In sweat of face, so runs the screed,

THE JOYFUL WISDOM

("LA GAYA SCIENZA")

BY

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

TRANSLATED BY

THOMAS COMMON

WITH POETRY RENDERED BY

PAUL V. COHN

AND

MAUDE D. PETRE

_I stay to mine own house confined,_

_Nor graft my wits on alien stock_

_And mock at every master mind_

_That never at itself could mock._

The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche

The First Complete and Authorised English Translation

Edited by Dr Oscar Levy

Volume Ten

T.N. FOULIS

13 & 15 FREDERICK STREET

EDINBURGH: AND LONDON

1910

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL NOTE

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

JEST, RUSE, AND REVENGE: A PRELUDE IN RHYME

BOOK FIRST

BOOK SECOND

BOOK THIRD

BOOK FOURTH: SANCTUS JANUARIUS

BOOK FIFTH: WE FEARLESS ONES

APPENDIX: SONGS OF PRINCE FREE-AS-A-BIRD

EDITORIAL NOTE

"The Joyful Wisdom," written in 1882, just before "Zarathustra,"

is rightly judged to be one of Nietzsche's best books. Here the

essentially grave and masculine face of the poet-philosopher is seen

to light up and suddenly break into a delightful smile. The warmth

and kindness that beam from his features will astonish those hasty

psychologists who have never divined that behind the destroyer is

the creator, and behind the blasphemer the lover of life. In the

retrospective valuation of his work which appears in "Ecce Homo" the

author himself observes with truth that the fourth book, "Sanctus

Januarius," deserves especial attention: "The whole book is a gift from

the Saint, and the introductory verses express my gratitude for the

most wonderful month of January that I have ever spent." Book fifth "We

Fearless Ones," the Appendix "Songs of Prince Free-as-a-Bird," and the

Preface, were added to the second edition in 1887.

The translation of Nietzsche's poetry has proved to be a more

embarrassing problem than that of his prose. Not only has there been

a difficulty in finding adequate translators--a difficulty overcome,

it is hoped, by the choice of Miss Petre and Mr Cohn,--but it cannot

be denied that even in the original the poems are of unequal merit. By

the side of such masterpieces as "To the Mistral" are several verses of

comparatively little value. The Editor, however, did not feel justified

in making a selection, as it was intended that the edition should be

complete. The heading, "Jest, Ruse and Revenge," of the "Prelude in

Rhyme" is borrowed from Goethe.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

1.

Perhaps more than one preface would be necessary for this book; and

after all it might still be doubtful whether any one could be brought

nearer to the _experiences_ in it by means of prefaces, without having

himself experienced something similar. It seems to be written in the

language of the thawing-wind: there is wantonness, restlessness,

contradiction and April-weather in it; so that one is as constantly

reminded of the proximity of winter as of the _victory_ over it:

the victory which is coming, which must come, which has perhaps

already come.... Gratitude continually flows forth, as if the most

unexpected thing had happened, the gratitude of a convalescent--for

_convalescence_ was this most unexpected thing. "Joyful Wisdom": that

implies the Saturnalia of a spirit which has patiently withstood a

long, frightful pressure--patiently, strenuously, impassionately,

without submitting, but without hope--and which is now suddenly

o'erpowered with hope, the hope of health, the _intoxication_ of

convalescence. What wonder that much that is unreasonable and foolish

thereby comes to light: much wanton tenderness expended even on

problems which have a prickly hide, and are not therefore fit to be

fondled and allured. The whole book is really nothing but a revel

after long privation and impotence: the frolicking of returning

energy, of newly awakened belief in a to-morrow and after-to-morrow;

of sudden sentience and prescience of a future, of near adventures,

of seas open once more, and aims once more permitted and believed in.

And what was now all behind me! This track of desert, exhaustion,

unbelief, and frigidity in the midst of youth, this advent of grey

hairs at the wrong time, this tyranny of pain, surpassed, however, by

the tyranny of pride which repudiated the _consequences_ of pain--and

consequences are comforts,--this radical isolation, as defence against

the contempt of mankind become morbidly clairvoyant, this restriction

upon principle to all that is bitter, sharp, and painful in knowledge,

as prescribed by the _disgust_ which had gradually resulted from

imprudent spiritual diet and pampering--it is called Romanticism,--oh,

who could realise all those feelings of mine! He, however, who could do

so would certainly forgive me everything, and more than a little folly,

boisterousness and "Joyful Wisdom"--for example, the handful of songs

which are given along with the book on this occasion,--songs in which a

poet makes merry over all poets in a way not easily pardoned.--Alas, it

is not only on the poets and their fine "lyrical sentiments" that this

reconvalescent must vent his malignity: who knows what kind of victim

he seeks, what kind of monster of material for parody will allure him

ere long? _Incipit tragœdia,_ it is said at the conclusion of this

seriously frivolous book; let people be on their guard! Something

or other extraordinarily bad and wicked announces itself: _incipit

parodia,_ there is no doubt....

2.

--But let us leave Herr Nietzsche; what does it matter to people

that Herr Nietzsche has got well again?... A psychologist knows few

questions so attractive as those concerning the relations of health

to philosophy, and in the case when he himself falls sick, he carries

with him all his scientific curiosity into his sickness. For, granting

that one is a person, one has necessarily also the philosophy of

one's personality; there is, however, an important distinction here.

