THE DANGER OF ENLIGHTENMENT.—All the half-insane, theatrical, bestially
cruel, licentious, and especially sentimental and self-intoxicating
elements which go to form the true revolutionary substance, and became
flesh and spirit, before the revolution, in Rousseau—all this composite
being, with factitious enthusiasm, finally set even “enlightenment” upon
its fanatical head, which thereby began itself to shine as in an
illuminating halo. Yet, enlightenment is essentially foreign to that
phenomenon, and, if left to itself, would have pierced silently through
the clouds like a shaft of light, long content to transfigure individuals
alone, and thus only slowly transfiguring national customs and
institutions as well. But now, bound hand and foot to a violent and abrupt
monster, enlightenment itself became violent and abrupt. Its danger has
therefore become almost greater than its useful quality of liberation and
illumination, which it introduced into the great revolutionary movement.
Whoever grasps this will also know from what confusion it has to be
extricated, from what impurities to be cleansed, in order that it may then
by itself continue the work of enlightenment and also nip the revolution
in the bud and nullify its effects.
222.
PASSION IN THE MIDDLE AGES.—The Middle Ages are the period of great
passions. Neither antiquity nor our period possesses this widening of the
soul. Never was the capacity of the soul greater or measured by larger
standards. The physical, primeval sensuality of the barbarian races and
the over-soulful, over-vigilant, over-brilliant eyes of Christian mystics,
the most childish and youthful and the most over-ripe and world-weary, the
savageness of the beast of prey and the effeminacy and excessive
refinement of the late antique spirit—all these elements were then not
seldom united in one and the same person. Thus, if a man was seized by a
passion, the rapidity of the torrent must have been greater, the whirl
more confused, the fall deeper than ever before.—We modern men may be
content to feel that we have suffered a loss here.
223.
ROBBING AND SAVING.—All intellectual movements whereby the great may hope
to rob and the small to save are sure to prosper. That is why, for
instance, the German Reformation made progress.
224.
GLADSOME SOULS.—When even a remote hint of drink, drunkenness, and an
evil-smelling kind of jocularity was given, the souls of the old Germans
waxed gladsome. Otherwise they were depressed, but here they found
something they really understood.
225.
DEBAUCHERY AT ATHENS.—Even when the fish-market of Athens acquired its
thinkers and poets, Greek debauchery had a more idyllic and refined
appearance than Roman or German debauchery ever had. The voice of Juvenal
would have sounded there like a hollow trumpet, and would have been
answered by a good-natured and almost childish outburst of laughter.
226.
CLEVERNESS OF THE GREEK.—As the desire for victory and pre-eminence is an
ineradicable trait of human nature, older and more primitive than any
respect of or joy in equality, the Greek State sanctioned gymnastic and
artistic competitions among equals. In other words, it marked out an arena
where this impulse to conquer would find a vent without jeopardising the
political order. With the final decline of gymnastic and artistic contests
the Greek State fell into a condition of profound unrest and dissolution.
227.
THE “ETERNAL EPICURUS.”—Epicurus has lived in all periods, and lives yet,
unbeknown to those who called and still call themselves Epicureans, and
without repute among philosophers. He has himself even forgotten his own
name—that was the heaviest luggage that he ever cast off.
228.
THE STYLE OF SUPERIORITY.—“University slang,” the speech of the German
students, has its origin among the students who do not study. The latter
know how to acquire a preponderance over their more serious fellows by
exposing all the farcical elements of culture, respectability, erudition,
order, and moderation, and by having words taken from these realms always
on their lips, like the better and more learned students, but with malice
in their glance and an accompanying grimace. This language of
superiority—the only one that is original in Germany—is nowadays
unconsciously used by statesmen and newspaper critics as well. It is a
continual process of ironical quotation, a restless, cantankerous
squinting of the eye right and left, a language of inverted commas and
grimaces.
229.
THE RECLUSE.—We retire into seclusion, but not from personal misgivings,
as if the political and social conditions of the day did not satisfy us;
rather because by our retirement we try to save and collect forces which
will some day be urgently needed by culture, the more this present is
_this present_, and, as such, fulfils its task. We form a capital and try
to make it secure, but, as in times of real danger, our method is to bury
our hoard.
230.
TYRANTS OF THE INTELLECT.—In our times, any one who expressed a single
moral trait so thoroughly as the characters of Theophrastus and Molière
do, would be considered ill, and be spoken of as possessing “a fixed
idea.” The Athens of the third century, if we could visit it, would appear
to us populated by fools. Nowadays the democracy of ideas rules in every
brain—there the multitude collectively is lord. A single idea that tried
to be lord is now called, as above stated, “a fixed idea.” This is our
method of murdering tyrants—we hint at the madhouse.
231.
A MOST DANGEROUS EMIGRATION.—In Russia there is an emigration of the
intelligence. People cross the frontier in order to read and write good
books. Thus, however, they are working towards turning their country,
abandoned by the intellect, into a gaping Asiatic maw, which would fain
swallow our little Europe.
232.
POLITICAL FOOLS.—The almost religious love of the king was transferred by
the Greeks, when the monarchy was abolished, to the _polis_. An idea can
be loved more than a person, and does not thwart the lover so often as a
beloved human being (for the more men know themselves to be loved, the
less considerate they usually become, until they are no longer worthy of
love, and a rift really arises). Hence the reverence for State and _polis_
was greater than the reverence for princes had ever been. The Greeks are
the political fools of ancient history—today other nations boast that
distinction.
233.
AGAINST NEGLECT OF THE EYES.—Might one not find among the cultured classes
of England, who read the _Times_, a decline in their powers of sight every
ten years?
234.
GREAT WORKS AND GREAT FAITH.—One man had great works, but his comrade had
great faith in these works. They were inseparable, but obviously the
former was entirely dependent upon the latter.
235.
THE SOCIABLE MAN.—“I don’t get on well with myself,” said some one in
explanation of his fondness for society. “Society has a stronger digestion
than I have, and can put up with me.”
236.
SHUTTING THE MIND’S EYES.—If we are practised and accustomed to reflect
upon our actions, we must nevertheless close the inner eye while
performing an action (be this even only writing letters or eating or
drinking). Even in conversation with average people we must know how to
obscure our own mental vision in order to attain and grasp average
thinking. This shutting of the eyes is a conscious act and can be achieved
by the will.
237.
THE MOST TERRIBLE REVENGE.—If we wish to take a thorough revenge upon an
opponent, we must wait until we have our hand quite full of truths and
equities, and can calmly use the whole lot against him. Hence the exercise
of revenge may be identified with the exercise of equity. It is the most
terrible kind of revenge, for there is no higher court to which an appeal
can be made. Thus did Voltaire revenge himself on Piron, with five lines
that sum up Piron’s whole life, work, and character: every word is a
truth. So too he revenged himself upon Frederick the Great in a letter to
him from Ferney.
238.
TAXES OF LUXURY.—In shops we buy the most necessary and urgent things, and
have to pay very dear, because we pay as well for what is also to be had
there cheap, but seldom finds a customer—articles of luxury that minister
to pleasure. Thus luxury lays a constant tax upon the man of simple life
who does without luxuries.
239.
WHY BEGGARS STILL LIVE.—If all alms were given only out of compassion, the
whole tribe of beggars would long since have died of starvation.
240.
WHY BEGGARS STILL LIVE.—The greatest of almsgivers is cowardice.
241.
HOW THE THINKER MAKES USE OF A CONVERSATION.—Without being eavesdroppers,
we can hear a good deal if we are able to see well, and at the same time
to let ourselves occasionally get out of our own sight. But people do not
know how to make use of a conversation. They pay far too much attention to
what _they_ want to say and reply, whereas the true listener is often
contented to make a provisional answer and to say something merely as a
payment on account of politeness, but on the other hand, with his memory
lurking in ambush, carries away with him all that the other said, together
with his tones and gestures in speaking.—In ordinary conversation every
one thinks _he_ is the leader, just as if two ships, sailing side by side
and giving each other a slight push here and there, were each firmly
convinced that the other ship was following or even being towed.
242.
THE ART OF EXCUSING ONESELF.—If some one excuses himself to us, he has to
make out a very good case, otherwise we readily come to feel ourselves the
culprits, and experience an unpleasant emotion.
