness may come to a beautiful termination. Thus in this indirect
manner we must provide for and watch over the good of all; and the frame
of mind, the mood in which we live, is a kind of soothing oil which
spreads far around us on the restless souls.—Still, these pregnant ones
are funny people! let us therefore dare to be funny also, and not reproach
others if they must be the same. And even when this phenomenon becomes
dangerous and evil we must not show less respect to that which is
generating within us or others than ordinary worldly justice, which does
not allow the judge or the hangman to interfere with a pregnant woman.
553.
CIRCUITOUS ROUTES.—Where does all this philosophy mean to end with its
circuitous routes? Does it do more than transpose into reason, so to
speak, a continuous and strong impulse—a craving for a mild sun, a bright
and bracing atmosphere, southern plants, sea breezes, short meals of meat,
eggs, and fruit, hot water to drink, quiet walks for days at a time,
little talking, rare and cautious reading, living alone, pure, simple, and
almost soldier-like habits—a craving, in short, for all things which are
suited to my own personal taste? a philosophy which is in the main the
instinct for a personal regimen—an instinct that longs for my air, my
height, my temperature, and my kind of health, and takes the circuitous
route of my head to persuade me to it!
There are many other and certainly more lofty philosophies, and not only
such as are more gloomy and pretentious than mine—and are they perhaps,
taking them as a whole, nothing but intellectual circuitous routes of the
same kind of personal impulses?—In the meantime I look with a new eye upon
the mysterious and solitary flight of a butterfly high on the rocky banks
of the lake where so many plants are growing: there it flies hither and
thither, heedless of the fact that its life will last only one more day,
and that the night will be too cold for its winged fragility. For it, too,
a philosophy might be found, though it might not be my own.
554.
LEADING.(18)—When we praise progress we only praise the movement and those
who do not let us remain on the same spot, and in the circumstances this
is certainly something, especially if we live among Egyptians. In
changeable Europe, however, where movement is “understood,” to use their
own expression, “as a matter of course”—alas, if _we_ only understood
something about it too!—I praise leaders and forerunners: that is to say,
those who always leave themselves behind, and do not care in the least
whether any one is following them or not. “Wherever I halt I find myself
alone: why should I halt! the desert is still so wide!”—such is the
sentiment of the true leader.
555.
THE LEAST IMPORTANT ARE SUFFICIENT.—We ought to avoid events when we know
that even the least important of them frequently enough leave a strong
impression upon us—and these we cannot avoid.—The thinker must possess an
approximate canon of all the things he still wishes to experience.
556.
THE FOUR VIRTUES.—Honest towards ourselves, and to all and everything
friendly to us; brave in the face of our enemy; generous towards the
vanquished; polite at all times: such do the four cardinal virtues wish us
to be.
557.
MARCHING AGAINST AN ENEMY.—How pleasant is the sound of even bad music and
bad motives when we are setting out to march against an enemy!
558.
NOT CONCEALING ONE’S VIRTUES.—I love those men who are as transparent as
water, and who, to use Pope’s expression, hide not from view the turbid
bottom of their stream. Even they, however, possess a certain vanity,
though of a rare and more sublimated kind: some of them would wish us to
see nothing but the mud, and to take no notice of the clearness of the
water which enables us to look right to the bottom. No less a man than
Gautama Buddha has imagined the vanity of these few in the formula, “Let
your sins appear before men, and conceal your virtues.” But this would
exhibit a disagreeable spectacle to the world—it would be a sin against
good taste.
559.
"NOTHING IN EXCESS!"—How often is the individual recommended to set up a
goal which it is beyond his power to reach, in order that he may at least
attain that which lies within the scope of his abilities and most
strenuous efforts! Is it really so desirable, however, that he should do
so? Do not the best men who try to act according to this doctrine,
together with their best deeds, necessarily assume a somewhat exaggerated
and distorted appearance on account of their excessive tension? and in the
future will not a grey mist of failure envelop the world, owing to the
fact that we may see everywhere struggling athletes and tremendous
gestures, but nowhere a conqueror crowned with the laurel, and rejoicing
in his victory?
560.
WHAT WE ARE FREE TO DO.—We can act as the gardeners of our impulses,
and—which few people know—we may cultivate the seeds of anger, pity,
vanity, or excessive brooding, and make these things fecund and
productive, just as we can train a beautiful plant to grow along
trellis-work. We may do this with the good or bad taste of a gardener, and
as it were, in the French, English, Dutch, or Chinese style. We may let
nature take its own course, only trimming and embellishing a little here
and there; and finally, without any knowledge or consideration, we may
even allow the plants to spring up in accordance with their own natural
growth and limitations, and fight out their battle among themselves,—nay,
we can even take delight in such chaos, though we may possibly have a hard
time with it! All this is at our option: but how many know that it is? Do
not the majority of people believe in themselves as complete and perfect
facts? and have not the great philosophers set their seal on this
prejudice through their doctrine of the unchangeability of character?
561.