With the one it is his defects which philosophise, with the other

it is his riches and powers. The former _requires_ his philosophy,

whether it be as support, sedative, or medicine, as salvation,

elevation, or self-alienation; with the latter it is merely a fine

luxury, at best the voluptuousness of a triumphant gratitude, which

must inscribe itself ultimately in cosmic capitals on the heaven of

ideas. In the other more usual case, however, when states of distress

occupy themselves with philosophy (as is the case with all sickly

thinkers--and perhaps the sickly thinkers preponderate in the history

of philosophy), what will happen to the thought itself which is brought

under the _pressure_ of sickness? This is the important question for

psychologists: and here experiment is possible. We philosophers do

just like a traveller who resolves to awake at a given hour, and then

quietly yields himself to sleep: we surrender ourselves temporarily,

body and soul, to the sickness, supposing we become ill--we shut, as it

were, our eyes on ourselves. And as the traveller knows that something

_does not_ sleep, that something counts the hours and will awake him,

we also know that the critical moment will find us awake--that then

something will spring forward and surprise the spirit _in the very

act,_ I mean in weakness, or reversion, or submission, or obduracy, or

obscurity, or whatever the morbid conditions are called, which in times

of good health have the _pride_ of the spirit opposed to them (for it

is as in the old rhyme: "The spirit proud, peacock and horse are the

three proudest things of earthly source"). After such self-questioning

and self-testing, one learns to look with a sharper eye at all that

has hitherto been philosophised; one divines better than before the

arbitrary by-ways, side-streets, resting-places, and _sunny_ places of

thought, to which suffering thinkers, precisely as sufferers, are led

and misled: one knows now in what direction the sickly _body_ and its

requirements unconsciously press, push, and allure the spirit--towards

the sun, stillness, gentleness, patience, medicine, refreshment in any

sense whatever. Every philosophy which puts peace higher than war,

every ethic with a negative grasp of the idea of happiness, every

metaphysic and physic that knows a _finale,_ an ultimate condition of

any kind whatever, every predominating, æsthetic or religious longing

for an aside, a beyond, an outside, an above--all these permit one

to ask whether sickness has not been the motive which inspired the

philosopher. The unconscious disguising of physiological requirements

under the cloak of the objective, the ideal, the purely spiritual,

is carried on to an alarming extent,--and I have often enough asked

myself, whether on the whole philosophy hitherto has not generally

been merely, an interpretation of the body, and a _misunderstanding

of the body._ Behind the loftiest estimates of value by which the

history of thought has hitherto been governed, misunderstandings of

the bodily constitution, either of individuals, classes, or entire

races are concealed. One may always primarily consider these audacious

freaks of metaphysic, and especially its answers to the question of the

_worth_ of existence, as symptoms of certain bodily constitutions; and

if, on the whole, when scientifically determined, not a particle of

significance attaches to such affirmations and denials of the world,

they nevertheless furnish the historian and psychologist with hints

so much the more valuable (as we have said) as symptoms of the bodily

constitution, its good or bad condition, its fullness, powerfulness,

and sovereignty in history; or else of its obstructions, exhaustions,

and impoverishments, its premonition of the end, its will to the end. I

still expect that a philosophical _physician,_ in the exceptional sense

of the word--one who applies himself to the problem of the collective

health of peoples, periods, races, and mankind generally--will some

day have the courage to follow out my suspicion to its ultimate

conclusions, and to venture on the judgment that in all philosophising

it has not hitherto been a question of "truth" at all, but of

something else,--namely, of health, futurity, growth, power, life....

3.

It will be surmised that I should not like to take leave ungratefully

of that period of severe sickness, the advantage of which is not

even yet exhausted in me: for I am sufficiently conscious of what I

have in advance of the spiritually robust generally, in my changeful

state of health. A philosopher who has made the tour of many states

of health, and always makes it anew, has also gone through just as

many philosophies: he really _cannot_ do otherwise than transform

his condition on every occasion into the most ingenious posture and

position,--this art of transfiguration _is_ just philosophy. We

philosophers are not at liberty to separate soul and body, as the

people separate them; and we are still less at liberty to separate

soul and spirit. We are not thinking frogs, we are not objectifying

and registering apparatuses with cold entrails,--our thoughts must

be continually born to us out of our pain, and we must, motherlike,

share with them all that we have in us of blood, heart, ardour, joy,

passion, pang, conscience, fate and fatality. Life--that means for

us to transform constantly into light and flame all that we are, and

also all that we meet with; we _cannot_ possibly do otherwise. And

as regards sickness, should we not be almost tempted to ask whether

we could in general dispense with it? It is great pain only which is

the ultimate emancipator of the spirit; for it is the teacher of the

_strong suspicion_ which makes an X out of every U[1], a true, correct

X, _i.e.,_ the ante-penultimate letter.... It is great pain only, the

long slow pain which takes time, by which we are burned as it were with

green wood, that compels us philosophers to descend into our ultimate

depths, and divest ourselves of all trust, all good-nature, veiling,

gentleness, and averageness, wherein we have perhaps formerly installed

our humanity. I doubt whether such pain "improves" us; but I know that

it _deepens_ us. Be it that we learn to confront it with our pride, our

scorn, our strength of will, doing like the Indian who, however sorely

tortured, revenges himself on his tormentor with his bitter tongue; be

it that we withdraw from the pain into the oriental nothingness--it

is called Nirvana,--into mute, benumbed, deaf self-surrender,

self-forgetfulness, and self-effacement: one emerges from such long,

dangerous exercises in self-mastery as another being, with several

additional notes of interrogation, and above all, with the _will_ to

question more than ever, more profoundly, more strictly, more sternly,

more wickedly, more quietly than has ever been questioned hitherto.

