24. O sancta simplicitas! In what strange simplification and falsification man lives! One can never cease wondering when once one has got eyes for beholding this marvel! How we have made everything around us clear and free and easy and simple! how we have been able to give our senses a passport to everything superficial, our thoughts a godlike desire for wanton pranks and wrong inferences!—how from the beginning, we have contrived to retain our ignorance in order to enjoy an almost inconceivable freedom, thoughtlessness, imprudence, heartiness, and gaiety—in order to enjoy life! And only on this solidified, granite-like foundation of ignorance could knowledge rear itself hitherto, the will to knowledge on the foundation of a far more powerful will, the will to ignorance, to the uncertain, to the untrue! Not as its opposite, but—as its refinement! It is to be hoped, indeed, that LANGUAGE, here as elsewhere, will not get over its awkwardness, and that it will continue to talk of opposites where there are only degrees and many refinements of gradation; it is equally to be hoped that the incarnated Tartuffery of morals, which now belongs to our unconquerable "flesh and blood," will turn the words round in the mouths of us discerning ones. Here and there we understand it, and laugh at the way in which precisely the best knowledge seeks most to retain us in this SIMPLIFIED, thoroughly artificial, suitably imagined, and suitably falsified world: at the way in which, whether it will or not, it loves error, because, as living itself, it loves life!
24. O sancta simplicitas! What strange simplifications and distortions human beings live by! Once you have eyes to see this marvel, you can never stop wondering at it! How clear, free, easy, and simple we have made everything around us! How we have given our senses a passport to everything superficial! How we have given our thoughts a godlike appetite for reckless pranks and false conclusions! From the beginning, we have managed to preserve our ignorance. We have done so to enjoy almost unimaginable freedom, thoughtlessness, recklessness, warmth, and joy. We have done so to enjoy life! Only on this hardened, granite-like foundation of ignorance has knowledge been able to rise until now. The will to knowledge rests on a far more powerful will: the will to ignorance, uncertainty, and untruth! The will to knowledge is not its opposite, but its refinement! Indeed, let us hope that LANGUAGE, here as elsewhere, never overcomes its clumsiness. Let us hope it keeps speaking of opposites where there are only degrees and many subtle gradations. Equally, let us hope that morality's embodied Tartuffery, now part of our unconquerable "flesh and blood," twists our words. Even we who see through things are subject to this twisting. Here and there we understand, and laugh at how the very best knowledge works hardest to keep us in this SIMPLIFIED world. This world is entirely artificial, imagined to suit our needs, and falsified to suit them too. We laugh at how knowledge, whether it wants to or not, loves error. For knowledge itself is alive, and so it loves life!
25. After such a cheerful commencement, a serious word would fain be heard; it appeals to the most serious minds. Take care, ye philosophers and friends of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom! Of suffering "for the truth's sake"! even in your own defense! It spoils all the innocence and fine neutrality of your conscience; it makes you headstrong against objections and red rags; it stupefies, animalizes, and brutalizes, when in the struggle with danger, slander, suspicion, expulsion, and even worse consequences of enmity, ye have at last to play your last card as protectors of truth upon earth—as though "the Truth" were such an innocent and incompetent creature as to require protectors! and you of all people, ye knights of the sorrowful countenance, Messrs Loafers and Cobweb-spinners of the spirit! Finally, ye know sufficiently well that it cannot be of any consequence if YE just carry your point; ye know that hitherto no philosopher has carried his point, and that there might be a more laudable truthfulness in every little interrogative mark which you place after your special words and favourite doctrines (and occasionally after yourselves) than in all the solemn pantomime and trumping games before accusers and law-courts! Rather go out of the way! Flee into concealment! And have your masks and your ruses, that ye may be mistaken for what you are, or somewhat feared! And pray, don't forget the garden, the garden with golden trellis-work! And have people around you who are as a garden—or as music on the waters at eventide, when already the day becomes a memory. Choose the GOOD solitude, the free, wanton, lightsome solitude, which also gives you the right still to remain good in any sense whatsoever! How poisonous, how crafty, how bad, does every long war make one, which cannot be waged openly by means of force! How PERSONAL does a long fear make one, a long watching of enemies, of possible enemies! These pariahs of society, these long-pursued, badly-persecuted ones—also the compulsory recluses, the Spinozas or Giordano Brunos—always become in the end, even under the most intellectual masquerade, and perhaps without being themselves aware of it, refined vengeance-seekers and poison-Brewers (just lay bare the foundation of Spinoza's ethics and theology!), not to speak of the stupidity of moral indignation, which is the unfailing sign in a philosopher that the sense of philosophical humour has left him. The martyrdom of the philosopher, his "sacrifice for the sake of truth," forces into the light whatever of the agitator and actor lurks in him; and if one has hitherto contemplated him only with artistic curiosity, with regard to many a philosopher it is easy to understand the dangerous desire to see him also in his deterioration (deteriorated into a "martyr," into a stage-and-tribune-bawler). Only, that it is necessary with such a desire to be clear WHAT spectacle one will see in any case—merely a satyric play, merely an epilogue farce, merely the continued proof that the long, real tragedy IS AT AN END, supposing that every philosophy has been a long tragedy in its origin.