243.
IMPOSSIBLE INTERCOURSE.—The ship of your thoughts goes too deep for you to
be able to travel with it in the waters of these friendly, decorous,
obliging people. There are too many shallows and sandbanks: you would have
to tack and turn, and would find yourself continually at your wits’ end,
and they would soon also be in perplexity as to _your_ perplexity, the
reason for which they cannot divine.
244.
THE FOX OF FOXES.—A true fox not only calls sour the grapes he cannot
reach, but also those he has reached and snatched from the grasp of
others.
245.
IN INTIMATE INTERCOURSE.—However closely men are connected, there are
still all the four quarters of the heavens in their common horizon, and at
times they become aware of this fact.
246.
THE SILENCE OF DISGUST.—Behold! some one undergoes a thorough and painful
transformation as thinker and human being, and makes a public avowal of
the change. And those who hear him see nothing, and still believe he is
the same as before! This common experience has already disgusted many
writers. They had rated the intellectuality of mankind too highly, and
made a vow to be silent as soon as they became aware of their mistake.
247.
BUSINESS SERIOUSNESS.—The business of many rich and eminent men is their
form of recreation from too long periods of habitual leisure. They then
become as serious and impassioned as other people do in their rare moments
of leisure and amusement.
248.
THE EYE’S DOUBLE SENSE.—Just as a sudden scaly ripple runs over the waters
at your feet, so there are similar sudden uncertainties and ambiguities in
the human eye. They lead to the question: is it a shudder, or a smile, or
both?
249.
POSITIVE AND NEGATIVE.—This thinker needs no one to refute him—he is quite
capable of doing that himself.
250.
THE REVENGE OF THE EMPTY NETS.—Above all we should beware of those who
have the bitter feeling of the fisherman who after a hard day’s work comes
home in the evening with nets empty.
251.
NON-ASSERTION OF OUR RIGHTS.—The exertion of power is laborious and
demands courage. That is why so many do not assert their most valid
rights, because their rights are a kind of power, and they are too lazy or
too cowardly to exercise them. _Indulgence_ and _patience_ are the names
given to the virtues that cloak these faults.
252.
BEARERS OF LIGHT.—In Society there would be no sunshine if the born
flatterers (I mean the so-called amiable people) did not bring some in
with them.
253.
WHEN MOST BENEVOLENT.—When a man has been highly honoured and has eaten a
little, he is most benevolent.
254.
TO THE LIGHT.—Men press forward to the light not in order to see better
but to shine better.—The person before whom we shine we gladly allow to be
called a light.
255.
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.—The hypochondriac is a man who has just enough
intellect and pleasure in the intellect to take his sorrows, his losses,
and his mistakes seriously. But the field on which he grazes is too small:
he crops it so close that in the end he has to look for single stalks.
Thus he finally becomes envious and avaricious—and only then is he
unbearable.
256.
GIVING IN RETURN.—Hesiod advises us to give the neighbour who has helped
us good measure and, if possible, fuller measure in return, as soon as we
have the power. For this is where the neighbour’s pleasure comes in, since
his former benevolence brings him interest. Moreover, he who gives in
return also has his pleasure, inasmuch as, by giving a little more than he
got, he redeems the slight humiliation of being compelled to seek aid.
257.
MORE SUBTLE THAN IS NECESSARY.—Our sense of observation for how far others
perceive our weaknesses is far more subtle than our sense of observation
for the weaknesses of others. It follows that the first-named sense is
more subtle than is necessary.
258.
A KIND OF BRIGHT SHADOWS.—Close to the nocturnal type of man we almost
regularly find, as if bound up with him, a bright soul. This is, as it
were, the negative shadow cast by the former.
259.
NOT TO TAKE REVENGE.—There are so many subtle sorts of revenge that one
who has occasion to take revenge can really do or omit to do what he
likes. In any case, the whole world will agree, after a time, that he
_has_ avenged himself. Hence the avoidance of revenge is hardly within
man’s power. He must not even so much as say that he does not _want_ to do
so, since the contempt for revenge is interpreted and felt as a sublime
and exquisite form of revenge.—It follows that we must do nothing
superfluous.
260.
THE MISTAKE OF THOSE WHO PAY HOMAGE.—Every one thinks he is paying a most
agreeable compliment to a thinker when he says that he himself hit upon
exactly the same idea and even upon the same expression. The thinker,
however, is seldom delighted at hearing such news, nay, rather, he often
becomes distrustful of his own thoughts and expressions. He silently
resolves to revise both some day. If we wish to pay homage to any one, we
must beware of expressing our agreement, for this puts us on the same
level.—Often it is a matter of social tact to listen to an opinion as if
it were not ours or even travelled beyond the limits of our own
horizon—as, for example, when an old man once in a while opens the
storehouse of his acquired knowledge.
261.
LETTERS.—A letter is an unannounced visit, and the postman is the
intermediary of impolite surprises. Every week we ought to have one hour
for receiving letters, and then go and take a bath.
262.
PREJUDICED.—Some one said: I have been prejudiced against myself from
childhood upwards, and hence I find some truth in every censure and some
absurdity in every eulogy. Praise I generally value too low and blame too
high.
263.
THE PATH TO EQUALITY.—A few hours of mountain-climbing make a blackguard
and a saint two rather similar creatures. Weariness is the shortest path
to equality and fraternity—and finally liberty is bestowed by sleep.
264.
CALUMNY.—If we begin to trace to its source a real scandalous
misrepresentation, we shall rarely look for its origin in our honourable
and straightforward enemies; for if they invented anything of the sort
about us, they, as being our enemies, would gain no credence. Those,
however, to whom for a time we have been most useful, but who, from some
reason or other, may be secretly sure that they will obtain no more from
us—such persons are in a position to start the ball of slander rolling.
They gain credence, firstly, because it is assumed that they would invent
nothing likely to do them damage; secondly, because they have learnt to
know us intimately.—As a consolation, the much-slandered man may say to
himself: Calumnies are diseases of others that break out in your body.
They prove that Society is a (moral) organism, so that you can prescribe
to _yourself_ the cure that will in the end be useful to others.
265.
THE CHILD’S KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.—The happiness of a child is as much of a
myth as the happiness of the Hyperboreans of whom the Greeks fabled. The
Greeks supposed that, if indeed happiness dwells anywhere on our earth, it
must certainly dwell as far as possible from us, perhaps over yonder at
the edge of the world. Old people have the same thought—if man is at all
capable of being happy, he must be happy as far as possible from our age,
at the frontiers and beginnings of life. For many a man the sight of
children, through the veil of this myth, is the greatest happiness that he
can feel. He enters himself into the forecourt of heaven when he says,
“Suffer the little children to come unto me, for of them is the kingdom of
heaven.” The myth of the child’s kingdom of heaven holds good, in some way
or other, wherever in the modern world some sentimentality exists.
266.
THE IMPATIENT.—It is just the growing man who does not want things in the
growing stage. He is too impatient for that. The youth will not wait
until, after long study, suffering, and privation, his picture of men and
things is complete. Accordingly, he confidently accepts another picture
that lies ready to his hand and is recommended to him, and pins his faith
to that, as if it must give him at once the lines and colours of his own
painting. He presses a philosopher or a poet to his bosom, and must from
that time forth perform long stretches of forced labour and renounce his
own self. He learns much in the process, but he often forgets what is most
worth learning and knowing—his self. He remains all his life a partisan.
Ah, a vast amount of tedious work has to be done before you find your own
colours, your own brush, your own canvas!—Even then you are very far from
being a master in the art of life, but at least you are the boss in your
own workshop.
267.
THERE ARE NO TEACHERS.—As thinkers we ought only to speak of
self-teaching. The instruction of the young by others is either an
experiment performed upon something as yet unknown and unknowable, or else
a thorough levelling process, in order to make the new member of society
conform to the customs and manners that prevail for the time being. In
both cases the result is accordingly unworthy of a thinker—the handiwork
of parents and teachers, whom some valiantly honest person(25) has called
“_nos ennemis naturels_.” One day, when, as the world thinks, we have long
since finished our education, we _discover ourselves_. Then begins the
task of the thinker, and then is the time to summon him to our aid—not as
a teacher, but as a self-taught man who has experience.