Confidence in life is gone: life itself has become a _problem._--Let

it not be imagined that one has necessarily become a hypochondriac

thereby! Even love of life is still possible--only one loves

differently. It is the love of a woman of whom one is doubtful.... The

charm, however, of all that is problematic, the delight in the X, is

too great in those more spiritual and more spiritualised men, not to

spread itself again and again like a clear glow over all the trouble of

the problematic, over all the danger of uncertainty, and even over the

jealousy of the lover. We know a new happiness....

4.

Finally (that the most essential may not remain unsaid), one comes

back out of such abysses, out of such severe sickness, and out of

the sickness of strong suspicion--_new-born,_ with the skin cast;

more sensitive, more wicked, with a finer taste for joy, with a more

delicate tongue for all good things, with a merrier disposition, with

a second and more dangerous innocence in joy; more childish at the

same time, and a hundred times more refined than ever before. Oh, how

repugnant to us now is pleasure, coarse, dull, drab pleasure, as the

pleasure-seekers, our "cultured" classes, our rich and ruling classes,

usually understand it! How malignantly we now listen to the great

holiday-hubbub with which "cultured people" and city-men at present

allow themselves to be forced to "spiritual enjoyment" by art, books,

and music, with the help of spirituous liquors! How the theatrical

cry of passion now pains our ear, how strange to our taste has all

the romantic riot and sensuous bustle which the cultured populace

love become (together with their aspirations after the exalted, the

elevated, and the intricate)! No, if we convalescents need an art

at all, it is _another_ art--a mocking, light, volatile, divinely

serene, divinely ingenious art, which blazes up like a clear flame,

into a cloudless heaven! Above all, an art for artists, only for

artists! We at last know better what is first of all necessary _for

it--_namely, cheerfulness, _every_ kind of cheerfulness, my friends!

also as artists:--I should like to prove it. We now know something

too well, we men of knowledge: oh, how well we are now learning to

forget and _not_ know, as artists! And as to our future, we are not

likely to be found again in the tracks of those Egyptian youths who at

night make the temples unsafe, embrace statues, and would fain unveil,

uncover, and put in clear light, everything which for good reasons

is kept concealed[2]. No, we have got disgusted with this bad taste,

this will to truth, to "truth at all costs," this youthful madness

in the love of truth: we are now too experienced, too serious, too

joyful, too singed, too profound for that.... We no longer believe that

truth remains truth when the veil is withdrawn from it: we have lived

long enough to believe this. At present we regard it as a matter of

propriety not to be anxious either to see everything naked, or to be

present at everything, or to understand and "know" everything. "Is it

true that the good God is everywhere present?" asked a little girl of

her mother: "I think that is indecent":--a hint to philosophers! One

should have more reverence for the _shame-facedness_ with which nature

has concealed herself behind enigmas and motley uncertainties. Perhaps

truth is a woman who has reasons for not showing her reasons? Perhaps

her name is Baubo, to speak in Greek?... Oh, those Greeks! They knew

how _to live:_ for that purpose it is necessary to keep bravely to

the surface, the fold and the skin; to worship appearance, to believe

in forms, tones, and words, in the whole Olympus of appearance! Those

Greeks were superficial--_from profundity!_ And are we not coming

back precisely to this point, we dare-devils of the spirit, who have

scaled the highest and most dangerous peak of contemporary thought, and

have looked around us from it, have _looked down_ from it? Are we not

precisely in this respect--Greeks? Worshippers of forms, of tones, and

of words? And precisely on that account--artists?

RUTA, near GENOA

_Autumn,_ 1886.

[1] This means literally to put the numeral X instead of the numeral

V (formerly U); hence it means to double a number unfairly, to

exaggerate, humbug, cheat.--TR.

[2] An allusion to Schiller's poem: "The Veiled Image of Sais."--TR.

JEST, RUSE AND REVENGE.

A PRELUDE IN RHYME.

1.

_Invitation._

Venture, comrades, I implore you,

On the fare I set before you,

You will like it more to-morrow,

Better still the following day:

If yet more you're then requiring,

Old success I'll find inspiring,

And fresh courage thence will borrow

Novel dainties to display.

2.

_My Good Luck._

Weary of Seeking had I grown,

So taught myself the way to Find:

Back by the storm I once was blown,

But follow now, where drives the wind.

3.

_Undismayed._

Where you're standing, dig, dig out:

Down below's the Well:

Let them that walk in darkness shout:

"Down below--there's Hell!"

4.

_Dialogue._

_A._ Was I ill? and is it ended?

Pray, by what physician tended?

I recall no pain endured!

_B._ Now I know your trouble's ended:

He that can forget, is cured.

5.

_To the Virtuous._

Let our virtues be easy and nimble-footed in

motion,

Like unto Homer's verse ought they to come _and

to go_.

6.

_Worldly Wisdom._

Stay not on level plain,

Climb not the mount too high.