LETTING OUR HAPPINESS ALSO SHINE.—In the same way as painters are unable
to reproduce the deep brilliant hue of the natural sky, and are compelled
to use all the colours they require for their landscapes a few shades
deeper than nature has made them—just as they, by means of this trick,
succeed in approaching the brilliancy and harmony of nature’s own hues, so
also must poets and philosophers, for whom the luminous rays of happiness
are inaccessible, endeavour to find an expedient. By picturing all things
a shade or two darker than they really are, their light, in which they
excel, will produce almost exactly the same effect as the sunlight, and
will resemble the light of true happiness.—The pessimist, on the other
hand, who paints all things in the blackest and most sombre hues, only
makes use of bright flames, lightning, celestial glories, and everything
that possesses a glaring, dazzling power, and bewilders our eyes: to him
light only serves the purpose of increasing the horror, and of making us
look upon things as being more dreadful than they really are.
562.
THE SETTLED AND THE FREE.—It is only in the Underworld that we catch a
glimpse of that gloomy background of all that bliss of adventure which
forms an everlasting halo around Ulysses and his like, rivalling the
eternal phosphorescence of the sea,—that background which we can never
forget: the mother of Ulysses died of grief and yearning for her child.
The one is driven on from place to place, and the heart of the other, the
tender stay-at-home friend, breaks through it—so it always is. Affliction
breaks the hearts of those who live to see that those whom they love best
are deserting their former views and faith,—it is a tragedy brought about
by the free spirits,—a tragedy which, indeed, occasionally comes to their
own knowledge. Then, perhaps, they too, like Ulysses, will be forced to
descend among the dead to get rid of their sorrow and to relieve their
affliction.
563.
THE ILLUSION OF THE MORAL ORDER OF THE UNIVERSE.—There is no “eternal
justice” which requires that every fault shall be atoned and paid for,—the
belief that such a justice existed was a terrible delusion, and useful
only to a limited extent; just as it is also a delusion that everything is
guilt which is felt as such. It is not the things themselves, but the
opinions about things that do not exist, which have been such a source of
trouble to mankind.
564.
BY THE SIDE OF EXPERIENCE.—Even great intellects have only a hand-breadth
experience—in the immediate proximity of this experience their reflection
ceases, and its place is taken by unlimited vacuity and stupidity.
565.
DIGNITY AND IGNORANCE.—Wherever we understand we become amiable, happy,
and ingenious; and when we have learnt enough, and have trained our eyes
and ears, our souls show greater plasticity and charm. We understand so
little, however, and are so insufficiently informed, that it rarely
happens that we seize upon a thing and make ourselves lovable at the same
time,—on the contrary we pass through cities, nature, and history with
stiffness and indifference, at the same time taking a pride in our stiff
and indifferent attitude, as if it were simply due to superiority. Thus
our ignorance and our mediocre desire for knowledge understand quite well
how to assume a mask of dignity and character.
566.
LIVING CHEAPLY.—The cheapest and most innocent mode of life is that of the
thinker; for, to mention at once its most important feature, he has the
greatest need of those very things which others neglect and look upon with
contempt. In the second place he is easily pleased and has no desire for
any expensive pleasures. His task is not difficult, but, so to speak,
southern; his days and nights are not wasted by remorse; he moves, eats,
drinks, and sleeps in a manner suited to his intellect, in order that it
may grow calmer, stronger, and clearer. Again, he takes pleasure in his
body and has no reason to fear it; he does not require society, except
from time to time in order that he may afterwards go back to his solitude
with even greater delight. He seeks and finds in the dead compensation for
the living, and can even replace his friends in this way—viz., by seeking
out among the dead the best who have ever lived.—Let us consider whether
it is not the contrary desires and habits which have made the life of man
expensive, and as a consequence difficult and often unbearable. In another
sense, however, the thinker’s life is certainly the most expensive, for
nothing is too good for him; and it would be an intolerable privation for
him to be deprived of the best.
567.
IN THE FIELD.—“We should take things more cheerfully than they deserve;
especially because for a very long time we have taken them more seriously
than they deserved.” So speak the brave soldiers of knowledge.
568.
POET AND BIRD.—The bird Phœnix showed the poet a glowing scroll which was
being gradually consumed in the flames. “Be not alarmed,” said the bird,
“it is your work! It does not contain the spirit of the age, and to a
still less extent the spirit of those who are against the age: so it must
be burnt. But that is a good sign. There is many a dawn of day.”
569.
TO THE LONELY ONES.—If we do not respect the honour of others in our
soliloquies as well as in what we say publicly, we are not gentlemen.
570.
LOSSES.—There are some losses which communicate to the soul a sublimity in
which it ceases from wailing, and wanders about silently, as if in the
shade of some high and dark cypresses.
571.
THE BATTLE-FIELD DISPENSARY OF THE SOUL.—What is the most efficacious
remedy?—Victory.
572.
LIFE SHALL COMFORT US.—If, like the thinker, we live habitually amid the
great current of ideas and feelings, and even our dreams follow this
current, we expect comfort and peacefulness from life, while others wish
to rest from life when they give themselves up to meditation.