268.
SYMPATHY WITH YOUTH.—We are sorry when we hear that some one who is still
young is losing his teeth or growing blind. If we knew all the irrevocable
and hopeless feelings hidden in his whole being, how great our sorrow
would be! Why do we really suffer on this account? Because youth has to
continue the work we have undertaken, and every flaw and failing in its
strength is likely to injure _our_ work, that will fall into its hands. It
is the sorrow at the imperfect guarantee of our immortality: or, if we
only feel ourselves as executors of the human mission, it is the sorrow
that this mission must pass to weaker hands than ours.
269.
THE AGES OF LIFE.—The comparison of the four ages of life with the four
seasons of the year is a venerable piece of folly. Neither the first
twenty nor the last twenty years of a life correspond to a season of the
year, assuming that we are not satisfied with drawing a parallel between
white hair and snow and similar colour-analogies. The first twenty years
are a preparation for life in general, for the whole year of life, a sort
of long New Year’s Day. The last twenty review, assimilate, bring into
union and harmony all that has been experienced till then: as, in a small
degree, we do on every New Year’s Eve with the whole past year. But in
between there really lies an interval which suggests a comparison with the
seasons—the time from the twentieth to the fiftieth year (to speak here of
decades in the lump, while it is an understood thing that every one must
refine for himself these rough outlines). Those three decades correspond
to three seasons—summer, spring, and autumn. Winter human life has none,
unless we like to call the (unfortunately) often intervening hard, cold,
lonely, hopeless, unfruitful periods of disease the winters of man. The
twenties, hot, oppressive, stormy, impetuous, exhausting years, when we
praise the day in the evening, when it is over, as we wipe the sweat from
our foreheads—years in which work seems to us cruel but necessary—these
twenties are the summer of life. The thirties, on the other hand, are its
spring-time, with the air now too warm, now too cold, ever restless and
stimulating, bubbling sap, bloom of leaves, fragrance of buds everywhere,
many delightful mornings and evenings, work to which the song of birds
awakens us, a true work of the heart, a kind of joy in our own robustness,
strengthened by the savour of hopeful anticipation. Lastly the forties,
mysterious like all that is stationary, like a high, broad plateau,
traversed by a fresh breeze, with a clear, cloudless sky above it, which
always has the same gentle look all day and half the night—the time of
harvest and cordial gaiety—that is the autumn of life.
270.
WOMEN’S INTELLECT IN MODERN SOCIETY.—What women nowadays think of men’s
intellect may be divined from the fact that in their art of adornment they
think of anything but of emphasising the intellectual side of their faces
or their single intellectual features. On the contrary, they conceal such
traits, and understand, for example by an arrangement of their hair over
their forehead, how to give themselves an appearance of vivid, eager
sensuality and materialism, just when they but slightly possess those
qualities. Their conviction that intellect in women frightens men goes so
far that they even gladly deny the keenness of the most intellectual sense
and purposely invite the reputation of short-sightedness. They think they
will thereby make men more confiding. It is as if a soft, attractive
twilight were spreading itself around them.
271.
GREAT AND TRANSITORY.—What moves the observer to tears is the rapturous
look of happiness with which a fair young bride gazes upon her husband. We
feel all the melancholy of autumn in thinking of the greatness and of the
transitoriness of human happiness.
272.
SENSE AND SACRIFICE.—Many a woman has the _intelletto del sacrifizio_,(26)
and no longer enjoys life when her husband refuses to sacrifice her. With
all her wit, she then no longer knows—whither? and without perceiving it,
is changed from sacrificial victim to sacrificial priest.
273.
THE UNFEMININE.—“Stupid as a man,” say the women; “Cowardly as a woman,”
say the men. Stupidity in a woman is unfeminine.
274.
MASCULINE AND FEMININE TEMPERAMENT AND MORTALITY.—That the male sex has a
worse temperament than the female follows from the fact that male children
have a greater mortality than female, clearly because they “leap out of
their skins” more easily. Their wildness and unbearableness soon make all
the bad stuff in them deadly.
275.
THE AGE OF CYCLOPEAN BUILDING.—The democratisation of Europe is a
resistless force. Even he who would stem the tide uses those very means
that democratic thought first put into men’s hands, and he makes these
means more handy and workable. The most inveterate enemies of democracy (I
mean the spirits of upheaval) seem only to exist in order, by the fear
that they inspire, to drive forward the different parties faster and
faster on the democratic course. Now we may well feel sorry for those who
are working consciously and honourably for this future. There is something
dreary and monotonous in their faces, and the grey dust seems to have been
wafted into their very brains. Nevertheless, posterity may possibly some
day laugh at our anxiety, and see in the democratic work of several
generations what we see in the building of stone dams and walls—an
activity that necessarily covers clothes and face with a great deal of
dust, and perhaps unavoidably makes the workmen, too, a little
dull-witted; but who would on that account desire such work undone? It
seems that the democratisation of Europe is a link in the chain of those
mighty prophylactic principles which are the thought of the modern era,
and whereby we rise up in revolt against the Middle Ages. Now, and now
only, is the age of Cyclopean building! A final security in the
foundations, that the future may build on them without danger! Henceforth,
an impossibility of the orchards of culture being once more destroyed
overnight by wild, senseless mountain torrents! Dams and walls against
barbarians, against plagues, against physical and spiritual serfdom! And
all this understood at first roughly and literally, but gradually in an
ever higher and more spiritual sense, so that all the principles here
indicated may appear as the intellectual preparation of the highest artist
in horticulture, who can only apply himself to his own task when the other
is fully accomplished!—True, if we consider the long intervals of time
that here lie between means and end, the great, supreme labour, straining
the powers and brains of centuries, that is necessary in order to create
or to provide each individual means, we must not bear too hardly upon the
workers of the present when they loudly proclaim that the wall and the
fence are already the end and the final goal. After all, no one yet sees
the gardener and the fruit, for whose sake the fence exists.
276.
THE RIGHT OF UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE.—The people has not granted itself
universal suffrage but, wherever this is now in force, it has received and
accepted it as a temporary measure. But in any case the people has the
right to restore the gift, if it does not satisfy its anticipations. This
dissatisfaction seems universal nowadays, for when, at any occasion where
the vote is exercised, scarce two-thirds, nay perhaps not even the
majority of all voters, go to the polls, that very fact is a vote against
the whole suffrage system.—On this point, in fact, we must pronounce a
much sterner verdict. A law that enacts that the majority shall decide as
to the welfare of all cannot be built up on the foundation that it alone
has provided, for it is bound to require a far broader foundation, namely
the unanimity of all. Universal suffrage must not only be the expression
of the will of a majority, but of the whole country. Thus the dissent of a
very small minority is already enough to set aside the system as
impracticable; and the abstention from voting is in fact a dissent of this
kind, which ruins the whole institution. The “absolute veto” of the
individual, or—not to be too minute—the veto of a few thousands, hangs
over the system as the consequence of justice. On every occasion when it
is employed, the system must, according to the variety of the division,
first prove that it has still a right to exist.
277.
FALSE CONCLUSIONS.—What false conclusions are drawn in spheres where we
are not at home, even by those of us who are accustomed as men of science
to draw right conclusions! It is humiliating! Now it is clear that in the
great turmoil of worldly doings, in political affairs, in all sudden and
urgent matters such as almost every day brings up, these false conclusions
must decide. For no one feels at home with novelties that have sprung up
in the night. All political work, even with great statesmen, is an
improvisation that trusts to luck.
278.
PREMISSES OF THE AGE OF MACHINERY.—The press, the machine, the railway,
the telegraph are premisses of which no one has yet dared to draw the
conclusions that will follow in a thousand years.
279.