25. After such a cheerful opening, a serious word asks to be heard. It appeals to the most serious minds. Take care, you philosophers and friends of knowledge, and beware of martyrdom! Beware of suffering "for the truth's sake"! Even in your own defense! Such suffering ruins all the innocence and delicate neutrality of your conscience. It makes you stubborn in the face of objections and provocations. It dulls your mind, turns you into an animal, and brutalizes you. You struggle against danger, slander, suspicion, expulsion, and even worse consequences of hostility. At last, you must play your final card as protectors of truth on earth. As though "the Truth" were so innocent and helpless that it needed protectors! And you, of all people, you knights of the sorrowful countenance, you gentlemen Loafers and Cobweb-spinners of the spirit! After all, you know well enough that nothing depends on whether YOU win your argument. You know that no philosopher has yet won his argument. Every little question mark you place after your special words and favorite doctrines may show a more admirable honesty. Occasionally, you even place one after yourselves. Such question marks may show more honesty than all your solemn playacting and games of outdoing accusers in court! Instead, get out of the way! Go into hiding! Keep your masks and your tricks, so people may mistake you for what you are, or fear you a little! And please, do not forget the garden, the garden with golden trellises! Surround yourselves with people who are like a garden. Or like music over the water at evening, when the day is already becoming a memory. Choose GOOD solitude, free, uninhibited, lighthearted solitude. Such solitude also gives you the right to remain good in any sense at all! How poisonous, how cunning, how bad a long war makes us when we cannot fight openly through force! How PERSONAL prolonged fear makes us, along with constantly watching enemies and possible enemies! These outcasts of society, these people so long hunted and cruelly persecuted, always end up as sophisticated revenge-seekers and poison-brewers. So do those forced into seclusion, the Spinozas or Giordano Brunos. They become this even behind the most intellectual disguises, and perhaps without realizing it themselves. Just uncover the foundations of Spinoza's ethics and theology! Not to mention the stupidity of moral outrage. In a philosopher, moral outrage is an unfailing sign that he has lost his sense of philosophical humor. The philosopher's martyrdom, his "sacrifice for the sake of truth," exposes whatever agitator and actor lurks within him. Suppose we have so far viewed a philosopher only with artistic curiosity. With many philosophers, we can easily understand the dangerous desire to see him deteriorate as well. We want to see him deteriorate into a "martyr," into someone bellowing on a stage or public platform. But anyone with such a desire must be clear about WHAT spectacle will appear in any case. Merely a satyr play, merely a farcical epilogue. Merely further proof that the long, real tragedy IS OVER, assuming every philosophy has been a long tragedy in its origins.
26. Every select man strives instinctively for a citadel and a privacy, where he is FREE from the crowd, the many, the majority—where he may forget "men who are the rule," as their exception;—exclusive only of the case in which he is pushed straight to such men by a still stronger instinct, as a discerner in the great and exceptional sense. Whoever, in intercourse with men, does not occasionally glisten in all the green and grey colours of distress, owing to disgust, satiety, sympathy, gloominess, and solitariness, is assuredly not a man of elevated tastes; supposing, however, that he does not voluntarily take all this burden and disgust upon himself, that he persistently avoids it, and remains, as I said, quietly and proudly hidden in his citadel, one thing is then certain: he was not made, he was not predestined for knowledge. For as such, he would one day have to say to himself: "The devil take my good taste! but 'the rule' is more interesting than the exception—than myself, the exception!" And he would go DOWN, and above all, he would go "inside." The long and serious study of the AVERAGE man—and consequently much disguise, self-overcoming, familiarity, and bad intercourse (all intercourse is bad intercourse except with one's equals):—that constitutes a necessary part of the life-history of every philosopher; perhaps the most disagreeable, odious, and disappointing part. If he is fortunate, however, as a favourite child of knowledge should be, he will meet with suitable auxiliaries who will shorten and lighten his task; I mean so-called cynics, those who simply recognize the animal, the commonplace and "the rule" in themselves, and at the same time have so much spirituality and ticklishness as to make them talk of themselves and their like BEFORE WITNESSES—sometimes they wallow, even in books, as on their own dung-hill. Cynicism is the only form in which base souls approach what is called honesty; and the higher man must open his ears to all the coarser or finer cynicism, and congratulate himself when the clown becomes shameless right before him, or the scientific satyr speaks out. There are even cases where enchantment mixes with the disgust—namely, where by a freak of nature, genius is bound to some such indiscreet billy-goat and ape, as in the case of the Abbe Galiani, the profoundest, acutest, and perhaps also filthiest man of his century—he was far profounder than Voltaire, and consequently also, a good deal more silent. It happens more frequently, as has been hinted, that a scientific head is placed on an ape's body, a fine exceptional understanding in a base soul, an occurrence by no means rare, especially among doctors and moral physiologists. And whenever anyone speaks without bitterness, or rather quite innocently, of man as a belly with two requirements, and a head with one; whenever any one sees, seeks, and WANTS to see only hunger, sexual instinct, and vanity as the real and only motives of human actions; in short, when any one speaks "badly"—and not even "ill"—of man, then ought the lover of knowledge to hearken attentively and diligently; he ought, in general, to have an open ear wherever there is talk without indignation. For the indignant man, and he who perpetually tears and lacerates himself with his own teeth (or, in place of himself, the world, God, or society), may indeed, morally speaking, stand higher than the laughing and self-satisfied satyr, but in every other sense he is the more ordinary, more indifferent, and less instructive case. And no one is such a LIAR as the indignant man.
26. Every exceptional man instinctively seeks a fortress and a private retreat where he is FREE from the crowd, the many, the majority. There, as an exception, he can forget "men who are the rule." The only exception is when a still stronger instinct drives him straight toward such men. This is the instinct of someone with a great and exceptional gift for understanding. Anyone with refined tastes must sometimes show every green and gray shade of distress when dealing with people. Disgust, weariness, sympathy, gloom, and loneliness bring out these colors. But suppose he does not willingly take on this burden and disgust. Suppose he keeps avoiding them and stays quietly and proudly hidden in his fortress, as I said. Then one thing is certain: he was not made or destined for knowledge. Otherwise, he would one day have to tell himself: "To hell with my good taste! Still, 'the rule' is more interesting than the exception, more interesting than me, the exception!" And he would go DOWN. Above all, he would go "inside." A long, serious study of the AVERAGE man is a necessary part of every philosopher's life. Such study therefore involves much disguise, overcoming oneself, familiarity, and bad company (all company is bad except that of one's equals). Perhaps this is the most unpleasant, hateful, and disappointing part. But if he is fortunate, as a favored child of knowledge should be, he will find suitable helpers. These helpers will shorten his task and make it easier. I mean the so-called cynics, who readily recognize the animal, the commonplace, and "the rule" in themselves. At the same time, they have enough mental refinement and sensitivity to talk about themselves and their kind BEFORE WITNESSES. Sometimes they wallow, even in books, as though on their own dung heap. Cynicism is the only way base souls approach what is called honesty. The higher man must listen to every kind of cynicism, coarse or subtle. He should congratulate himself when the clown drops all shame right before him, or the scientific satyr speaks openly. Sometimes fascination even mingles with disgust. This happens when, through a freak of nature, genius is bound to some such indiscreet billy goat and ape. Take the Abbe Galiani, the deepest, sharpest, and perhaps also filthiest man of his century. He was far deeper than Voltaire and, consequently, also much more silent. More often, as already suggested, a scientific mind sits on an ape's body: an exceptional intellect in a base soul. This is by no means rare, especially among doctors and those who study morality through physiology. Someone may speak without bitterness, or rather quite innocently, of man as a belly with two needs and a head with one. Someone may see, seek, and WANT to see only hunger, sexual instinct, and vanity as the true and sole motives behind human actions. In short, someone may speak "badly" of man, without even speaking "ill" of him. Whenever this happens, the lover of knowledge should listen closely and carefully. In general, he should keep his ears open wherever people speak without indignation. The indignant man constantly tears and wounds himself with his own teeth. Or, instead of himself, he tears at the world, God, or society. Morally speaking, such a man may indeed stand higher than the laughing, self-satisfied satyr. But in every other sense, the indignant man is more ordinary, less interesting, and less instructive. And no one is such a LIAR as the indignant man.