But half-way up remain--

The world you'll best descry!

7.

_Vademecum--Vadetecum._

Attracted by my style and talk

You'd follow, in my footsteps walk?

Follow yourself unswervingly,

So--careful!--shall you follow me.

8.

_The Third Sloughing_

My skin bursts, breaks for fresh rebirth,

And new desires come thronging:

Much I've devoured, yet for more earth

The serpent in me's longing.

'Twixt stone and grass I crawl once more,

Hungry, by crooked ways,

To eat the food I ate before,

Earth-fare all serpents praise!

9.

_My Roses._

My luck's good--I'd make yours fairer,

(Good luck ever needs a sharer),

Will you stop and pluck my roses?

Oft mid rocks and thorns you'll linger,

Hide and stoop, suck bleeding finger--

Will you stop and pluck my roses?

For my good luck's a trifle vicious,

Fond of teasing, tricks malicious--

Will you stop and pluck my roses?

10.

_The Scorner._

Many drops I waste and spill,

So my scornful mood you curse:

Who to brim his cup doth fill,

Many drops _must_ waste and spill--

Yet he thinks the wine no worse.

11.

_The Proverb Speaks._

Harsh and gentle, fine and mean,

Quite rare and common, dirty and clean,

The fools' and the sages' go-between:

All this I will be, this have been,

Dove and serpent and swine, I ween!

12.

_To a Lover of Light._

That eye and sense be not fordone

E'en in the shade pursue the sun!

13.

_For Dancers._

Smoothest ice,

A paradise

To him who is a dancer nice.

14.

_The Brave Man._

A feud that knows not flaw nor break,

Rather then patched-up friendship, take.

15.

_Rust._

Rust's needed: keenness will not satisfy!

"He is too young!" the rabble loves to cry.

16.

_Excelsior._

"How shall I reach the top?" No time

For thus reflecting! Start to climb!

17.

_The Man of Power Speaks._

Ask never! Cease that whining, pray!

Take without asking, take alway!

18.

_Narrow Souls._

Narrow souls hate I like the devil,

Souls wherein grows nor good nor evil.

19.

_Accidentally a Seducer_[1]

He shot an empty word

Into the empty blue;

But on the way it met

A woman whom it slew.

20.

_For Consideration._

A twofold pain is easier far to bear

Than one: so now to suffer wilt thou dare?

21.

_Against Pride._

Brother, to puff thyself up ne'er be quick:

For burst thou shalt be by a tiny prick!

22.

_Man and Woman._

"The woman seize, who to thy heart appeals!"

Man's motto: woman seizes not, but steals.

23.

_Interpretation._

If I explain my wisdom, surely

'Tis but entangled more securely,

I can't expound myself aright:

But he that's boldly up and doing,

His own unaided course pursuing,

Upon my image casts more light!

24.

_A Cure for Pessimism._

Those old capricious fancies, friend!

You say your palate naught can please,

I hear you bluster, spit and wheeze,

My love, my patience soon will end!

Pluck up your courage, follow me--

Here's a fat toad! Now then, don't blink,

Swallow it whole, nor pause to think!

From your dyspepsia you'll be free!

25.

_A Request._

Many men's minds I know full well,

Yet what mine own is, cannot tell.

I cannot see--my eye's too near--

And falsely to myself appear.

'Twould be to me a benefit

Far from myself if I could sit,

Less distant than my enemy,

And yet my nearest friend's too nigh--

'Twixt him and me, just in the middle!

What do I ask for? Guess my riddle.

26.

_My Cruelty._

I must ascend an hundred stairs,

I must ascend: the herd declares

I'm cruel: "Are we made of stone?"

I must ascend an hundred stairs:

All men the part of stair disown.

27.

_The Wanderer._

"No longer path! Abyss and silence chilling!"

Thy fault! To leave the path thou wast too willing!

Now comes the test! Keep cool--eyes bright and clear!

Thou'rt lost for sure, if thou permittest--fear.

28.

_Encouragement for Beginners._

See the infant, helpless creeping--

Swine around it grunt swine-talk--

Weeping always, naught but weeping,

Will it ever learn to walk?

Never fear! Just wait, I swear it

Soon to dance will be inclined,

And this babe, when two legs bear it,

Standing on its head you'll find.

29.

_Planet Egoism._

Did I not turn, a rolling cask,

Ever about myself, I ask,

How could I without burning run

Close on the track of the hot sun?

30.

_The Neighbour._

Too nigh, my friend my joy doth mar,

I'd have him high above and far,

Or how can he become my star?

31.

_The Disguised Saint._

Lest we for thy bliss should slay thee,

In devil's wiles thou dost array thee,

Devil's wit and devil's dress.

But in vain! Thy looks betray thee

And proclaim thy holiness.

32.

_The Slave._

_A._ He stands and listens: whence his pain?

What smote his ears? Some far refrain?

Why is his heart with anguish torn?

_B._ Like all that fetters once have worn,

He always hears the clinking--chain!

33.

_The Lone One._

I hate to follow and I hate to lead.

Obedience? no! and ruling? no, indeed!

Wouldst fearful be in others' sight?

Then e'en _thyself_ thou must affright:

The people but the Terror's guidance heed.

I hate to guide myself, I hate the fray.

Like the wild beasts I'll wander far afield.