A DRAG UPON CULTURE.—When we are told that here men have no time for
productive occupations, because military manœuvres and processions take up
their days, and the rest of the population must feed and clothe them,
their dress, however, being striking, often gay and full of absurdities;
that there only a few distinguished qualities are recognised, individuals
resemble each other more than elsewhere, or at any rate are treated as
equals, yet obedience is exacted and yielded without reasoning, for men
command and make no attempt to convince; that here punishments are few,
but these few cruel and likely to become the final and most terrible; that
there treason ranks as the capital offence, and even the criticism of
evils is only ventured on by the most audacious; that there, again, human
life is cheap, and ambition often takes the form of setting life in
danger—when we hear all this, we at once say, “This is a picture of a
barbarous society that rests on a hazardous footing.” One man perhaps will
add, “It is a portrait of Sparta.” But another will become meditative and
declare that this is a description of our modern military system, as it
exists in the midst of our altogether different culture and society, a
living anachronism, the picture, as above said, of a community resting on
a hazardous footing; a posthumous work of the past, which can only act as
a drag upon the wheels of the present.—Yet at times even a drag upon
culture is vitally necessary—that is to say, when culture is advancing too
rapidly downhill or (as perhaps in this case) _uphill_.
280.
MORE REVERENCE FOR THEM THAT KNOW.—In the competition of production and
sale the public is made judge of the product. But the public has no
special knowledge, and judges by the appearance of the wares. In
consequence, the art of appearance (and perhaps the taste for it) must
increase under the dominance of competition, while on the other hand the
quality of every product must deteriorate. The result will be—so far as
reason does not fall in value—that one day an end will be put to that
competition, and a new principle will win the day. Only the master of the
craft should pronounce a verdict on the work, and the public should be
dependent on the belief in the personality of the judge and his honesty.
Accordingly, no anonymous work! At least an expert should be there as
guarantor and pledge his name if the name of the creator is lacking or is
unknown. The cheapness of an article is for the layman another kind of
illusion and deceit, since only durability can decide that a thing is
cheap and to what an extent. But it is difficult, and for a layman
impossible, to judge of its durability.—Hence that which produces an
effect on the eye and costs little at present gains the advantage—this
being naturally machine-made work. Again, machinery—that is to say, the
cause of the greatest rapidity and facility in production—favours the most
saleable kind of article. Otherwise it involves no tangible profit; it
would be too little used and too often stand idle. But as to what is most
saleable, the public, as above said, decides: it must be the most
exchangeable—in other words, the thing that appears good and also appears
cheap. Thus in the domain of labour our motto must also hold good: “More
respect for them that know!”
281.
THE DANGER OF KINGS.—Democracy has it in its power, without any violent
means, and only by a lawful pressure steadily exerted, to make kingship
and emperorship hollow, until only a zero remains, perhaps with the
significance of every zero in that, while nothing in itself, it multiplies
a number tenfold if placed on the right side. Kingship and emperorship
would remain a gorgeous ornament upon the simple and appropriate dress of
democracy, a beautiful superfluity that democracy allows itself, a relic
of all the historically venerable, primitive ornaments, nay the symbol of
history itself, and in this unique position a highly effective thing if,
as above said, it does not stand alone, but is put on the right side.—In
order to avoid the danger of this nullification, kings hold by their teeth
to their dignity as war-lords. To this end they need wars, or in other
words exceptional circumstances, in which that slow, lawful pressure of
the democratic forces is relaxed.
282.
THE TEACHER A NECESSARY EVIL.—Let us have as few people as possible
between the productive minds and the hungry and recipient minds! The
middlemen almost unconsciously adulterate the food which they supply. For
their work as middlemen they want too high a fee for themselves, and this
is drawn from the original, productive spirits—namely, interest,
admiration, leisure, money, and other advantages.—Accordingly, we should
always look upon the teacher as a necessary evil, just like the merchant;
as an evil that we should make as small as possible.—Perhaps the
prevailing distress in Germany has its main cause in the fact that too
many wish to live and live well by trade (in other words, desiring as far
as possible to diminish prices for the producer and raise prices for the
consumer, and thus to profit by the greatest possible loss to both). In
the same way, we may certainly trace a main cause of the prevailing
intellectual poverty in the superabundance of teachers. It is because of
teachers that so little is learnt, and that so badly.
283.
THE TAX OF HOMAGE.—Him whom we know and honour,—be he physician, artist,
or artisan,—who does and produces something for us, we gladly pay as
highly as we can, often a fee beyond our means. On the other hand, we pay
the unknown as low a price as possible; here is a contest in which every
one struggles and makes others struggle for a foot’s breadth of land. In
the work of the known there is something that cannot be bought, the
sentiment and ingenuity put into his work for our own sake. We think we
cannot better express our sense of obligation than by a sort of sacrifice
on our part.—The heaviest tax is the tax of homage. The more competition
prevails, the more we buy for the unknown and work for the unknown, the
lower does this tax become, whereas it is really the standard for the
loftiness of man’s spiritual intercourse.
284.
THE MEANS TOWARDS GENUINE PEACE.—No government will nowadays admit that it
maintains an army in order to satisfy occasionally its passion for
conquest. The army is said to serve only defensive purposes. This
morality, which justifies self-defence, is called in as the government’s
advocate. This means, however, reserving morality for ourselves and
immorality for our neighbour, because he must be thought eager for attack
and conquest if our state is forced to consider means of self-defence.—At
the same time, by our explanation of our need of an army (because he
denies the lust of attack just as our state does, and ostensibly also
maintains his army for defensive reasons), we proclaim him a hypocrite and
cunning criminal, who would fain seize by surprise, without any fighting,
a harmless and unwary victim. In this attitude all states face each other
to-day. They presuppose evil intentions on their neighbour’s part and good
intentions on their own. This hypothesis, however, is an _inhuman_ notion,
as bad as and worse than war. Nay, at bottom it is a challenge and motive
to war, foisting as it does upon the neighbouring state the charge of
immorality, and thus provoking hostile intentions and acts. The doctrine
of the army as a means of self-defence must be abjured as completely as
the lust of conquest. Perhaps a memorable day will come when a nation
renowned in wars and victories, distinguished by the highest development
of military order and intelligence, and accustomed to make the heaviest
sacrifice to these objects, will voluntarily exclaim, “We will break our
swords,” and will destroy its whole military system, lock, stock, and
barrel. Making ourselves defenceless (after having been the most strongly
defended) from a loftiness of sentiment—that is the means towards genuine
peace, which must always rest upon a pacific disposition. The so-called
armed peace that prevails at present in all countries is a sign of a
bellicose disposition, of a disposition that trusts neither itself nor its
neighbour, and, partly from hate, partly from fear, refuses to lay down
its weapons. Better to perish than to hate and fear, and twice as far
better to perish than to make oneself hated and feared—this must some day
become the supreme maxim of every political community!—Our liberal
representatives of the people, as is well known, have not the time for
reflection on the nature of humanity, or else they would know that they
are working in vain when they work for “a gradual diminution of the
military burdens.” On the contrary, when the distress of these burdens is
greatest, the sort of God who alone can help here will be nearest. The
tree of military glory can only be destroyed at one swoop, with one stroke
of lightning. But, as you know, lightning comes from the cloud and from
above.
285.
WHETHER PROPERTY CAN BE SQUARED WITH JUSTICE.—When the injustice of
property is strongly felt (and the hand of the great clock is once more at
this place), we formulate two methods of relieving this injustice: either
an equal distribution, or an abolition of private possession and a return
to State ownership. The latter method is especially dear to the hearts of
our Socialists, who are angry with that primitive Jew for saying, “Thou
shalt not steal.” In their view the eighth(27) commandment should rather
run, “Thou shalt not possess.”—The former method was frequently tried in
antiquity, always indeed on a small scale, and yet with poor success. From
this failure we too may learn. “Equal plots of land” is easily enough
said, but how much bitterness is aroused by the necessary division and
separation, by the loss of time-honoured possessions, how much piety is
wounded and sacrificed! We uproot the foundation of morality when we
uproot boundary-stones. Again, how much fresh bitterness among the new
owners, how much envy and looking askance! For there have never been two
really equal plots of land, and if there were, man’s envy of his neighbour
would prevent him from believing in their equality. And how long would
this equality, unhealthy and poisoned at the very roots, endure? In a few
generations, by inheritance, here one plot would come to five owners,
there five plots to one. Even supposing that men acquiesced in such abuses
through the enactment of stern laws of inheritance, the same equal plots
would indeed exist, but there would also be needy malcontents, owning
nothing but dislike of their kinsmen and neighbours, and longing for a
general upheaval.—If, however, by the second method we try to restore
ownership to the community and make the individual but a temporary tenant,
we interfere with agriculture. For man is opposed to all that is only a
transitory possession, unblessed with his own care and sacrifice. With
such property he behaves in freebooter fashion, as robber or as worthless
spendthrift. When Plato declares that self-seeking would be removed with
the abolition of property, we may answer him that, if self-seeking be
taken away, man will no longer possess the four cardinal virtues either;
as we must say that the most deadly plague could not injure mankind so
terribly as if vanity were one day to disappear. Without vanity and
self-seeking what are human virtues? By this I am far from meaning that
these virtues are but varied names and masks for these two qualities.