27. It is difficult to be understood, especially when one thinks and lives gangasrotogati [Footnote: Like the river Ganges: presto.] among those only who think and live otherwise—namely, kurmagati [Footnote: Like the tortoise: lento.], or at best "froglike," mandeikagati [Footnote: Like the frog: staccato.] (I do everything to be "difficultly understood" myself!)—and one should be heartily grateful for the good will to some refinement of interpretation. As regards "the good friends," however, who are always too easy-going, and think that as friends they have a right to ease, one does well at the very first to grant them a play-ground and romping-place for misunderstanding—one can thus laugh still; or get rid of them altogether, these good friends—and laugh then also!
27. It is hard to be understood, especially when you think and live gangasrotogati [Footnote: Like the river Ganges: presto.]. This is especially true when everyone around you thinks and lives differently, namely, kurmagati [Footnote: Like the tortoise: lento.]. Or at best, they are "froglike," mandeikagati [Footnote: Like the frog: staccato.]. (I do everything I can to be "hard to understand" myself!) So you should be deeply grateful when someone makes the effort to interpret you with some subtlety. But "the good friends" are always too easygoing and think friendship gives them a right to take things easy. From the very start, you do well to give these friends a playground where their misunderstandings can run wild. That way, you can still laugh. Or you can get rid of these good friends altogether, and laugh then too!
28. What is most difficult to render from one language into another is the TEMPO of its style, which has its basis in the character of the race, or to speak more physiologically, in the average TEMPO of the assimilation of its nutriment. There are honestly meant translations, which, as involuntary vulgarizations, are almost falsifications of the original, merely because its lively and merry TEMPO (which overleaps and obviates all dangers in word and expression) could not also be rendered. A German is almost incapacitated for PRESTO in his language; consequently also, as may be reasonably inferred, for many of the most delightful and daring NUANCES of free, free-spirited thought. And just as the buffoon and satyr are foreign to him in body and conscience, so Aristophanes and Petronius are untranslatable for him. Everything ponderous, viscous, and pompously clumsy, all long-winded and wearying species of style, are developed in profuse variety among Germans—pardon me for stating the fact that even Goethe's prose, in its mixture of stiffness and elegance, is no exception, as a reflection of the "good old time" to which it belongs, and as an expression of German taste at a time when there was still a "German taste," which was a rococo-taste in moribus et artibus. Lessing is an exception, owing to his histrionic nature, which understood much, and was versed in many things; he who was not the translator of Bayle to no purpose, who took refuge willingly in the shadow of Diderot and Voltaire, and still more willingly among the Roman comedy-writers—Lessing loved also free-spiritism in the TEMPO, and flight out of Germany. But how could the German language, even in the prose of Lessing, imitate the TEMPO of Machiavelli, who in his "Principe" makes us breathe the dry, fine air of Florence, and cannot help presenting the most serious events in a boisterous allegrissimo, perhaps not without a malicious artistic sense of the contrast he ventures to present—long, heavy, difficult, dangerous thoughts, and a TEMPO of the gallop, and of the best, wantonest humour? Finally, who would venture on a German translation of Petronius, who, more than any great musician hitherto, was a master of PRESTO in invention, ideas, and words? What matter in the end about the swamps of the sick, evil world, or of the "ancient world," when like him, one has the feet of a wind, the rush, the breath, the emancipating scorn of a wind, which makes everything healthy, by making everything RUN! And with regard to Aristophanes—that transfiguring, complementary genius, for whose sake one PARDONS all Hellenism for having existed, provided one has understood in its full profundity ALL that there requires pardon and transfiguration; there is nothing that has caused me to meditate more on PLATO'S secrecy and sphinx-like nature, than the happily preserved petit fait that under the pillow of his death-bed there was found no "Bible," nor anything Egyptian, Pythagorean, or Platonic—but a book of Aristophanes. How could even Plato have endured life—a Greek life which he repudiated—without an Aristophanes!
28. The hardest thing to translate from one language into another is the TEMPO of its style. This tempo is rooted in the character of the race. More physiologically speaking, it reflects the average TEMPO at which that race absorbs its food. Some well-intentioned translations unintentionally cheapen the original, almost to the point of falsifying it. The reason is simply that they cannot reproduce its lively, cheerful TEMPO. That tempo leaps over and avoids all dangers in wording and expression. A German is almost incapable of PRESTO in his language. So, we may reasonably infer, he is also almost incapable of many delightful, daring NUANCES of free, free-spirited thought. The buffoon and satyr are foreign to him, in both body and conscience. In the same way, Aristophanes and Petronius cannot be translated for him. Germans have developed an enormous variety of ponderous, sluggish, pompously clumsy styles, all long-winded and exhausting. Forgive me for pointing out that even Goethe's prose, with its mixture of stiffness and elegance, is no exception. His prose reflects the "good old time" to which it belongs. It also expresses German taste when there was still a "German taste": a rococo taste in morals and the arts. Lessing is an exception because of his theatrical nature, which understood much and was familiar with many things. He had not translated Bayle for nothing. He gladly took shelter in the shadow of Diderot and Voltaire, and still more gladly among the Roman comic playwrights. Lessing also loved free-spiritedness in TEMPO, and escape from Germany. But how could German, even in Lessing's prose, imitate Machiavelli's TEMPO? In his "Principe", Machiavelli makes us breathe the dry, clear air of Florence. He cannot help presenting the most serious events in a boisterous allegrissimo, a wildly cheerful rush. Perhaps he does so with a malicious artist's awareness of the contrast he dares to present. Long, weighty, difficult, dangerous thoughts, yet a galloping TEMPO and the finest, most unrestrained good humor! Finally, who would dare translate Petronius into German? More than any great musician so far, he mastered PRESTO in invention, ideas, and words. What, ultimately, do the swamps of the sick, evil world, or the "ancient world", matter? What do they matter when, like him, you have the feet, the rush, the breath of a wind? When you have a wind's liberating scorn, which makes everything healthy by making everything RUN! And then there is Aristophanes, that transforming, complementary genius. For his sake, one PARDONS the whole Greek world for having existed. That is, provided one has fully understood ALL that needs pardon and transformation in that world. Nothing has made me reflect more on PLATO'S secretive, sphinx-like nature than one small, fortunately preserved fact. Under his deathbed pillow, they found no "Bible", nor anything Egyptian, Pythagorean, or Platonic, but a book of Aristophanes. How could even Plato have endured life, the Greek life he rejected, without an Aristophanes!