In Error's pleasing toils I'll roam

Awhile, then lure myself back home,

Back home, and--to my self-seduction yield.

34.

_Seneca et hoc Genus omne._

They write and write (quite maddening me)

Their "sapient" twaddle airy,

As if 'twere _primum scribere,_

_Deinde philosophari._

35.

_Ice._

Yes! I manufacture ice:

Ice may help you to digest:

If you _had_ much to digest,

How you would enjoy my ice!

36.

_Youthful Writings._

My wisdom's A and final O

Was then the sound that smote mine ear.

Yet now it rings no longer so,

My youth's eternal Ah! and Oh!

Is now the only sound I hear.[2]

37.

_Foresight._

In yonder region travelling, take good care!

An hast thou wit, then be thou doubly ware!

They'll smile and lure thee; then thy limbs they'll tear:

Fanatics' country this where wits are rare!

38.

_The Pious One Speaks._

God loves us, _for_ he made us, sent us here!--

"Man hath made God!" ye subtle ones reply.

His handiwork he must hold dear,

And _what he made_ shall he deny?

There sounds the devil's halting hoof, I fear.

39.

_In Summer._

In sweat of face, so runs the screed,

We e'er must eat our bread,

Yet wise physicians if we heed

"Eat naught in sweat," 'tis said.

The dog-star's blinking: what's his need?

What tells his blazing sign?

In sweat of face (so runs _his_ screed)

We're meant to drink our wine!

40.

_Without Envy._

His look betrays no envy: and ye laud him?

He cares not, asks not if your throng applaud him!

He has the eagle's eye for distance far,

He sees you not, he sees but star on star!

41.

_Heraclitism._

Brethren, war's the origin

Of happiness on earth:

Powder-smoke and battle-din

Witness friendship's birth!

Friendship means three things, you know,--

Kinship in luckless plight,

Equality before the foe

Freedom--in death's sight!

42.

_Maxim of the Over-refined._

"Rather on your toes stand high

Than crawl upon all fours,

Rather through the keyhole spy

Than through the open doors!"

43.

_Exhortation._

Renown you're quite resolved to earn?

My thought about it

Is this: you need not fame, must learn

To do without it!

44.

_Thorough._

I an inquirer? No, that's not my calling

Only _I weigh a lot_--I'm such a lump!--

And through the waters I keep falling, falling,

Till on the ocean's deepest bed I bump.

45.

_The Immortals._

"To-day is meet for me, I come to-day,"

Such is the speech of men foredoomed to stay.

"Thou art too soon," they cry, "thou art too late,"

What care the Immortals what the rabble say?

46.

_Verdicts of the Weary._

The weary shun the glaring sun, afraid,

And only care for trees to gain the shade.

47.

_Descent._

"He sinks, he falls," your scornful looks portend:

The truth is, to your level he'll descend.

His Too Much Joy is turned to weariness,

His Too Much Light will in your darkness end.

48.

_Nature Silenced_[3]

Around my neck, on chain of hair,

The timepiece hangs--a sign of care.

For me the starry course is o'er,

No sun and shadow as before,

No cockcrow summons at the door,

For nature tells the time no more!

Too many clocks her voice have drowned,

And droning law has dulled her sound.

49.

_The Sage Speaks._

Strange to the crowd, yet useful to the crowd,

I still pursue my path, now sun, now cloud,

But always pass above the crowd!

50.

_He lost his Head...._

She now has wit--how did it come her way?

A man through her his reason lost, they say.

His head, though wise ere to this pastime lent,

Straight to the devil--no, to woman went!

51.

_A Pious Wish._

"Oh, might all keys be lost! 'Twere better so

And in all keyholes might the pick-lock go!"

Who thus reflects ye may as--picklock know.

52.

_Foot Writing._

I write not with the hand alone,

My foot would write, my foot that capers,

Firm, free and bold, it's marching on

Now through the fields, now through the papers.

53.

"_Human, All-too-Human._" ...

Shy, gloomy, when your looks are backward thrust,

Trusting the future where yourself you trust,

Are you an eagle, mid the nobler fowl,

Or are you like Minerva's darling owl?

54.

_To my Reader._

Good teeth and a digestion good

I wish you--these you need, be sure!

And, certes, if my book you've stood,

Me with good humour you'll endure.

55.

_The Realistic Painter._

"To nature true, complete!" so he begins.

Who complete Nature to his canvas _wins?_

Her tiniest fragment's endless, no constraint

Can know: he paints just what his _fancy_ pins:

What does his fancy pin? What he _can_ paint!

56.

_Poets' Vanity._

Glue, only glue to me dispense,

The wood I'll find myself, don't fear!

To give four senseless verses sense--

That's an achievement I revere!

57.

_Taste in Choosing._

If to choose my niche precise

Freedom I could win from fate,

I'd be in midst of Paradise--

Or, sooner still--before the gate!

58.

_The Crooked Nose._

Wide blow your nostrils, and across

The land your nose holds haughty sway:

So you, unhorned rhinoceros,

Proud mannikin, fall forward aye!

The one trait with the other goes:

A straight pride and a crooked nose.

59.

_The Pen is Scratching...._

The pen is scratching: hang the pen!

To scratching I'm condemned to sink!

I grasp the inkstand fiercely then

And write in floods of flowing ink.