Plato’s Utopian refrain, which is still sung by Socialists, rests upon a
deficient knowledge of men. He lacked the historical science of moral
emotions, the insight into the origin of the good and useful
characteristics of the human soul. He believed, like all antiquity, in
good and evil as in black and white—that is to say, in a radical
difference between good and bad men and good and bad qualities.—In order
that property may henceforth inspire more confidence and become more
moral, we should keep open all the paths of work for small fortunes, but
should prevent the effortless and sudden acquisition of wealth.
Accordingly, we should take all the branches of transport and trade which
favour the accumulation of large fortunes—especially, therefore, the money
market—out of the hands of private persons or private companies, and look
upon those who own too much, just as upon those who own nothing, as types
fraught with danger to the community.
286.
THE VALUE OF LABOUR.—If we try to determine the value of labour by the
amount of time, industry, good or bad will, constraint, inventiveness or
laziness, honesty or make-believe bestowed upon it, the valuation can
never be a just one. For the whole personality would have to be thrown
into the scale, and this is impossible. Here the motto is, “Judge not!”
But after all the cry for justice is the cry we now hear from those who
are dissatisfied with the present valuation of labour. If we reflect
further we find every person non-responsible for his product, the labour;
hence merit can never be derived therefrom, and every labour is as good or
as bad as it must be through this or that necessary concatenation of
forces and weaknesses, abilities and desires. The worker is not at liberty
to say whether he shall work or not, or to decide how he shall work. Only
the standpoints of usefulness, wider and narrower, have created the
valuation of labour. What we at present call justice does very well in
this sphere as a highly refined utility, which does not only consider the
moment and exploit the immediate opportunity, but looks to the permanence
of all conditions, and thus also keeps in view the well-being of the
worker, his physical and spiritual contentment: in order that he and his
posterity may work well for our posterity and become trustworthy for
longer periods than the individual span of human life. The _exploitation_
of the worker was, as we now understand, a piece of folly, a robbery at
the expense of the future, a jeopardisation of society. We almost have the
war now, and in any case the expense of maintaining peace, of concluding
treaties and winning confidence, will henceforth be very great, because
the folly of the exploiters was very great and long-lasting.
287.
OF THE STUDY OF THE SOCIAL BODY.—The worst drawback for the modern student
of economics and political science in Europe, and especially in Germany,
is that the actual conditions, instead of exemplifying rules, illustrate
exceptions or stages of transition and extinction. We must therefore learn
to look beyond actually existing conditions and, for example, turn our
eyes to distant North America, where we can still contemplate and
investigate, if we will, the initial and normal movement of the social
body. In Germany such a study requires arduous and historical research,
or, as I have suggested, a telescope.
288.
HOW FAR MACHINERY HUMILIATES.—Machinery is impersonal; it robs the piece
of work of its pride, of the individual merits and defects that cling to
all work that is not machine-made—in other words, of its bit of humanity.
Formerly, all buying from handicraftsmen meant a mark of distinction for
their personalities, with whose productions people surrounded themselves.
Furniture and dress accordingly became the symbols of mutual valuation and
personal connection. Nowadays, on the other hand, we seem to live in the
midst of anonymous and impersonal serfdom.—We must not buy the
facilitation of labour too dear.
289.
CENTURY-OLD QUARANTINE.—Democratic institutions are centres of quarantine
against the old plague of tyrannical desires. As such they are extremely
useful and extremely tedious.
290.
THE MOST DANGEROUS PARTISAN.—The most dangerous partisan is he whose
defection would involve the ruin of the whole party—in other words, the
best partisan.
291.
DESTINY AND THE STOMACH.—A piece more or less of bread and butter in the
jockey’s body is occasionally the decisive factor in races and bets, and
thus in the good and bad luck of thousands.—So long as the destiny of
nations depends upon diplomats, the stomachs of diplomats will always be
the object of patriotic misgivings. _Quousque tandem_....
292.
THE VICTORY OF DEMOCRACY.—All political powers nowadays attempt to exploit
the fear of Socialism for their own strengthening. Yet in the long run
democracy alone gains the advantage, for _all_ parties are now compelled
to flatter “the masses” and grant them facilities and liberties of all
kinds, with the result that the masses finally become omnipotent. The
masses are as far as possible removed from Socialism as a doctrine of
altering the acquisition of property. If once they get the steering-wheel
into their hands, through great majorities in their Parliaments, they will
attack with progressive taxation the whole dominant system of capitalists,
merchants, and financiers, and will in fact slowly create a middle class
which may forget Socialism like a disease that has been overcome.—The
practical result of this increasing democratisation will next be a
European league of nations, in which each individual nation, delimited by
the proper geographical frontiers, has the position of a canton with its
separate rights. Small account will be taken of the historic memories of
previously existing nations, because the pious affection for these
memories will be gradually uprooted under the democratic régime, with all
its craze for novelty and experiment. The corrections of frontiers that
will prove necessary will be so carried out as to serve the interests of
the great cantons and at the same time that of the whole federation, but
not that of any venerable memories. To find the standpoints for these
corrections will be the task of future diplomats, who will have to be at
the same time students of civilisation, agriculturists, and commercial
experts, with no armies but motives and utilities at their back. Then only
will foreign and home politics be inseparably connected, whereas to-day
the latter follows its haughty dictator, and gleans in sorry baskets the
stubble that is left over from the harvest of the former.
293.
GOAL AND MEANS OF DEMOCRACY.—Democracy tries to create and guarantee
independence for as many as possible in their opinions, way of life, and
occupation. For this purpose democracy must withhold the political
suffrage both from those who have nothing and from those who are really
rich, as being the two intolerable classes of men. At the removal of these
classes it must always work, because they are continually calling its task
in question. In the same way democracy must prevent all measures that seem
to aim at party organisation. For the three great foes of independence, in
that threefold sense, are the have-nots, the rich, and the parties.—I
speak of democracy as of a thing to come. What at present goes by that
name is distinguished from older forms of government only by the fact that
it drives with new horses; the roads and the wheels are the same as of
yore.—Has the danger really become less with _these_ conveyances of the
commonwealth?
294.
DISCRETION AND SUCCESS.—That great quality of discretion, which is
fundamentally the virtue of virtues, their ancestress and queen, has in
common life by no means always success on its side. The wooer would find
himself deceived if he had wooed that virtue only for the sake of success.
For it is rated by practical people as suspicious, and is confused with
cunning and hypocrisy: he who obviously lacks discretion, the man who
quickly grasps and sometimes misses his grasp, has prejudice on his
side—he is an honest, trustworthy fellow. Practical people, accordingly,
do not like the prudent man, thinking he is to them a danger. Moreover, we
often assume the prudent man to be anxious, preoccupied,
pedantic—unpractical, butterfly people find him uncomfortable, because he
does not live in their happy-go-lucky way, without thinking of actions and
duties; he appears among them as their embodied conscience, and the bright
day is dimmed to their eyes before his gaze. Thus when success and
popularity fail him, he may often say by way of private consolation, “So
high are the taxes you have to pay for the possession of the most precious
of human commodities—still it is worth the price!”
295.