29. It is the business of the very few to be independent; it is a privilege of the strong. And whoever attempts it, even with the best right, but without being OBLIGED to do so, proves that he is probably not only strong, but also daring beyond measure. He enters into a labyrinth, he multiplies a thousandfold the dangers which life in itself already brings with it; not the least of which is that no one can see how and where he loses his way, becomes isolated, and is torn piecemeal by some minotaur of conscience. Supposing such a one comes to grief, it is so far from the comprehension of men that they neither feel it, nor sympathize with it. And he cannot any longer go back! He cannot even go back again to the sympathy of men!
29. Independence is the work of very few people. It is a privilege of the strong. Whoever attempts independence, even with every right to do so, but without being OBLIGED to, proves something about himself. He is probably not only strong but also daring beyond measure. He enters a labyrinth and multiplies a thousandfold the dangers life already brings. Not least is the danger that no one sees how and where he loses his way and becomes isolated. No one sees how some minotaur of conscience tears him to pieces. If such a man meets disaster, his suffering is so far beyond people's understanding that they neither feel nor sympathize with it. And he can no longer go back! He cannot even return to the sympathy of others!
30. Our deepest insights must—and should—appear as follies, and under certain circumstances as crimes, when they come unauthorizedly to the ears of those who are not disposed and predestined for them. The exoteric and the esoteric, as they were formerly distinguished by philosophers—among the Indians, as among the Greeks, Persians, and Mussulmans, in short, wherever people believed in gradations of rank and NOT in equality and equal rights—are not so much in contradistinction to one another in respect to the exoteric class, standing without, and viewing, estimating, measuring, and judging from the outside, and not from the inside; the more essential distinction is that the class in question views things from below upwards—while the esoteric class views things FROM ABOVE DOWNWARDS. There are heights of the soul from which tragedy itself no longer appears to operate tragically; and if all the woe in the world were taken together, who would dare to decide whether the sight of it would NECESSARILY seduce and constrain to sympathy, and thus to a doubling of the woe?... That which serves the higher class of men for nourishment or refreshment, must be almost poison to an entirely different and lower order of human beings. The virtues of the common man would perhaps mean vice and weakness in a philosopher; it might be possible for a highly developed man, supposing him to degenerate and go to ruin, to acquire qualities thereby alone, for the sake of which he would have to be honoured as a saint in the lower world into which he had sunk. There are books which have an inverse value for the soul and the health according as the inferior soul and the lower vitality, or the higher and more powerful, make use of them. In the former case they are dangerous, disturbing, unsettling books, in the latter case they are herald-calls which summon the bravest to THEIR bravery. Books for the general reader are always ill-smelling books, the odour of paltry people clings to them. Where the populace eat and drink, and even where they reverence, it is accustomed to stink. One should not go into churches if one wishes to breathe PURE air.
30. Our deepest insights must, and should, seem foolish when they reach the wrong ears without permission. Under certain circumstances, they must, and should, even seem criminal. Those ears belong to people neither inclined nor destined to receive such insights. Philosophers once distinguished between the exoteric, meant for outsiders, and the esoteric, meant for insiders. This distinction existed among the Indians, Greeks, Persians, and Muslims. In short, it existed wherever people believed in differences of rank and NOT in equality and equal rights. The main distinction is not that outsiders observe, assess, measure, and judge from outside rather than inside. More importantly, outsiders look at things from below upwards, while insiders look FROM ABOVE DOWNWARDS. There are heights of the soul from which even tragedy no longer seems tragic. And suppose all the world's suffering were gathered together. Who would dare decide whether seeing it would NECESSARILY tempt and compel us to share that suffering, thus doubling it?... What nourishes or refreshes a higher kind of person must be almost poisonous to an entirely different, lower kind. The ordinary person's virtues would perhaps count as vices and weaknesses in a philosopher. Suppose a highly developed person were to degenerate and fall into ruin. Through that decline alone, he might acquire qualities that would earn him a saint's honors in the lower world he entered. Some books have opposite effects on the soul and its health, depending on who reads them. Their effects depend on whether the reader has an inferior soul and weaker vitality, or a higher, more powerful nature. For the former, these books are dangerous, disturbing, and unsettling. For the latter, they are trumpet calls summoning the bravest to THEIR bravery. Books for the general reader always smell bad. The odor of petty people clings to them. Wherever the masses eat and drink, and even where they worship, there is usually a stink. Anyone who wants to breathe PURE air should stay out of churches.
31. In our youthful years we still venerate and despise without the art of NUANCE, which is the best gain of life, and we have rightly to do hard penance for having fallen upon men and things with Yea and Nay. Everything is so arranged that the worst of all tastes, THE TASTE FOR THE UNCONDITIONAL, is cruelly befooled and abused, until a man learns to introduce a little art into his sentiments, and prefers to try conclusions with the artificial, as do the real artists of life. The angry and reverent spirit peculiar to youth appears to allow itself no peace, until it has suitably falsified men and things, to be able to vent its passion upon them: youth in itself even, is something falsifying and deceptive. Later on, when the young soul, tortured by continual disillusions, finally turns suspiciously against itself—still ardent and savage even in its suspicion and remorse of conscience: how it upbraids itself, how impatiently it tears itself, how it revenges itself for its long self-blinding, as though it had been a voluntary blindness! In this transition one punishes oneself by distrust of one's sentiments; one tortures one's enthusiasm with doubt, one feels even the good conscience to be a danger, as if it were the self-concealment and lassitude of a more refined uprightness; and above all, one espouses upon principle the cause AGAINST "youth."—A decade later, and one comprehends that all this was also still—youth!
