originated which for several centuries has been the universal literary
language of Germany. The Germans, with their reverence for everything
that came from the _court,_ intentionally took the chancery style as
their pattern in all that they had to _write,_ especially in their
letters, records, wills, &c. To write in the chancery style, that
was to write in court and government style,--that was regarded as
something select, compared with the language of the city in which a
person lived. People gradually drew this inference, and spoke also
as they wrote,--they thus became still more select in the forms of
their words, in the choice of their terms and modes of expression,
and finally also in their tones: they affected a court tone when they
spoke, and the affectation at last became natural. Perhaps nothing
quite similar has ever happened elsewhere:--the predominance of the
literary style over the talk, and the formality and affectation of an
entire people becoming the basis of a common and no longer dialectical
language. I believe that the sound of the German language in the
Middle Ages, and especially after the Middle Ages, was extremely
rustic and vulgar; it has ennobled itself somewhat during the last
centuries, principally because it was found necessary to imitate so
many French, Italian, and Spanish sounds, and particularly on the part
of the German (and Austrian) nobility, who could not at all content
themselves with their mother-tongue. But notwithstanding this practice,
German must have sounded intolerably vulgar to Montaigne, and even
to Racine: even at present, in the mouths of travellers among the
Italian populace, it still sounds very coarse, sylvan, and hoarse, as
if it had originated in smoky rooms and outlandish districts.--Now I
notice that at present a similar striving after selectness of tone is
spreading among the former admirers of the chancery style, and that
the Germans are beginning to accommodate themselves to a peculiar
"witchery of sound," which might in the long run become an actual
danger to the German language,--for one may seek in vain for more
execrable sounds in Europe. Something mocking, cold, indifferent and
careless in the voice: that is what at present sounds "noble" to the
Germans--and I hear the approval of this nobleness in the voices of
young officials, teachers, women, and trades-people; indeed, even
the little girls already imitate this German of the officers. For the
officer, and in fact the Prussian officer is the inventor of these
tones: this same officer, who as soldier and professional man possesses
that admirable tact for modesty which the Germans as a whole might
well imitate (German professors and musicians included!). But as soon
as he speaks and moves he is the most inmodest and inelegant figure
in old Europe--no doubt unconsciously to himself! And unconsciously
also to the good Germans, who gaze at him as the man of the foremost
and most select society, and willingly let him "give them his tone."
And indeed he gives it to them!--in the first place it is the
sergeant-majors and non-commissioned officers that imitate his tone
and coarsen it. One should note the roars of command, with which the
German cities are absolutely surrounded at present, when there is
drilling at all the gates: what presumption, furious imperiousness,
and mocking coldness speaks in this uproar! Could the Germans actually
be a musical people?--It is certain that the Germans martialise
themselves at present in the tone of their language: it is probable
that, being exercised to speak martially, they will finally write
martially also. For habituation to definite tones extends deeply into
the character:--people soon have the words and modes of expression, and
finally also the thoughts which just suit these tones! Perhaps they
already write in the officers' style; perhaps I only read too little
of what is at present written in Germany to know this. But one thing
I know all the surer: the German public decorations which also reach
places abroad, are not inspired by German music, but just by that new
tone of tasteless arrogance. Almost in every speech of the foremost
German statesman, and even when he makes himself heard through his
imperial mouth-piece, there is an accent which the ear of a foreigner
repudiates with aversion: but the Germans endure it,--they endure
themselves.
105.
_The Germans as Artists.--_When once a German actually experiences
passion (and not only, as is usual, the mere inclination to it), he
then behaves just as he must do in passion, and does not think further
of his behaviour. The truth is, however, that he then behaves very
awkwardly and uglily, and as if destitute of rhythm and melody; so that
onlookers are pained or moved thereby, but nothing more--_unless_ he
elevate himself to the sublimity and enrapturedness of which certain
passions are capable. Then even the German becomes _beautiful._ The
consciousness of the _height at which_ beauty begins to shed its
charm even over Germans, forces German artists to the height and
the super-height, and to the extravagances of passion: they have an
actual, profound longing, therefore, to get beyond, or at least to
look beyond the ugliness and awkwardness--into a better, easier, more
southern, more sunny world. And thus their convulsions are often merely
indications that they would like to _dance:_ these poor bears in whom
hidden nymphs and satyrs, and sometimes still higher divinities, carry
on their game!