_ET IN ARCADIA EGO._—I looked down, over waves of hills, to a milky-green
lake, through firs and pines austere with age; rocky crags of all shapes
about me, the soil gay with flowers and grasses. A herd of cattle moved,
stretched, and expanded itself before me; single cows and groups in the
distance, in the clearest evening light, hard by the forest of pines;
others nearer and darker; all in calm and eventide contentment. My watch
pointed to half-past six. The bull of the herd had stepped into the white
foaming brook, and went forward slowly, now striving against, now giving
way to his tempestuous course; thus, no doubt, he took his sort of fierce
pleasure. Two dark brown beings, of Bergamasque origin, tended the herd,
the girl dressed almost like a boy. On the left, overhanging cliffs and
fields of snow above broad belts of woodland; to the right, two enormous
ice-covered peaks, high above me, shimmering in the veil of the sunny
haze—all large, silent, and bright. The beauty of the whole was
awe-inspiring and induced to a mute worship of the moment and its
revelation. Unconsciously, as if nothing could be more natural, you
peopled this pure, clear world of light (which had no trace of yearning,
of expectancy, of looking forward or backward) with Greek heroes. You felt
it all as Poussin and his school felt—at once heroic and idyllic.—So
individual men too have lived, constantly feeling themselves in the world
and the world in themselves, and among them one of the greatest men, the
inventor of a heroico-idyllic form of philosophy—Epicurus.
296.
COUNTING AND MEASURING.—The art of seeing many things, of weighing one
with another, of reckoning one thing with another and constructing from
them a rapid conclusion, a fairly correct sum—that goes to make a great
politician or general or merchant. This quality is, in fact, a power of
speedy mental calculation. The art of seeing _one_ thing alone, of finding
therein the sole motive for action, the guiding principle of all other
action, goes to make the hero and also the fanatic. This quality means a
dexterity in measuring with one scale.
297.
NOT TO SEE TOO SOON.—As long as we undergo some experience, we must give
ourselves up to the experience and shut our eyes—in other words, not
become observers of what we are undergoing. For to observe would disturb
good digestion of the experience, and instead of wisdom we should gain
nothing but dyspepsia.
298.
FROM THE PRACTICE OF THE WISE.—To become wise we must _will_ to undergo
certain experiences, and accordingly leap into their jaws. This, it is
true, is very dangerous. Many a “sage” has been eaten up in the process.
299.
EXHAUSTION OF THE INTELLECT.—Our occasional coldness and indifference
towards people, which is imputed to us as hardness and defect of
character, is often only an exhaustion of the intellect. In this state
other men are to us, as we are to ourselves, tedious or immaterial.
300.
“THE ONE THING NEEDFUL.”—If we are clever, the one thing we need is to
have joy in our hearts. “Ah,” adds some one, “if we are clever, the best
thing we can do is to be wise.”
301.
A SIGN OF LOVE.—Some one said, “There are two persons about whom I have
never thought deeply. That is a sign of my love for them.”
302.
HOW WE SEEK TO IMPROVE BAD ARGUMENTS.—Many a man adds a bit of his
personality to his bad arguments, as if they would thus go better and
change into straight and good arguments. In the same way, players at
skittles, even after a throw, try to give a direction to the ball by turns
and gestures.
303.
HONESTY.—It is but a small thing to be a pattern sort of man with regard
to rights and property—for instance (to name trifling points, which of
course give a better proof of this sort of pattern nature than great
examples), if as a boy one never steals fruit from another’s orchard, and
as a man never walks on unmown fields. It is but little; you are then
still only a “law-abiding person,” with just that degree of morality of
which a “society,” a group of human beings, is capable.
304.
“MAN!”—What is the vanity of the vainest individual as compared with the
vanity which the most modest person feels when he thinks of his position
in nature and in the world as “Man!”
305.
THE MOST NECESSARY GYMNASTIC.—Through deficiency in self-control in small
matters a similar deficiency on great occasions slowly arises. Every day
on which we have not at least once denied ourselves some _trifle_ is
turned to bad use and a danger to the next day. This gymnastic is
indispensable if we wish to maintain the joy of being our own master.
306.
LOSING OURSELVES.—When we have first found ourselves, we must understand
how from time to time to _lose_ ourselves and then to find ourselves
again.—This is true on the assumption that we are thinkers. A thinker
finds it a drawback always to be tied to one person.
307.
WHEN IT IS NECESSARY TO PART.—You must, for a time at least, part from
that which you want to know and measure. Only when you have left a city do
you see how high its towers rise above its houses.
308.
AT NOONTIDE.—He to whom an active and stormy morning of life is allotted,
at the noontide of life feels his soul overcome by a strange longing for a
rest that may last for months and years. All grows silent around him,
voices sound farther and farther in the distance, the sun shines straight
down upon him. On a hidden woodland sward he sees the great God Pan
sleeping, and with Pan Nature seems to him to have gone to sleep with an
expression of eternity on their faces. He wants nothing, he troubles about
nothing; his heart stands still, only his eye lives. It is a death with
waking eyes. Then man sees much that he never saw before, and, so far as
his eye can reach, all is woven into and as it were buried in a net of
light. He feels happy, but it is a heavy, very heavy kind of
happiness.—Then at last the wind stirs in the trees, noontide is over,
life carries him away again, life with its blind eyes, and its tempestuous
retinue behind it—desire, illusion, oblivion, enjoyment, destruction,
decay. And so comes evening, more stormy and more active than was even the
morning.—To the really active man these prolonged phases of cognition seem
almost uncanny and morbid, but not unpleasant.
309.
TO BEWARE OF ONE’S PORTRAIT-PAINTER.—A great painter, who in a portrait
has revealed and put on canvas the fullest expression and look of which a
man is capable, will almost always think, when he sees the man later in
real life, that he is only looking at a caricature.
310.
THE TWO PRINCIPLES OF THE NEW LIFE.—_First Principle_: to arrange one’s
life on the most secure and tangible basis, not as hitherto upon the most
distant, undetermined, and cloudy foundation. _Second Principle_: to
establish the rank of the nearest and nearer things, and of the more and
less secure, before one arranges one’s life and directs it to a final end.
311.
DANGEROUS IRRITABILITY.—Talented men who are at the same time _idle_ will
always appear somewhat irritated when one of their friends has
accomplished a thorough piece of work. Their jealousy is awakened, they
are ashamed of their own laziness, or rather, they fear that their active
friend will now despise them even more than before. In such a mood they
criticise the new achievement, and, to the utter astonishment of the
author, their criticism becomes a revenge.
312.
DESTRUCTIONS OF ILLUSIONS.—Illusions are certainly expensive amusements;
but the destruction of illusions is still more expensive, if looked upon
as an amusement, as it undoubtedly is by some people.
313.
THE MONOTONE OF THE “SAGE.”—Cows sometimes have a look of wondering which
stops short on the path to questioning. In the eye of the higher
intelligence, on the other hand, the _nil admirari_ is spread out like the
monotony of the cloudless sky.
314.
NOT TO BE ILL TOO LONG.—We should beware of being ill too long. The
lookers-on become impatient of their customary duty of showing sympathy,
because they find it too much trouble to maintain the appearance of this
emotion for any length of time. Then they immediately pass to suspicion of
our character, with the conclusion: “You deserve to be ill, and we need no
longer be at pains to show our sympathy.”
315.
A HINT TO ENTHUSIASTS.—He who likes to be carried away, and would fain be
carried on high, must beware lest he become too heavy. For instance, he
must not learn much, and especially not let himself be crammed with
science. Science makes men ponderous—take care, ye enthusiasts!
316.
KNOWLEDGE OF HOW TO SURPRISE ONESELF.—He who would see himself as he is,
must know how to _surprise_ himself, torch in hand. For with the mind it
is as with the body: whoever is accustomed to look at himself in the glass
forgets his ugliness, and only recognises it again by means of the
portrait-painter. Yet he even grows used to the picture and forgets his
ugliness all over again.—Herein we see the universal law that man cannot
endure unalterable ugliness, unless for a moment. He forgets or denies it
in all cases.—The moralists must reckon upon that “moment” for bringing
forward their truths.
317.
OPINIONS AND FISH.—We are possessors of our opinions as of fish—that is,
in so far as we are possessors of a fish pond. We must go fishing and have
luck—then we have _our_ fish, _our_ opinions. I speak here of live
opinions, of live fish. Others are content to possess a cabinet of
fossils—and, in their head, “convictions.”
318.
SIGNS OF FREEDOM AND SERVITUDE.—To satisfy one’s needs so far as possible
oneself, even if imperfectly, is the path towards freedom in mind and
personality. To satisfy many even superfluous needs, and that as fully as
possible, is a training for servitude. The Sophist Hippias, who himself
earned and made all that he wore within and without, is the representative
of the highest freedom of mind and personality. It does not matter whether
all is done equally well and perfectly—pride can repair the damaged
places.