573.
CASTING ONE’S SKIN.—The snake that cannot cast its skin perishes. So too
with those minds which are prevented from changing their views: they cease
to be minds.
574.
NEVER FORGET!—The higher we soar the smaller we appear to those who cannot
fly.
575.
WE AERONAUTS OF THE INTELLECT.—All those daring birds that soar far and
ever farther into space, will somewhere or other be certain to find
themselves unable to continue their flight, and they will perch on a mast
or some narrow ledge—and will be grateful even for this miserable
accommodation! But who could conclude from this that there was not an
endless free space stretching far in front of them, and that they had
flown as far as they possibly could? In the end, however, all our great
teachers and predecessors have come to a standstill, and it is by no means
in the noblest or most graceful attitude that their weariness has brought
them to a pause: the same thing will happen to you and me! but what does
this matter to either of us? _Other birds will fly farther!_ Our minds and
hopes vie with them far out and on high; they rise far above our heads and
our failures, and from this height they look far into the distant horizon
and see hundreds of birds much more powerful than we are, striving whither
we ourselves have also striven, and where all is sea, sea, and nothing but
sea!
And where, then, are we aiming at? Do we wish to cross the sea? whither
does this over-powering passion urge us, this passion which we value more
highly than any other delight? Why do we fly precisely in this direction,
where all the suns of humanity have hitherto set? Is it possible that
people may one day say of us that we also steered westward, hoping to
reach India—but that it was our fate to be wrecked on the infinite? Or, my
brethren? or—?
FOOTNOTES
1 The book was first published in 1881, the preface being added to the
second edition, 1886.—TR.
2 This refers, of course, to the different genders of the nouns in
other languages. In German, for example, the sun is feminine, and in
French masculine.—TR.
3 M. Henri Albert points out that this refers to a line of Paul
Gerhardt’s well-known song: “Befiel du deine Wege.” TR.
4 “Formal education” is the name given in Germany to those branches of
learning which tend to develop the logical faculties, as opposed to
“material” education which deals with the acquisition of facts and
all kinds of “useful” knowledge.—TR.
5 The reference is to the _Odyssey_, XX. 18: “Τέτλαθι δή, κραδίη; καὶ
κύντερον ἄλλο ποτ᾽ ἔτλης...” etc. Κύντερος, from κύων, “a dog,” lit.
more dog-like, _i.e._ shameless, horrible, audacious.—TR.
6 If this aphorism seems obscure, the reader may take Tolstoi as an
example of the first class and Nietzsche as an example of the
second. Tolstoi’s inconsistencies are generally glossed over,
because he professed the customary moral theories of the age, while
Nietzsche has had to endure the most searching criticism because he
did not. In Nietzsche’s case, however, the scrutiny has been in
vain; for, having no unworkable Christian theories to uphold, unlike
Tolstoi, Nietzsche’s life is not a series of compromises. The career
of the great pagan philosopher was, in essence, much more saintly
than that of the great Christian. How different from Tolstoi, too,
was that noble Christian, Pascal, who, from the inevitable clash of
his creed and his nature, died at thirty-eight, while his weaker
epigone lived in the fulness of his fame until he was over
eighty!—TR.
7 A hit at the German Empire, which Nietzsche always despised, since
it led to the utter extinction of the old German spirit. “Kingdom”
(in “Kingdom of God”) and “Empire” are both represented by the one
German word _Reich_.—TR.
8 This sentence is a complete refutation of a book which caused so
much stir in Germany about a decade ago, and in England quite
recently, Chamberlain’s _Nineteenth Century_, in which a purely
imaginary Teutonic race is held up as the Chosen People of the
world. Nietzsche says elsewhere, “Peoples and Countries,” aphorism
21, “Associate with no man who takes part in the mendacious
race-swindle.”—TR.
9 The fiercest protests against Nietzsche’s teaching even now come
from the “unfeeling people.” Hence the difficulty—now happily
past—of introducing him into Anglo-Saxon countries.—TR.
10 The German Jews are well known for their charity, by means of which
they probably wish to prove that they are not so bad as the
Anti-Semites paint them.—TR.
11 That is, do not speak either of God or the devil. The German proverb
runs: “Man soll den Teufel nicht an die Wand malen, sonst kommt
er.”—TR.
12 The case of that other witty Venetian, Casanova.—TR.
13 The play upon the words _gründlich_ (thorough) thinkers, and
_Untergründlichen_ (lit. those underground) cannot be rendered in
English.—TR.
14 A variation of the well-known proverb, _Ubi bene, ibi patria_.—TR.
15 Hence the violence of all fanatics, who do not wish to shout down
the outer world so much as to shout down their own inner enemy, viz.
truth.—TR.
16 This omission is in the original.—TR.
17 This, of course, refers to Richard Wagner, as does also the
following paragraph.—TR.
18 The play upon the words _Vorschritt_ (leading) and _Fortschritt_
(progress) cannot be rendered in English.—TR.