106.
_Music as Advocate._--"I have a longing for a master of the musical
art," said an innovator to his disciple, "that he may learn from me
my ideas and speak them more widely in his language: I shall thus be
better able to reach men's ears and hearts. For by means of tones one
can seduce men to every error and every truth: who could _refute_ a
tone?"--"You would, therefore, like to be regarded as irrefutable?"
said his disciple. The innovator answered: "I should like the germ to
become a tree. In order that a doctrine may become a tree, it must be
believed in for a considerable period; in order that it may be believed
in it must be regarded as irrefutable. Storms and doubts and worms and
wickedness are necessary to the tree, that it may manifest its species
and the strength of its germ; let it perish if it is not strong enough!
But a germ is always merely annihilated,--not refuted!"--When he had
said this, his disciple called out impetuously: "But I believe in your
cause, and regard it as so strong that I will say everything against
it, everything that I still have in my heart."--The innovator laughed
to himself and threatened the disciple with his finger. "This kind of
discipleship," said he then, "is the best, but it is dangerous, and not
every kind of doctrine can stand it."
107.
_Our Ultimate Gratitude to Art._--If we had not approved of the Arts
and invented this sort of cult of the untrue, the insight into the
general untruth and falsity of things now given us by science--an
insight into delusion and error as conditions of intelligent and
sentient existence--would be quite unendurable. _Honesty_ would have
disgust and suicide in its train. Now, however, our honesty has a
counterpoise which helps us to escape such consequences;--namely, Art,
as the _good-will_ to illusion. We do not always restrain our eyes from
rounding off and perfecting in imagination: and then it is no longer
the eternal imperfection that we carry over the river of Becoming--for
we think we carry a _goddess,_ and are proud and artless in rendering
this service. As an æsthetic phenomenon existence is still _endurable_
to us; and by Art, eye and hand and above all the good conscience are
given to us, _to be able_ to make such a phenomenon out of ourselves.
We must rest from ourselves occasionally by contemplating and looking
down upon ourselves, and by laughing or weeping _over_ ourselves from
an artistic remoteness: we must discover the _hero,_ and likewise the
_fool,_ that is hidden in our passion for knowledge; we must now and
then be joyful in our folly, that we may continue to be joyful in our
wisdom! And just because we are heavy and serious men in our ultimate
depth, and are rather weights than men, there is nothing that does us
so much good as the _fool's cap and bells:_ we need them in presence of
ourselves--we need all arrogant, soaring, dancing, mocking, childish
and blessed Art, in order not to lose the _free dominion over things_
which our ideal demands of us. It would be _backsliding_ for us,
with our susceptible integrity, to lapse entirely into morality, and
actually become virtuous monsters and scarecrows, on account of the
over-strict requirements which we here lay down for ourselves. We
ought also to _be able_ to stand _above_ morality, and not only stand
with the painful stiffness of one who every moment fears to slip and
fall, but we should also be able to soar and play above it! How could
we dispense with Art for that purpose, how could we dispense with the
fool?--And as long as you are still _ashamed_ of yourselves in any
way, you still do not belong to us!
BOOK THIRD
108.
_New Struggles._--After Buddha was dead people showed his shadow for
centuries afterwards in a cave,--an immense frightful shadow. God is
dead:--but as the human race is constituted, there will perhaps be
caves for millenniums yet, in which people will show his shadow.--And
we--we have still to overcome his shadow!
109.