31. In our youth, we still worship and despise without the art of NUANCE, life's greatest gain. We rightly pay a heavy price for having attacked people and things with a simple Yes or No. Everything is arranged so that the worst of all tastes, THE TASTE FOR THE UNCONDITIONAL, is cruelly mocked and mistreated. This continues until we learn to bring a little art into our feelings. We then prefer to test ourselves against the artificial, as the true artists of life do. The angry, reverent spirit of youth seems to give itself no peace until it has suitably distorted people and things. Only then can it vent its passion on them. Youth itself is even something that distorts and deceives. Later, tortured by constant disappointments, the young soul finally turns its suspicions against itself. Even in suspicion and remorse, it remains fierce and wild. How it scolds itself! How impatiently it tears itself apart! How it takes revenge on itself for its long self-deception, as though that blindness had been deliberate! During this transition, we punish ourselves by distrusting our feelings. We torment our enthusiasm with doubt. We even feel that a clear conscience is dangerous. It seems as if a clear conscience meant that a more refined honesty was hiding itself and growing slack. Above all, we take sides on principle AGAINST "youth." Ten years later, we understand that all this was still youth!
32. Throughout the longest period of human history—one calls it the prehistoric period—the value or non-value of an action was inferred from its CONSEQUENCES; the action in itself was not taken into consideration, any more than its origin; but pretty much as in China at present, where the distinction or disgrace of a child redounds to its parents, the retro-operating power of success or failure was what induced men to think well or ill of an action. Let us call this period the PRE-MORAL period of mankind; the imperative, "Know thyself!" was then still unknown.—In the last ten thousand years, on the other hand, on certain large portions of the earth, one has gradually got so far, that one no longer lets the consequences of an action, but its origin, decide with regard to its worth: a great achievement as a whole, an important refinement of vision and of criterion, the unconscious effect of the supremacy of aristocratic values and of the belief in "origin," the mark of a period which may be designated in the narrower sense as the MORAL one: the first attempt at self-knowledge is thereby made. Instead of the consequences, the origin—what an inversion of perspective! And assuredly an inversion effected only after long struggle and wavering! To be sure, an ominous new superstition, a peculiar narrowness of interpretation, attained supremacy precisely thereby: the origin of an action was interpreted in the most definite sense possible, as origin out of an INTENTION; people were agreed in the belief that the value of an action lay in the value of its intention. The intention as the sole origin and antecedent history of an action: under the influence of this prejudice moral praise and blame have been bestowed, and men have judged and even philosophized almost up to the present day.—Is it not possible, however, that the necessity may now have arisen of again making up our minds with regard to the reversing and fundamental shifting of values, owing to a new self-consciousness and acuteness in man—is it not possible that we may be standing on the threshold of a period which to begin with, would be distinguished negatively as ULTRA-MORAL: nowadays when, at least among us immoralists, the suspicion arises that the decisive value of an action lies precisely in that which is NOT INTENTIONAL, and that all its intentionalness, all that is seen, sensible, or "sensed" in it, belongs to its surface or skin—which, like every skin, betrays something, but CONCEALS still more? In short, we believe that the intention is only a sign or symptom, which first requires an explanation—a sign, moreover, which has too many interpretations, and consequently hardly any meaning in itself alone: that morality, in the sense in which it has been understood hitherto, as intention-morality, has been a prejudice, perhaps a prematureness or preliminariness, probably something of the same rank as astrology and alchemy, but in any case something which must be surmounted. The surmounting of morality, in a certain sense even the self-mounting of morality—let that be the name for the long-secret labour which has been reserved for the most refined, the most upright, and also the most wicked consciences of today, as the living touchstones of the soul.
32. Throughout the longest period of human history, called the prehistoric period, an action’s value or worthlessness was judged by its CONSEQUENCES. Neither the action itself nor its origin was considered. Success or failure worked backward, leading people to think well or badly of an action. Something much like this happens in China today, where a child’s honor or disgrace reflects on the parents. Let us call this the PRE-MORAL period of humanity. The command "Know thyself!" was still unknown. Over the last ten thousand years, however, people across certain large regions have gradually reached a different position. They no longer judge an action’s worth by its consequences, but by its origin. Taken as a whole, this was a great achievement, an important sharpening of vision and standards of judgment. It was the unconscious result of the dominance of aristocratic values and belief in "origin." It marked a period we may call MORAL in the narrower sense. With this change came the first attempt at self-knowledge. The origin instead of the consequences: what a reversal of perspective! And certainly a reversal achieved only after long struggle and hesitation! Yet this very change brought an ominous new superstition to power, a peculiarly narrow interpretation. An action’s origin was understood in the most definite possible sense: as coming from an INTENTION. People agreed that an action’s value lay in the value of its intention. Intention was treated as the action’s sole origin and entire prior history. Under this prejudice, people have handed out moral praise and blame, judged, and even philosophized almost to the present day. But might we now need to reconsider, once again, a reversal and fundamental shift in values? Might a new self-awareness and sharper perception in human beings make such a change necessary? Might we stand at the threshold of a period initially defined in negative terms as ULTRA-MORAL? Today, at least among us immoralists, a suspicion is emerging. Perhaps an action’s decisive value lies precisely in what is NOT INTENTIONAL. Perhaps all its intentional features, everything visible, perceptible, or "sensed" in the action, belong to its surface or skin. Like every skin, this surface reveals something but CONCEALS still more. In short, we believe intention is only a sign or symptom that must first be explained. Moreover, this sign allows too many interpretations and therefore has hardly any meaning on its own. Morality, as understood until now, has been a morality of intentions, and as such a prejudice. Perhaps it has been premature or merely preliminary, probably on the same level as astrology and alchemy. In any case, it is something that must be overcome. Overcoming morality, and in a certain sense even morality overcoming itself: let that name the work long carried on in secret. This work has been reserved for today’s most discerning, most honest, and also most wicked consciences. These consciences serve as living tests of the soul.