319.
BELIEF IN ONESELF.—In our times we mistrust every one who believes in
himself. Formerly this was enough to make people believe in one. The
recipe for finding faith now runs: “Spare not thyself! In order to set thy
opinion in a credible light, thou must first set fire to thy own hut!”
320.
AT ONCE RICHER AND POORER.—I know a man who accustomed himself even in
childhood to think well of the intellectuality of mankind—in other words,
of their real devotion as regards things of the intellect, their unselfish
preference for that which is recognised as true—but who had at the same
time a modest or even depreciatory view of his own brain (judgment,
memory, presence of mind, imagination). He set no value on himself when he
compared himself with others. Now in the course of years he was compelled,
first once and then in a hundred ways, to revise this verdict. One would
have thought he would be thoroughly satisfied and delighted. Such, in
fact, was to some extent the case, but, as he once said, “Yet a bitterness
of the deepest dye is mingled with my feeling, such as I did not know in
earlier life; for since I learnt to value men and myself more correctly,
my intellect seems to me of less use. I scarcely think I can now do any
good at all with it, because the minds of others cannot understand the
good. I now always see before me the frightful gulf between those who
could give help and those who need help. So I am troubled by the
misfortune of having my intellect to myself and of being forced to enjoy
it alone so far as it can give any enjoyment. But to give is more blessed
than to possess, and what is the richest man in the solitude of a
desert?”(28)
321.
HOW WE SHOULD ATTACK.—The reasons for which men believe or do not believe
are in very few people as strong as they might be. As a rule, in order to
shake a belief it is far from necessary to use the heaviest weapon of
attack. Many attain their object by merely making the attack with some
noise—in fact, pop-guns are often enough. In dealing with very vain
persons, the semblance of a strong attack is enough. They think they are
being taken quite seriously, and readily give way.
322.
DEATH.—Through the certain prospect of death a precious, fragrant drop of
frivolity might be mixed with every life—and now, you singular
druggist-souls, you have made of death a drop of poison, unpleasant to
taste, which makes the whole of life hideous.
323.
REPENTANCE.—Never allow repentance free play, but say at once to yourself,
“That would be adding a second piece of folly to the first.” If you have
worked evil, you must bethink yourself of doing good. If you are punished
for your actions, submit to the punishment with the feeling that by this
very submission you are somehow doing good, in that you are deterring
others from falling into the same error. Every malefactor who is punished
has a right to consider himself a benefactor to mankind.
324.
BECOMING A THINKER.—How can any one become a thinker if he does not spend
at least a third part of the day without passions, men, and books?
325.
THE BEST REMEDY.—A little health on and off is the best remedy for the
invalid.
326.
DON’T TOUCH.—There are dreadful people who, instead of solving a problem,
complicate it for those who deal with it and make it harder to solve.(29)
Whoever does not know how to hit the nail on the head should be entreated
not to hit the nail at all.
327.
FORGETTING NATURE.—We speak of Nature, and, in doing so, forget ourselves:
we ourselves are Nature, _quand même_.—Consequently, Nature is something
quite different from what we feel on hearing her name pronounced.
328.
PROFUNDITY AND ENNUI.—In the case of profound men, as of deep wells, it
takes a long time before anything that is thrown into them reaches the
bottom. The spectators, who generally do not wait long enough, too readily
look upon such a man as callous and hard—or even as boring.
329.
WHEN IT IS TIME TO VOW FIDELITY TO ONESELF.—We sometimes go astray in an
intellectual direction which does not correspond to our talents. For a
time we struggle heroically against wind and tide, really against
ourselves; but finally we become weary and we pant. What we accomplish
gives us no real pleasure, since we think that we have paid too heavy a
price for these successes. We even despair of our productivity, of our
future, perhaps in the midst of victory.—Finally, finally we turn back—and
then the wind swells our sails and bears us into our smooth water. What
bliss! How certain of victory we feel! Only now do we know what we are and
what we intend, and now we vow fidelity to ourselves, and have a right to
do so—as men that know.
330.
WEATHER PROPHETS.—Just as the clouds reveal to us the direction of the
wind high above our heads, so the lightest and freest spirits give signs
of future weather by their course. The wind in the valley and the
market-place opinions of to-day have no significance for the future, but
only for the past.
331.
CONTINUAL ACCELERATION.—Those who begin slowly and find it hard to become
familiar with a subject, sometimes acquire afterwards the quality of
continual acceleration—so that in the end no one knows where the current
will take them.
332.
THE THREE GOOD THINGS.—Greatness, calm, sunlight—these three embrace all
that a thinker desires and also demands of himself: his hopes and duties,
his claims in the intellectual and moral sphere, nay even in his daily
manner of life and the scenic background of his residence. Corresponding
to these three things are, firstly thoughts that exalt, secondly thoughts
that soothe, and thirdly thoughts that illuminate—but, fourthly, thoughts
that share in all these three qualities, in which all earthly things are
transfigured. This is the kingdom of the great _trinity of joy_.
333.
DYING FOR “TRUTH.”—We should not let ourselves be burnt for our
opinions—we are not so certain of them as all that. But we might let
ourselves be burnt for the right of possessing and changing our opinions.
334.
MARKET VALUE.—If we wish to pass exactly for what we are, we must be
something that has its market value. As, however, only objects in common
use have a market value, this desire is the consequence either of shrewd
modesty or of stupid immodesty.
335.
MORAL FOR BUILDERS.—We must remove the scaffolding when the house has been
built.
336.
SOPHOCLEANISM.—Who poured more water into wine than the Greeks? Sobriety
and grace combined—that was the aristocratic privilege of the Athenian in
the time of Sophocles and after. Imitate that whoever can! In life and in
work!
337.
HEROISM.—The heroic consists in doing something great (or in nobly _not_
doing something) without feeling oneself to be in competition _with_ or
_before_ others. The hero carries with him, wherever he goes, the
wilderness and the holy land with inviolable precincts.
338.
FINDING OUR “DOUBLE” IN NATURE.—In some country places we rediscover
ourselves, with a delightful shudder: it is the pleasantest way of finding
our “double.”—How happy must he be who has that feeling just here, in this
perpetually sunny October air, in this happy elfin play of the wind from
morn till eve, in this clearest of atmospheres and mildest of
temperatures, in all the serious yet cheerful landscape of hill, lake, and
forest on this plateau, which has encamped fearlessly next to the terrors
of eternal snow: here, where Italy and Finland have joined hands, and
where the home of all the silver colour-tones of Nature seems to be
established. How happy must he be who can say, “True, there are many
grander and finer pieces of scenery, but this is so familiar and intimate
to me, related by blood, nay even more to me!”
339.
AFFABILITY OF THE SAGE.—The sage will unconsciously be affable in his
intercourse with other men, as a prince would be, and will readily treat
them as equals, in spite of all differences of talent, rank, and
character. For this characteristic, however, so soon as people notice it,
he is most heavily censured.
340.
GOLD.—All that is gold does not glitter. A soft sheen characterises the
most precious metal.
341.
WHEEL AND DRAG.—The wheel and the drag have different duties, but also one
in common—that of hurting each other.
342.
DISTURBANCES OF THE THINKER.—All that interrupts the thinker in his
thoughts (disturbs him, as people say) must be regarded by him calmly, as
a new model who comes in by the door to offer himself to the artist.
Interruptions are the ravens which bring food to the recluse.
343.
BEING VERY CLEVER.—Being very clever keeps men young, but they must put up
with being considered, for that very reason, older than they are. For men
read the handwriting of the intellect as signs of _experience_—that is, of
having lived much and evilly, of suffering, error, and repentance. Hence,
if we are very clever and show it, we appear to them older and wickeder
than we are.
344.
HOW WE MUST CONQUER.—We ought not to desire victory if we only have the
prospect of overcoming our opponent by a hair’s breadth. A good victory
makes the vanquished rejoice, and must have about it something divine
which spares _humiliation_.
345.
AN ILLUSION OF SUPERIOR MINDS.—Superior minds find it difficult to free
themselves from an illusion; for they imagine that they excite envy among
the mediocre and are looked upon as exceptions. As a matter of fact,
however, they are looked upon as superfluous, as something that would not
be missed if it did not exist.