_Let us be on our Guard._--Let us be on our guard against thinking
that the world is a living being. Where could it extend itself? What
could it nourish itself with? How could it grow and increase? We know
tolerably well what the organic is; and we are to reinterpret the
emphatically derivative, tardy, rare and accidental, which we only
perceive on the crust of the earth, into the essential, universal
and eternal, as those do who call the universe an organism? That
disgusts me. Let us now be on our guard against believing that the
universe is a machine; it is assuredly not constructed with a view
to _one_ end; we invest it with far too high an honour with the word
"machine." Let us be on our guard against supposing that anything so
methodical as the cyclic motions of our neighbouring stars obtains
generally and throughout the universe; indeed a glance at the
Milky Way induces doubt as to whether there are not many cruder and
more contradictory motions there, and even stars with continuous,
rectilinearly gravitating orbits, and the like. The astral arrangement
in which we live is an exception; this arrangement, and the relatively
long durability which is determined by it, has again made possible the
exception of exceptions, the formation of organic life. The general
character of the world, on the other hand, is to all eternity chaos;
not by the absence of necessity, but in the sense of the absence of
order, structure, form, beauty, wisdom, and whatever else our æsthetic
humanities are called. Judged by our reason, the unlucky casts are far
oftenest the rule, the exceptions are not the secret purpose; and the
whole musical box repeats eternally its air, which can never be called
a melody,--and finally the very expression, "unlucky cast" is already
an anthropomorphising which involves blame. But how could we presume to
blame or praise the universe! Let us be on our guard against ascribing
to it heartlessness and unreason, or their opposites; it is neither
perfect, nor beautiful, nor noble; nor does it seek to be anything of
the kind, it does not at all attempt to imitate man! It is altogether
unaffected by our æsthetic and moral judgments! Neither has it any
self-preservative instinct, nor instinct at all; it also knows no law.
Let us be on our guard against saying that there are laws in nature.
There are only necessities: there is no one who commands, no one who
obeys, no one who transgresses. When you know that there is no design,
you know also that there is no chance: for it is only where there is a
world of design that the word "chance" has a meaning. Let us be on our
guard against saying that death is contrary to life. The living being
is only a species of dead being, and a very rare species.--Let us be on
our guard against thinking that the world eternally creates the new.
There are no eternally enduring substances; matter is just another such
error as the God of the Eleatics. But when shall we be at an end with
our foresight and precaution! When will all these shadows of God cease
to obscure us? When shall we have nature entirely undeified! When shall
we be permitted to _naturalise_ ourselves by means of the pure, newly
discovered, newly redeemed nature?
110.
_Origin of Knowledge._--Throughout immense stretches of time the
intellect produced nothing but errors; some of them proved to be useful
and preservative of the species: he who fell in with them, or inherited
them, waged the battle for himself and his offspring with better
success. Those erroneous articles of faith which were successively
transmitted by inheritance, and have finally become almost the property
and stock of the human species, are, for example, the following:--that
there are enduring things, that there are equal things, that there are
things, substances, and bodies, that a thing is what it appears, that
our will is free, that what is good for me is also good absolutely. It
was only very late that the deniers and doubters of such propositions
came forward,--it was only very late that truth made its appearance
as the most impotent form of knowledge. It seemed as if it were
impossible to get along with truth, our organism was adapted for
the very opposite; all its higher functions, the perceptions of the
senses, and in general every kind of sensation, co-operated with those
primevally embodied, fundamental errors. Moreover, those propositions
became the very standards of knowledge according to which the "true"
and the "false" were determined--throughout the whole domain of pure
logic. The _strength_ of conceptions does not, therefore, depend on
their degree of truth, but on their antiquity, their embodiment, their
character as conditions of life. Where life and knowledge seemed to
conflict, there has never been serious contention; denial and doubt
have there been regarded as madness. The exceptional thinkers like the
Eleatics, who, in spite of this, advanced and maintained the antitheses
of the natural errors, believed that it was possible also _to live_
these counterparts: it was they who devised the sage as the man of
immutability, impersonality and universality of intuition, as one and
all at the same time, with a special faculty for that reverse kind of
knowledge; they were of the belief that their knowledge was at the same
time the principle of _life._ To be able to affirm all this, however,
they had to _deceive_ themselves concerning their own condition: they
had to attribute to themselves impersonality and unchanging permanence,
they had to mistake the nature of the philosophic individual, deny the
force of the impulses in cognition, and conceive of reason generally
as an entirely free and self-originating activity; they kept their
eyes shut to the fact that they also had reached their doctrines in
contradiction to valid methods, or through their longing for repose or
for exclusive possession or for domination. The subtler development of
sincerity and of scepticism finally made these men impossible; their