How broad, how full the stream's career!

What luck my labours doth requite!

'Tis true, the writing's none too clear--

What then? Who reads the stuff I write?

60.

_Loftier Spirits._

This man's climbing up--let us praise him--

But that other we love

From aloft doth eternally move,

So above even praise let us raise him,

He _comes_ from above!

61.

_The Sceptic Speaks._

Your life is half-way o'er;

The clock-hand moves; your soul is thrilled with fear,

It roamed to distant shore

And sought and found not, yet you--linger here!

Your life is half-way o'er;

That hour by hour was pain and error sheer:

_Why stay?_ What seek you more?

"That's what I'm seeking--reasons why I'm here!"

62.

_Ecce Homo._

Yes, I know where I'm related,

Like the flame, unquenched, unsated,

I consume myself and glow:

All's turned to light I lay my hand on,

All to coal that I abandon,

Yes, I am a flame, I know!

63.

_Star Morality_[4]

Foredoomed to spaces vast and far,

What matters darkness to the star?

Roll calmly on, let time go by,

Let sorrows pass thee--nations die!

Compassion would but dim the light

That distant worlds will gladly sight.

To thee one law--be pure and bright!

[1] Translated by Miss M. D. Petre.

[2] A and O, suggestive of Ah! and Oh! refer of course to Alpha and

Omega, the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet.--TR.

[3] Translated by Miss M. D. Petre.

[4] Translated by Miss M. D. Petre.

BOOK FIRST

1.

_The Teachers of the Object of Existence.--_Whether I look with a

good or an evil eye upon men, I find them always at one problem, each

and all of them: to do that which conduces to the conservation of the

human species. And certainly not out of any sentiment of love for

this species, but simply because nothing in them is older, stronger,

more inexorable and more unconquerable than that instinct,--because

it is precisely _the essence_ of our race and herd. Although we are

accustomed readily enough, with our usual short-sightedness, to

separate our neighbours precisely into useful and hurtful, into good

and evil men, yet when we make a general calculation, and reflect

longer on the whole question, we become distrustful of this defining

and separating, and finally leave it alone. Even the most hurtful man

is still perhaps, in respect to the conservation of the race, the

most useful of all; for he conserves in himself, or by his effect on

others, impulses without which mankind might long ago have languished

or decayed. Hatred, delight in mischief, rapacity and ambition, and

whatever else is called evil--belong to the marvellous economy of the

conservation of the race; to be sure a costly, lavish, and on the

whole very foolish economy:--which has, however, hitherto preserved our

race, _as is demonstrated to us._ I no longer know, my dear fellow-man

and neighbour, if thou _canst_ at all live to the disadvantage of the

race, and therefore, "unreasonably" and "badly"; that which could

have injured the race has perhaps died out many millenniums ago, and

now belongs to the things which are no longer possible even to God.

Indulge thy best or thy worst desires, and above all, go to wreck!--in

either case thou art still probably the furtherer and benefactor of

mankind in some way or other, and in that respect thou mayest have thy

panegyrists--and similarly thy mockers! But thou wilt never find him

who would be quite qualified to mock at thee, the individual, at thy

best, who could bring home to thy conscience its limitless, buzzing

and croaking wretchedness so as to be in accord with truth! To laugh

at oneself as one would have to laugh in order to laugh _out of the

veriest truth,_--to do this, the best have not hitherto had enough

of the sense of truth, and the most endowed have had far too little

genius! There is perhaps still a future even for laughter! When the

maxim, "The race is all, the individual is nothing,"--has incorporated

itself in humanity, and when access stands open to every one at all

times to this ultimate emancipation and irresponsibility.--Perhaps

then laughter will have united with wisdom, perhaps then there will

be only "joyful wisdom." Meanwhile, however, it is quite otherwise,

meanwhile the comedy of existence has not yet "become conscious" of

itself, meanwhile it is still the period of tragedy, the period of

morals and religions. What does the ever new appearing of founders of

morals and religions, of instigators of struggles for moral valuations,

of teachers of remorse of conscience and religious war, imply? What

do these heroes on this stage imply? For they have hitherto been the

heroes of it, and all else, though solely visible for the time being,

and too close to one, has served only as preparation for these heroes,

whether as machinery and coulisse, or in the rôle of confidants and

valets. (The poets, for example, have always been the valets of some

morality or other.)--It is obvious of itself that these tragedians

also work in the interest of the _race,_ though they may believe that

they work in the interest of God, and as emissaries of God. They also

further the life of the species, _in that they further the belief in

life._ "It is worthwhile to live"--each of them calls out,--"there is

something of importance in this life; life has something behind it and

under it; take care!" That impulse, which rules equally in the noblest

and the ignoblest, the impulse to the conservation of the species,

breaks forth from time to time as reason and passion of spirit; it

has then a brilliant train of motives about it, and tries with all

its power to make us forget that fundamentally it is just impulse,

instinct, folly and baselessness. Life _should_ beloved, _for_...!