33. It cannot be helped: the sentiment of surrender, of sacrifice for one's neighbour, and all self-renunciation-morality, must be mercilessly called to account, and brought to judgment; just as the aesthetics of "disinterested contemplation," under which the emasculation of art nowadays seeks insidiously enough to create itself a good conscience. There is far too much witchery and sugar in the sentiments "for others" and "NOT for myself," for one not needing to be doubly distrustful here, and for one asking promptly: "Are they not perhaps—DECEPTIONS?"—That they PLEASE—him who has them, and him who enjoys their fruit, and also the mere spectator—that is still no argument in their FAVOUR, but just calls for caution. Let us therefore be cautious!
33. There is no way around it: feelings of surrender, sacrifice for one's neighbour, and all morality of self-denial must face merciless scrutiny and judgment. The same goes for the aesthetics of "disinterested contemplation." Under that banner, the weakening of art today insidiously seeks to give itself a clear conscience. There is far too much enchantment and sweetness in feelings of acting "for others" and "NOT for myself." We must be doubly suspicious here and immediately ask: "Are these feelings not perhaps DECEPTIONS?" Such feelings PLEASE those who have them, those who benefit from them, and even those who merely watch. But that pleasure is still no argument in their FAVOUR. It only calls for caution. So let us be cautious!
34. At whatever standpoint of philosophy one may place oneself nowadays, seen from every position, the ERRONEOUSNESS of the world in which we think we live is the surest and most certain thing our eyes can light upon: we find proof after proof thereof, which would fain allure us into surmises concerning a deceptive principle in the "nature of things." He, however, who makes thinking itself, and consequently "the spirit," responsible for the falseness of the world—an honourable exit, which every conscious or unconscious advocatus dei avails himself of—he who regards this world, including space, time, form, and movement, as falsely DEDUCED, would have at least good reason in the end to become distrustful also of all thinking; has it not hitherto been playing upon us the worst of scurvy tricks? and what guarantee would it give that it would not continue to do what it has always been doing? In all seriousness, the innocence of thinkers has something touching and respect-inspiring in it, which even nowadays permits them to wait upon consciousness with the request that it will give them HONEST answers: for example, whether it be "real" or not, and why it keeps the outer world so resolutely at a distance, and other questions of the same description. The belief in "immediate certainties" is a MORAL NAIVETE which does honour to us philosophers; but—we have now to cease being "MERELY moral" men! Apart from morality, such belief is a folly which does little honour to us! If in middle-class life an ever-ready distrust is regarded as the sign of a "bad character," and consequently as an imprudence, here among us, beyond the middle-class world and its Yeas and Nays, what should prevent our being imprudent and saying: the philosopher has at length a RIGHT to "bad character," as the being who has hitherto been most befooled on earth—he is now under OBLIGATION to distrustfulness, to the wickedest squinting out of every abyss of suspicion.—Forgive me the joke of this gloomy grimace and turn of expression; for I myself have long ago learned to think and estimate differently with regard to deceiving and being deceived, and I keep at least a couple of pokes in the ribs ready for the blind rage with which philosophers struggle against being deceived. Why NOT? It is nothing more than a moral prejudice that truth is worth more than semblance; it is, in fact, the worst proved supposition in the world. So much must be conceded: there could have been no life at all except upon the basis of perspective estimates and semblances; and if, with the virtuous enthusiasm and stupidity of many philosophers, one wished to do away altogether with the "seeming world"—well, granted that YOU could do that,—at least nothing of your "truth" would thereby remain! Indeed, what is it that forces us in general to the supposition that there is an essential opposition of "true" and "false"? Is it not enough to suppose degrees of seemingness, and as it were lighter and darker shades and tones of semblance—different valeurs, as the painters say? Why might not the world WHICH CONCERNS US—be a fiction? And to any one who suggested: "But to a fiction belongs an originator?"—might it not be bluntly replied: WHY? May not this "belong" also belong to the fiction? Is it not at length permitted to be a little ironical towards the subject, just as towards the predicate and object? Might not the philosopher elevate himself above faith in grammar? All respect to governesses, but is it not time that philosophy should renounce governess-faith?
34. Whatever philosophical standpoint we take today, one thing looks surest and most certain from every angle. It is the FALSENESS of the world we think we live in. We find proof after proof, tempting us to suspect a deceptive principle in the "nature of things." But some blame thought itself, and therefore "the spirit," for the world's falseness. This is an honorable escape route for every conscious or unconscious advocatus dei, every defender of God. They regard this world, including space, time, form, and movement, as the product of FALSE reasoning. Anyone who takes this view would, in the end, have good reason to distrust all thinking too. Hasn't thinking played the nastiest tricks on us so far? And what guarantee could thinking offer that it would not keep doing what it has always done? In all seriousness, there is something touching and worthy of respect about the innocence of thinkers. Even today, their innocence lets them approach consciousness and ask for HONEST answers. They ask, for example, whether consciousness is "real" and why it keeps the outside world so firmly at a distance. And they ask other questions of the same kind. Belief in "immediate certainties" is a MORAL NAIVETY that does us philosophers credit. But we must now stop being "MERELY moral" people! Outside morality, such belief is foolishness that does us little credit! In middle-class life, constant distrust is considered a sign of "bad character," and therefore unwise. But here among ourselves, beyond the middle-class world and its Yeses and Noes, why shouldn't we be unwise? Why shouldn't we say that the philosopher finally has a RIGHT to "bad character"? After all, the philosopher is the creature who has been fooled more than any other on earth. He now has a DUTY to distrust, to peer out with the most wicked suspicion from every abyss of doubt. Forgive the joke in this gloomy grimace and choice of words. I myself learned long ago to think differently about deceiving and being deceived, and to judge them differently. I have at least a couple of jabs in the ribs ready for philosophers' blind rage against being deceived. Why NOT be deceived? The belief that truth is worth more than appearance is nothing but a moral prejudice. In fact, it is the most poorly supported assumption in the world. We must concede this much: no life could have existed without judgments made from particular perspectives and without appearances. Suppose someone wanted to abolish the "apparent world" altogether, with the virtuous enthusiasm and stupidity of many philosophers. Well, even granted that YOU could do that, nothing of your "truth" would remain either! Indeed, what forces us to assume an essential opposition between "true" and "false" at all? Wouldn't degrees of appearance be enough? Couldn't we suppose lighter and darker shades and tones of appearance, different valeurs, as painters say? Why couldn't the world THAT CONCERNS US be a fiction? And suppose someone objected: "But doesn't a fiction require a creator?" Couldn't we answer bluntly: WHY? Couldn't this "require" also be part of the fiction? Can't we finally treat the subject with a little irony, just as we treat the predicate and object? Couldn't the philosopher rise above faith in grammar? With all respect to governesses, isn't it time philosophy gave up the faith of governesses?