life also, and their judgments, turned out to be dependent on the
primeval impulses and fundamental errors of all sentient being.--The
subtler sincerity and scepticism arose wherever two antithetical
maxims appeared to be _applicable_ to life, because both of them were
compatible with the fundamental errors; where, therefore, there could
be contention concerning a higher or lower degree of _utility_ for
life; and likewise where new maxims proved to be, not necessarily
useful, but at least not injurious, as expressions of an intellectual
impulse to play a game that was like all games innocent and happy. The
human brain was gradually filled with such judgments and convictions;
and in this tangled skein there arose ferment, strife and lust for
power. Not only utility and delight, but every kind of impulse took
part in the struggle for "truths": the intellectual struggle became
a business, an attraction, a calling, a duty, an honour--: cognizing
and striving for the true finally arranged themselves as needs among
other needs. From that moment, not only belief and conviction, but also
examination, denial, distrust and contradiction became _forces;_ all
"evil" instincts were subordinated to knowledge, were placed in its
service, and acquired the prestige of the permitted, the honoured,
the useful, and finally the appearance and innocence of the _good._
Knowledge, thus became a portion of life itself, and as life it became
a continually growing power: until finally the cognitions and those
primeval, fundamental errors clashed with each other, both as life,
both as power, both in the same man. The thinker is now the being in
whom the impulse to truth and those life-preserving errors wage their
first conflict, now that the impulse to truth has also _proved_ itself
to be a life-preserving power. In comparison with the importance of
this conflict everything else is indifferent; the final question
concerning the conditions of life is here raised, and the first attempt
is here made to answer it by experiment. How far is truth susceptible
of embodiment?--that is the question, that is the experiment.
111.
_Origin of the Logical._--Where has logic originated in men's heads?
Undoubtedly out of the illogical, the domain of which must originally
_have_ been immense. But numberless beings who reasoned otherwise than
we do at present, perished; albeit that they may have come nearer to
truth than we! Whoever, for example, could not discern the "like" often
enough with regard to food, and with regard to animals dangerous to
him, whoever, therefore, deduced too slowly, or was too circumspect in
his deductions, had smaller probability of survival than he who in all
similar cases immediately divined the equality. The preponderating
inclination, however, to deal with the similar as the equal--an
illogical inclination, for there is nothing equal in itself--first
created the whole basis of logic. It was just so (in order that the
conception of substance should originate, this being indispensable to
logic, although in the strictest sense nothing actual corresponds to
it) that for a long period the changing process in things had to be
overlooked, and remain unperceived; the beings not seeing correctly
had an advantage over those who saw everything "in flux." In itself
every high degree of circumspection in conclusions, every sceptical
inclination, is a great danger to life. No living being might have
been preserved unless the contrary inclination--to affirm rather than
suspend judgment, to mistake and fabricate rather than wait, to assent
rather than deny, to decide rather than be in the right--had been
cultivated with extraordinary assiduity.--The course of logical thought
and reasoning in our modern brain corresponds to a process and struggle
of impulses, which singly and in themselves are all very illogical
and unjust; we experience usually only the result of the struggle, so
rapidly and secretly does this primitive mechanism now operate in us.
112.
_Cause and Effect._--We say it is "explanation"; but it is only in
"description" that we are in advance of the older stages of knowledge
and science. We describe better,--we explain just as little as our
predecessors. We have discovered a manifold succession where the naïve
man and investigator of older cultures saw only two things, "cause"
and "effect," as it was said; we have perfected the conception of
becoming, but have not got a knowledge of what is above and behind the
conception. The series of "causes" stands before us much more complete
in every case; we conclude that this and that must first precede in
order that that other may follow--but we have not _grasped_ anything
thereby. The peculiarity, for example, in every chemical process seems
a "miracle," the same as before, just like all locomotion; nobody
has "explained" impulse. How could we ever explain! We operate only
with things which do not exist, with lines, surfaces, bodies, atoms,
divisible times, divisible spaces--how can explanation ever be possible
when we first make everything a _conception,_ our conception! It is
sufficient to regard science as the exactest humanising of things that
is possible; we always learn to describe ourselves more accurately by
describing things and their successions. Cause and effect: there is
probably never any such duality; in fact there is a _continuum_ before
us, from which we isolate a few portions;--just as we always observe
a motion as isolated points, and therefore do not properly see it,
but infer it. The abruptness with which many effects take place leads
us into error; it is however only an abruptness for us. There is an
infinite multitude of processes in that abrupt moment which escape us.
An intellect which could see cause and effect as a _continuum,_ which
could see the flux of events not according to our mode of perception,
as things arbitrarily separated and broken--would throw aside the
conception of cause and effect, and would deny all conditionality.