Man _should_ benefit himself and his neighbour, _for_...! And whatever

all these _shoulds_ and _fors_ imply, and may imply in future! In

order that that which necessarily and always happens of itself and

without design, may henceforth appear to be done by design, and may

appeal to men as reason and ultimate command,--for that purpose the

ethiculturist comes forward as the teacher of design in existence; for

that purpose he devises a second and different existence, and by means

of this new mechanism he lifts the old common existence off its old

common hinges. No! he does not at all want us to _laugh_ at existence,

nor even at ourselves--nor at himself; to him an individual is always

an individual, something first and last and immense, to him there are

no species, no sums, no noughts. However foolish and fanatical his

inventions and valuations may be, however much he may misunderstand the

course of nature and deny its conditions--and all systems of ethics

hitherto have been foolish and anti-natural to such a degree that

mankind would have been ruined by any one of them had it got the upper

hand,--at any rate, every time that "the hero" came upon the stage

something new was attained: the frightful counterpart of laughter,

the profound convulsion of many individuals at the thought, "Yes, it

is worth while to live! yes, I am worthy to live!"--life, and thou,

and I, and all of us together became for a while _interesting_ to

ourselves once more.--It is not to be denied that hitherto laughter and

reason and nature have _in the long run_ got the upper hand of all the

great teachers of design: in the end the short tragedy always passed

over once more into the eternal comedy of existence; and the "waves

of innumerable laughters"--to use the expression of Æschylus--must

also in the end beat over the greatest of these tragedies. But with

all this corrective laughter, human nature has on the whole been

changed by the ever new appearance of those teachers of the design of

existence,--human nature has now an additional requirement, the very

requirement of the ever new appearance of such teachers and doctrines

of "design." Man has gradually become a visionary animal, who has to

fulfil one more condition of existence than the other animals: man

_must_ from time to time believe that he knows _why_ he exists; his

species cannot flourish without periodically confiding in life! Without

the belief in _reason in life!_ And always from time to time will

the human race decree anew that "there is something which really may

not be laughed at." And the most clairvoyant philanthropist will add

that "not only laughing and joyful wisdom, but also the tragic with

all its sublime irrationality, counts among the means and necessities

for the conservation of the race!"--And consequently! Consequently!

Consequently! Do you understand me, oh my brothers? Do you understand

this new law of ebb and flow? We also shall have our time!

2.

_The Intellectual Conscience._--I have always the same experience over

again, and always make a new effort against it; for although it is

evident to me I do not want to believe it: _in the greater number of

men the intellectual conscience is lacking;_ indeed, it would often

seem to me that in demanding such a thing, one is as solitary in the

largest cities as in the desert. Everyone looks at you with strange

eyes and continues to make use of his scales, calling this good and

that bad; and no one blushes for shame when you remark that these

weights are not the full amount,--there is also no indignation against

you; perhaps they laugh at your doubt. I mean to say that _the greater

number of people_ do not find it contemptible to believe this or that,

and live according to it, _without_ having been previously aware of

the ultimate and surest reasons for and against it, and without even

giving themselves any trouble about such reasons afterwards,--the most

Sifted men and the noblest women still belong to this "greater number."

But what is kind-heartedness, refinement and genius to me, if he who

has these virtues harbours indolent sentiments in belief and judgment,

if _the longing for certainty_ does not rule in him, as his innermost

desire and profoundest need--as that which separates higher from lower

men! In certain pious people I have found a hatred of reason, and

have been favourably disposed to them for it: their bad intellectual

conscience at least still betrayed itself in this manner! But to stand

in the midst of this _rerum concordia discors_ and all the marvellous

uncertainty and ambiguity of existence, _and not to question,_ not

to tremble with desire and delight in questioning, not even to hate

the questioner--perhaps even to make merry over him to the extent of

weariness--that is what I regard as _contemptible,_ and it is this

sentiment which I first of all search for in every one--some folly or

other always persuades me anew that every man has this sentiment, as

man. This is my special kind of unrighteousness.

3.

_Noble and Ignoble._--To ignoble natures all noble, magnanimous

sentiments appear inexpedient, and on that account first and foremost,

as incredible: they blink with their eyes when they hear of such

matters, and seem inclined to say," there will, no doubt, be some

advantage therefrom, one cannot see through all walls;"--they are

jealous of the noble person, as if he sought advantage by back-stair

methods. When they are all too plainly convinced of the absence of

selfish intentions and emoluments, the noble person is regarded by

them as a kind of fool: they despise him in his gladness, and laugh

at the lustre of his eye. "How can a person rejoice at being at a

disadvantage, how can a person with open eyes want to meet with

disadvantage! It must be a disease of the reason with which the noble

affection is associated";--so they think, and they look depreciatingly

thereon; just as they depreciate the joy which the lunatic derives

from his fixed idea. The ignoble nature is distinguished by the fact

that it keeps its advantage steadily in view, and that this thought

of the end and advantage is even stronger than its strongest impulse:

not to be tempted to inexpedient activities by its impulses--that is

its wisdom and inspiration. In comparison with the ignoble nature the

higher nature is _more irrational:_--for the noble, magnanimous, and

self-sacrificing person succumbs in fact to his impulses, and in his

best moments his reason _lapses_ altogether. An animal, which at the

risk of life protects its young, or in the pairing season follows the

female where it meets with death, does not think of the risk and the

death; its reason pauses likewise, because its delight in its young, or

in the female, and the fear of being deprived of this delight, dominate

it exclusively; it becomes stupider than at other times, like the noble

and magnanimous person. He possesses feelings of pleasure and pain of

such intensity that the intellect must either be silent before them, or

yield itself to their service: his heart then goes into his head, and

one henceforth speaks of "passions." (Here and there to be sure, the

antithesis to this, and as it were the "reverse of passion," presents

itself; for example in Fontenelle, to whom some one once laid the hand

on the heart with the words, "What you have there, my dearest friend,

is brain also.") It is the unreason, or perverse reason of passion,

which the ignoble man despises in the noble individual, especially

when it concentrates upon objects whose value appears to him to be

altogether fantastic and arbitrary. He is offended at him who succumbs

to the passion of the belly, but he understands the allurement which

here plays the tyrant; but he does not understand, for example, how

a person out of love of knowledge can stake his health and honour on

the game. The taste of the higher nature devotes itself to exceptional

matters, to things which usually do not affect people, and seem to have

no sweetness; the higher nature has a singular standard of value. Yet

it is mostly of the belief that it has _not_ a singular standard of

value in its idiosyncrasies of taste; it rather sets up its values

and non-values as the generally valid values and non-values, and thus

becomes incomprehensible and impracticable. It is very rarely that a

higher nature has so much reason over and above as to understand and

deal with everyday men as such; for the most part it believes in its

passion as if it were the concealed passion of every one, and precisely

in this belief it is full of ardour and eloquence. If then such

exceptional men do not perceive themselves as exceptions, how can they

ever understand the ignoble natures and estimate average men fairly!

Thus it is that they also speak of the folly, inexpediency and fantasy

of mankind, full of astonishment at the madness of the world, and that

it will not recognise the "one thing needful for it."--This is the

eternal unrighteousness of noble natures.

4.

_That which Preserves the Species.--_The strongest and most evil

spirits have hitherto advanced mankind the most: they always rekindled

the sleeping passions--all orderly arranged society lulls the

passions to sleep; they always reawakened the sense of comparison, of

contradiction, of delight in the new, the adventurous, the untried;

they compelled men to set opinion against opinion, ideal plan against

ideal plan. By means of arms, by upsetting boundary-stones, by

violations of piety most of all: but also by new religions and morals!

The same kind of "wickedness" is in every teacher and preacher of the

_new--_which makes a conqueror infamous, although it expresses itself

more refinedly, and does not immediately set the muscles in motion (and

just on that account does not make so infamous!) The new, however, is

under all circumstances the _evil,_ as that which wants to conquer,

which tries to upset the old boundary-stones and the old piety; only

the old is the good! The good men of every age are those who go to the

roots of the old thoughts and bear fruit with them, the agriculturists

of the spirit. But every soil becomes finally exhausted, and the

ploughshare of evil must always come once more.--There is at present

a fundamentally erroneous theory of morals which is much celebrated,

especially in England: according to it the judgments "good" and "evil"

are the accumulation of the experiences of that which is "expedient"

and "inexpedient"; according to this theory, that which is called

good is conservative of the species, what is called evil, however, is

detrimental to it. But in reality the evil impulses are just in as high

a degree expedient, indispensable, and conservative of the species as

the good:--only, their function is different.

5.

_Unconditional Duties._--All men who feel that they need the strongest

words and intonations, the most eloquent gestures and attitudes, in

order to operate _at all_--revolutionary politicians, socialists,

preachers of repentance with or without Christianity, with all

of whom there must be no mere half-success,--all these speak of

"duties," and indeed, always of duties, which have the character

of being unconditional--without such they would have no right to

their excessive pathos: they know that right well! They grasp,

therefore, at philosophies of morality which preach some kind of

categorical imperative, or they assimilate a good lump of religion,

as, for example, Mazzini did. Because they want to be trusted

unconditionally, it is first of all necessary for them to trust

themselves unconditionally, on the basis of some ultimate, undebatable

command, sublime in itself, as the ministers and instruments of which,

they would fain feel and announce themselves. Here we have the most

natural, and for the most part, very influential opponents of moral

enlightenment and scepticism: but they are rare. On the other hand,

there is always a very numerous class of those opponents wherever

interest teaches subjection, while repute and honour seem to forbid

it. He who feels himself dishonoured at the thought of being the

_instrument_ of a prince, or of a party and sect, or even of wealthy

power (for example, as the descendant of a proud, ancient family),

but wishes just to be this instrument, or must be so before himself

and before the public--such a person has need of pathetic principles

which can at all times be appealed to:--principles of an unconditional

_ought,_ to which a person can subject himself without shame, and can

show himself subjected. All more refined servility holds fast to the

categorical imperative, and is the mortal enemy of those who want to

take away the unconditional character of duty: propriety demands this

from them, and not only propriety.

6.

_Loss of Dignity.--_Meditation has lost all its dignity of form; the

ceremonial and solemn bearing of the meditative person have been made a

mockery, and one would no longer endure a wise man of the old style. We

think too hastily and on the way and while walking and in the midst of

business of all kinds, even when we think on the most serious matters;

we require little preparation, even little quiet:--it is as if each

of us carried about an unceasingly revolving machine in his head,

which still works, even under the most unfavourable circumstances.

Formerly it was perceived in a person that on some occasion he wanted

to think--it was perhaps the exception!--that he now wanted to become

wiser and collected his mind on a thought: he put on a long face for

it, as for a prayer, and arrested his step-nay, stood still for hours

on the street when the thought "came"--on one or on two legs. It was

thus "worthy of the affair"!

7.