35. O Voltaire! O humanity! O idiocy! There is something ticklish in "the truth," and in the SEARCH for the truth; and if man goes about it too humanely—"il ne cherche le vrai que pour faire le bien"—I wager he finds nothing!
35. Oh, Voltaire! Oh, humanity! Oh, idiocy! There is something tricky about "the truth" and the SEARCH for truth. If someone approaches the search too humanely ("he seeks truth only to do good"), I bet he finds nothing!
36. Supposing that nothing else is "given" as real but our world of desires and passions, that we cannot sink or rise to any other "reality" but just that of our impulses—for thinking is only a relation of these impulses to one another:—are we not permitted to make the attempt and to ask the question whether this which is "given" does not SUFFICE, by means of our counterparts, for the understanding even of the so-called mechanical (or "material") world? I do not mean as an illusion, a "semblance," a "representation" (in the Berkeleyan and Schopenhauerian sense), but as possessing the same degree of reality as our emotions themselves—as a more primitive form of the world of emotions, in which everything still lies locked in a mighty unity, which afterwards branches off and develops itself in organic processes (naturally also, refines and debilitates)—as a kind of instinctive life in which all organic functions, including self-regulation, assimilation, nutrition, secretion, and change of matter, are still synthetically united with one another—as a PRIMARY FORM of life?—In the end, it is not only permitted to make this attempt, it is commanded by the conscience of LOGICAL METHOD. Not to assume several kinds of causality, so long as the attempt to get along with a single one has not been pushed to its furthest extent (to absurdity, if I may be allowed to say so): that is a morality of method which one may not repudiate nowadays—it follows "from its definition," as mathematicians say. The question is ultimately whether we really recognize the will as OPERATING, whether we believe in the causality of the will; if we do so—and fundamentally our belief IN THIS is just our belief in causality itself—we MUST make the attempt to posit hypothetically the causality of the will as the only causality. "Will" can naturally only operate on "will"—and not on "matter" (not on "nerves," for instance): in short, the hypothesis must be hazarded, whether will does not operate on will wherever "effects" are recognized—and whether all mechanical action, inasmuch as a power operates therein, is not just the power of will, the effect of will. Granted, finally, that we succeeded in explaining our entire instinctive life as the development and ramification of one fundamental form of will—namely, the Will to Power, as my thesis puts it; granted that all organic functions could be traced back to this Will to Power, and that the solution of the problem of generation and nutrition—it is one problem—could also be found therein: one would thus have acquired the right to define ALL active force unequivocally as WILL TO POWER. The world seen from within, the world defined and designated according to its "intelligible character"—it would simply be "Will to Power," and nothing else.
36. Suppose nothing is "given" as real except our world of desires and passions. Suppose we cannot descend or rise to any other "reality" beyond our drives. For thinking is only a relationship between these drives. Are we not allowed to try asking whether what is "given" might SUFFICE to explain even the so-called mechanical (or "material") world by analogy with ourselves? I do not mean treating that world as an illusion, a "semblance," a "representation" (in the Berkeleyan and Schopenhauerian sense). I mean treating it as having the same degree of reality as our emotions themselves. It would be a more primitive form of the emotional world, with everything still bound together in one powerful unity. That unity later branches out and develops through organic processes (naturally, it also becomes more refined and weaker). It would be a kind of instinctive life in which all organic functions are still united. These include self-regulation, assimilation, nutrition, secretion, and metabolism. In short, it would be a PRIMARY FORM of life. Ultimately, we are not merely allowed to make this attempt. A commitment to LOGICAL METHOD requires it. We must not assume several kinds of causality before pushing the attempt to use just one as far as possible. We must push that attempt to absurdity, if I may put it that way. This is an ethical rule of method that we cannot reject today. It follows "from its definition," as mathematicians say. Ultimately, the question is whether we really recognize the will as OPERATING, whether we believe the will causes effects. If we do, we MUST try the hypothesis that the will is the only cause. Fundamentally, our belief IN THIS is simply our belief in causality itself. "Will" can, of course, act only on "will," not on "matter" (not on "nerves," for example). In short, we must venture a hypothesis: wherever we recognize "effects," is will acting on will? And is all mechanical action, insofar as a force operates within it, simply the force of will, the effect of will? Finally, suppose we succeeded in explaining our entire instinctive life as the development and branching of one basic form of will. That form would be the Will to Power, as my thesis puts it. Suppose all organic functions could be traced back to this Will to Power. Suppose it also provided the solution to the problem of reproduction and nutrition, which are one problem. Then we would have earned the right to define ALL active force unambiguously as WILL TO POWER. The world seen from within, defined and described according to its "intelligible character," would simply be "Will to Power," and nothing else.
37. "What? Does not that mean in popular language: God is disproved, but not the devil?"—On the contrary! On the contrary, my friends! And who the devil also compels you to speak popularly!
37. "What? Doesn't that mean, in everyday language: God has been disproved, but not the devil?" On the contrary! On the contrary, my friends! And who the devil is forcing you to use everyday language anyway!
38. As happened finally in all the enlightenment of modern times with the French Revolution (that terrible farce, quite superfluous when judged close at hand, into which, however, the noble and visionary spectators of all Europe have interpreted from a distance their own indignation and enthusiasm so long and passionately, UNTIL THE TEXT HAS DISAPPEARED UNDER THE INTERPRETATION), so a noble posterity might once more misunderstand the whole of the past, and perhaps only thereby make ITS aspect endurable.—Or rather, has not this already happened? Have not we ourselves been—that "noble posterity"? And, in so far as we now comprehend this, is it not—thereby already past?