113.
_The Theory of Poisons._--So many things have to be united in order
that scientific thinking may arise, and all the necessary powers
must have been devised, exercised, and fostered singly! In their
isolation, however, they have very often had quite a different
effect than at present, when they are confined within the limits of
scientific thinking and kept mutually in check:--they have operated as
poisons; for example, the doubting impulse, the denying impulse, the
waiting impulse, the collecting impulse, the disintegrating impulse.
Many hecatombs of men were sacrificed ere these impulses learned to
understand their juxtaposition and regard themselves as functions of
one organising force in one man! And how far are we still from the
point at which the artistic powers and the practical wisdom of life
shall co-operate with scientific thinking, so that a higher organic
system may be formed, in relation to which the scholar, the physician,
the artist, and the lawgiver, as we know them at present, will seem
sorry antiquities!
114.
_The Extent of the Moral._--We construct a new picture, which we see
immediately with the aid of all the old experiences which we have
had, _always according to the degree_ of our honesty and justice.
The only experiences are moral experiences, even in the domain of
sense-perception.
115.
_The Four Errors._--Man has been reared by his errors: firstly, he saw
himself always imperfect; secondly,-he attributed to himself--imaginary
qualities; thirdly, he felt himself in a false position in relation
to the animals and nature; fourthly, he always devised new tables of
values, and accepted them for a time as eternal and unconditioned, so
that at one time this, and at another time that human impulse or state
stood first, and was ennobled in consequence. When one has deducted
the effect of these four errors, one has also deducted humanity,
humaneness, and "human dignity."
116.
_Herd-Instinct._--Wherever we meet with a morality we find a
valuation and order of rank of the human impulses and activities.
These valuations and orders of rank are always the expression of the
needs of a community or herd: that which is in the first place to
_its_ advantage--and in the second place and third place--is also the
authoritative standard for the worth of every individual. By morality
the individual is taught to become a function of the herd, and to
ascribe to himself value only as a function. As the conditions for
the maintenance of one community have been very different from those
of another community, there have been very different moralities;
and in respect to the future essential transformations of herds and
communities, states and societies, one can prophesy that there will
still be very divergent moralities. Morality is the herd-instinct in
the individual.
117.
_The Herd's Sting of Conscience._--In the longest and remotest ages
of the human race there was quite a different sting of conscience
from that of the present day. At present one only feels responsible
for what one intends and for what one does, and we have our pride
in ourselves. All our professors of jurisprudence start with this
sentiment of individual independence and pleasure, as if the source
of right had taken its rise here from the beginning. But throughout
the longest period in the life of mankind there was nothing more
terrible to a person than to feel himself independent. To be alone,
to feel independent, neither to obey nor to rule, to represent an
individual--that was no pleasure to a person then, but a punishment; he
was condemned "to be an individual." Freedom of thought was regarded as
discomfort personified. While we feel law and regulation as constraint
and loss, people formerly regarded egoism as a painful thing, and a
veritable evil. For a person to be himself, to value himself according
to his own measure and weight--that was then quite distasteful. The
inclination to such a thing would have been regarded as madness; for
all miseries and terrors were associated with being alone. At that
time the "free will" had bad conscience in close proximity to it; and
the less independently a person acted, the more the herd-instinct, and
not his personal character, expressed itself in his conduct, so much
the more moral did he esteem himself. All that did injury to the herd,
whether the individual had intended it or not, then caused him a sting
of conscience--and his neighbour likewise, indeed the whole herd!--It
is in this respect that we have most changed our mode of thinking.
118.
_Benevolence--_Is it virtuous when a cell transforms itself into the
function of a stronger cell? It must do so. And is it wicked when
the stronger one assimilates the other? It must do so likewise: it
is necessary, for it has to have abundant indemnity and seeks to
regenerate itself. One has therefore to distinguish the instinct
of appropriation and the instinct of submission in benevolence,
according as the stronger or the weaker feels benevolent. Gladness
and covetousness are united in the stronger person, who wants to
transform something to his function: gladness and desire-to-be-coveted
in the weaker person, who would like to become a function.--The former
case is essentially pity, a pleasant excitation of the instinct of
appropriation at the sight of the weak: it is to be remembered,
however, that "strong" and "weak" are relative conceptions.
119.