346.
DEMANDED BY CLEANLINESS.—Changing opinions is in some natures as much
demanded by cleanliness as changing clothes. In the case of other natures
it is only demanded by vanity.
347.
ALSO WORTHY OF A HERO.—Here is a hero who did nothing but shake the tree
as soon as the fruits were ripe. Do you think that too small a thing?
Well, just look at the tree that he shook.
348.
A GAUGE FOR WISDOM.—The growth of wisdom may be gauged exactly by the
diminution of ill-temper.
349.
EXPRESSING AN ERROR DISAGREEABLY.—It is not to every one’s taste to hear
truth pleasantly expressed. But let no one at least believe that error
will become truth if it is disagreeably expressed.
350.
THE GOLDEN MAXIM.—Man has been bound with many chains, in order that he
may forget to comport himself like an animal. And indeed he has become
more gentle, more intellectual, more joyous, more meditative than any
animal. But now he still suffers from having carried his chains so long,
from having been so long without pure air and free movement—these chains,
however, are, as I repeat again and again, the ponderous and significant
errors of moral, religious, and metaphysical ideas. Only when the disease
of chains is overcome is the first great goal reached—the separation of
man from the brute. At present we stand in the midst of our work of
removing the chains, and in doing so we need the strictest precautions.
Only the ennobled man may be granted freedom of spirit; to him alone comes
the alleviation of life and heals his wounds; he is the first who can say
that he lives for the sake of joy, with no other aim; in any other mouth,
his motto of “Peace around me and goodwill towards all the most familiar
things,” would be dangerous.—In this motto for single individuals he is
thinking of an ancient saying, magnificent and pathetic, which applied to
all, and has remained standing above all mankind, as a motto and a beacon
whereby shall perish all who adorn their banner too early—the rock on
which Christianity foundered. It is not even yet time, it seems, for _all
men_ to have the lot of those shepherds who saw the heavens lit up above
them and heard the words: “Peace on earth and goodwill to one another
among men.”—It is still the age of the individual.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
_The Shadow_: Of all that you have enunciated, nothing pleased me more
than one promise: “Ye want again to be good neighbours to the most
familiar things.” This will be to the advantage of us poor shadows too.
For do but confess that you have hitherto been only too fond of reviling
us.
_The Wanderer_: Reviling? But why did you never defend yourselves? After
all, you were very close to our ears.
_The Shadow_: It seemed to us that we were too near you to have a right to
talk of ourselves.
_The Wanderer_: What delicacy! Ah, you shadows are “better men”(30) than
we, I can see that.
_The Shadow_: And yet you called us “importunate”—us, who know one thing
at least extremely well: how to be silent and to wait—no Englishman knows
it better. It is true we are very, very often in the retinue of men, but
never as their bondsmen. When man shuns light, we shun man—so far, at
least, we are free.
_The Wanderer_: Ah, light shuns man far oftener, and then also you abandon
him.
_The Shadow_: It has often pained me to leave you. I am eager for
knowledge, and much in man has remained obscure to me, because I cannot
always be in his company. At the price of complete knowledge of man I
would gladly be your slave.
_The Wanderer_: Do you know, do I know, whether you would not then
unwittingly become master instead of slave? Or would remain a slave
indeed, but would lead a life of humiliation and disgust because you
despised your master? Let us both be content with freedom such as you have
enjoyed up to now—you and I! For the sight of a being not free would
embitter my greatest joys; all that is best would be repugnant to me if
any one had to share it with me—I will not hear of any slaves about me.
That is why I do not care for the dog, that lazy, tail-wagging parasite,
who first became “doggish” as the slave of man, and of whom they still say
that he is loyal to his master and follows him like——
_The Shadow_: Like his shadow, they say. Perhaps I have already followed
you too long to-day? It has been the longest day, but we are nearing the
end; be patient a little more! The grass is damp; I am feeling chilly.
_The Wanderer_: Oh, is it already time to part? And I had to hurt you in
the end—I saw you became darker.
_The Shadow_: I blushed the only colour I have at command. I remembered
that I had often lain at your feet like a dog, and that you then——
_The Wanderer_: Can I not with all speed do something to please you? Have
you no wish?
_The Shadow_: None, except perhaps the wish that the philosophic “dog”(31)
expressed to Alexander the Great—just move a little out of my light; I
feel cold.
_The Wanderer_: What am I to do?
_The Shadow_: Walk under those fir-trees and look around you towards the
mountains; the sun is sinking.
_The Wanderer_: Where are you? Where are you?
FOOTNOTES
1 “Foreword” and “forword” would be the literal rendering of the play
on words.—TR.
2 The allusion is to the ending of the Second Part of Goethe’s
_Faust_—“das Ewig Weibliche Zieht uns _hinan_!”—“The Eternal
Feminine Draweth us _on_!”—TR.
3 It has been attempted to render the play on “Gewissen” and
“Wissen.”—TR.
4 Cf. John i. 1.—TR.
5 The German word _Mitfreude_, coined by Nietzsche in opposition to
_Mitleid_ (sympathy), is untranslateable.—TR.
6 Herostratus of Ephesus (in 356 B.C.) set fire to the temple of Diana
in order (as he confessed on the rack) to gain notoriety.—TR.
7 Quotation from Schiller, _Don Carlos_, i. 5.—TR.
8 This, of course, refers to Jesus and Socrates.—TR.
9 Queen of the Amazons, slain by Achilles in the Trojan War.—TR.
10 From Schiller, _Wallenstein’s Lager_: “Wer den Besten seiner Zeit
genug gethan, der hat gelebt für alle Zeiten” (“He that has
satisfied the best men of his time has lived for all time”).
11 In German _Barockstil_, _i.e._ the degenerate post-Renaissance style
in art and literature, which spread from Italy in the seventeenth
century.—TR.
12 The original word, _Freizügig_, means, in the modern German Empire,
possessing the free right of migration, without pecuniary burdens or
other restrictions, from one German state to another. The play on
words in _Zug zur Freiheit_ (“impulse to freedom”) is
untranslateable.—TR.
13 Nietzsche seems to allude to his own case, for he ultimately
contracted a myopia which bordered on blindness.—TR.
14 The play on _bergen_ (shelter) and _verbergen_ (hide) is
untranslateable.—TR.
15 Allusion to German proverb: “Where there is nothing, the Emperor has
lost his rights.”—TR.
16 Genesis xiii. 9.—TR.
17 Luke viii. 33.—TR.
18 The play on Freudenschaften (_i.e._ pleasure-giving passions) and
_Leidenschaften_ (_i.e._ pain-giving passions) is often used by
Nietzsche, and is untranslateable.—_Tr._
19 The wife of the Stoic Thrasea Paetus, when their complicity in the
great conspiracy of 65 A.D. against Nero was discovered, is reported
to have said as she committed suicide, “It doesn’t hurt,
Paetus.”—_Tr._
20 It is interesting to compare this judgment with Carlyle’s praise of
Jean Paul. The dressing-gown is an allusion to Jean Paul’s favourite
costume.—TR.
21 The German copyright expires thirty years after publication.—TR.
22 Nietzsche himself was extremely short-sighted.—TR.
23 In the sixth century B.C. Pythagoras founded at Croton a “school”
somewhat resembling a monastic order. Among the ordeals for
novitiates was enforced silence for five years.—TR.
24 In the German _Aufklärung_ there is a play on the sense “clearing
up” (of weather) and “enlightenment.”—TR.
25 Stendhal.—TR.
26 A transposition of _sacrifizio dell’ intelletto_, the Jesuit
maxim.—TR.
27 The original, by a curious slip, has “seventh.”—TR.
28 Clearly autobiographical. Nietzsche, like all great men, passed
through a period of modesty and doubt.—TR.
29 Nietzsche here alludes to his own countrymen.—TR.
30 An allusion to the poem “Der Wilde” (The Savage) by Säume, which
ends with the line, “Sehet, wir wilden sind doch bessere Menschen”
(Behold, after all, we savages are better men).—TR.
31 Diogenes, founder of the Cynic school, which derived its name from
κυών (dog).—TR.