38. Consider what finally happened throughout the modern Enlightenment with the French Revolution. (Seen up close, the Revolution was a terrible farce, quite unnecessary. Yet Europe's noble, visionary spectators watched from a distance and read their own outrage and enthusiasm into it. They did so for so long and so passionately, UNTIL THE TEXT HAS DISAPPEARED UNDER THE INTERPRETATION.) In the same way, noble future generations might once again misunderstand the whole past. Perhaps only through that misunderstanding could they make ITS appearance bearable. Or rather, has this misunderstanding not already happened? Have we ourselves not been those "noble future generations"? And insofar as we now understand this, is it not, through that very understanding, already past?
39. Nobody will very readily regard a doctrine as true merely because it makes people happy or virtuous—excepting, perhaps, the amiable "Idealists," who are enthusiastic about the good, true, and beautiful, and let all kinds of motley, coarse, and good-natured desirabilities swim about promiscuously in their pond. Happiness and virtue are no arguments. It is willingly forgotten, however, even on the part of thoughtful minds, that to make unhappy and to make bad are just as little counter-arguments. A thing could be TRUE, although it were in the highest degree injurious and dangerous; indeed, the fundamental constitution of existence might be such that one succumbed by a full knowledge of it—so that the strength of a mind might be measured by the amount of "truth" it could endure—or to speak more plainly, by the extent to which it REQUIRED truth attenuated, veiled, sweetened, damped, and falsified. But there is no doubt that for the discovery of certain PORTIONS of truth the wicked and unfortunate are more favourably situated and have a greater likelihood of success; not to speak of the wicked who are happy—a species about whom moralists are silent. Perhaps severity and craft are more favourable conditions for the development of strong, independent spirits and philosophers than the gentle, refined, yielding good-nature, and habit of taking things easily, which are prized, and rightly prized in a learned man. Presupposing always, to begin with, that the term "philosopher" be not confined to the philosopher who writes books, or even introduces HIS philosophy into books!—Stendhal furnishes a last feature of the portrait of the free-spirited philosopher, which for the sake of German taste I will not omit to underline—for it is OPPOSED to German taste. "Pour etre bon philosophe," says this last great psychologist, "il faut etre sec, clair, sans illusion. Un banquier, qui a fait fortune, a une partie du caractere requis pour faire des decouvertes en philosophie, c'est-a-dire pour voir clair dans ce qui est."
39. Hardly anyone would accept a doctrine as true merely because it makes people happy or virtuous. Perhaps the kindly "Idealists" are an exception. They are enthusiastic about the good, the true, and the beautiful. They let all sorts of colorful, crude, and well-meaning wishes swim together indiscriminately in their pond. Happiness and virtue prove nothing. Yet even thoughtful people readily forget that causing unhappiness or wickedness proves nothing against a doctrine either. Something could be TRUE even if it were extremely harmful and dangerous. Indeed, existence might be so fundamentally structured that knowing it fully would destroy us. So a mind’s strength might be measured by how much "truth" it could endure. Or, more plainly, by how much it REQUIRED truth to be diluted, veiled, sweetened, softened, and falsified. But the wicked and unfortunate are undoubtedly better placed to discover certain PORTIONS of truth and more likely to succeed. Not to mention the wicked who are happy, a species about whom moralists remain silent. Perhaps harshness and cunning provide better conditions for developing strong, independent minds and philosophers. They may serve better than the gentle, refined, accommodating kindness and easygoing attitude rightly valued in a scholar. All this assumes, of course, that "philosopher" does not mean only someone who writes books. Nor does it mean only someone who puts HIS philosophy into books! Stendhal supplies one last feature for this portrait of the free-spirited philosopher. For the sake of German taste, I will be sure to emphasize it, because it OPPOSES German taste. "To be a good philosopher," says this last great psychologist, "you must be dry, clear, and free of illusions. A banker who has made a fortune has some of the character needed to make discoveries in philosophy. That is, to see clearly what exists."
40. Everything that is profound loves the mask: the profoundest things have a hatred even of figure and likeness. Should not the CONTRARY only be the right disguise for the shame of a God to go about in? A question worth asking!—it would be strange if some mystic has not already ventured on the same kind of thing. There are proceedings of such a delicate nature that it is well to overwhelm them with coarseness and make them unrecognizable; there are actions of love and of an extravagant magnanimity after which nothing can be wiser than to take a stick and thrash the witness soundly: one thereby obscures his recollection. Many a one is able to obscure and abuse his own memory, in order at least to have vengeance on this sole party in the secret: shame is inventive. They are not the worst things of which one is most ashamed: there is not only deceit behind a mask—there is so much goodness in craft. I could imagine that a man with something costly and fragile to conceal, would roll through life clumsily and rotundly like an old, green, heavily-hooped wine-cask: the refinement of his shame requiring it to be so. A man who has depths in his shame meets his destiny and his delicate decisions upon paths which few ever reach, and with regard to the existence of which his nearest and most intimate friends may be ignorant; his mortal danger conceals itself from their eyes, and equally so his regained security. Such a hidden nature, which instinctively employs speech for silence and concealment, and is inexhaustible in evasion of communication, DESIRES and insists that a mask of himself shall occupy his place in the hearts and heads of his friends; and supposing he does not desire it, his eyes will some day be opened to the fact that there is nevertheless a mask of him there—and that it is well to be so. Every profound spirit needs a mask; nay, more, around every profound spirit there continually grows a mask, owing to the constantly false, that is to say, SUPERFICIAL interpretation of every word he utters, every step he takes, every sign of life he manifests.
40. Everything profound loves a mask. The most profound things hate even images and likenesses. Shouldn't the OPPOSITE be the right disguise for a God's shame to wear? A question worth asking! It would be strange if some mystic had not already ventured a similar thought. Some things are so delicate that covering them in crudeness and making them unrecognizable is a good idea. Some acts of love and extraordinary generosity call for a particular response. Afterward, nothing could be wiser than to take a stick and give the witness a sound beating. That way, you blur his memory. Many people can blur and mistreat their own memory. At least they can take revenge on the only witness to their secret: shame is inventive. The things we are most ashamed of are not the worst things. A mask does not hide only deception. There is so much goodness in cunning. I could imagine a man with something precious and fragile to hide rolling clumsily through life. He would roll like an old, green, round wine barrel bound with heavy hoops. The delicacy of his shame would demand it. A man whose shame runs deep meets his fate and makes his delicate decisions on paths few ever reach. Even his closest friends may not know those paths exist. The mortal danger he faces is hidden from their eyes, and so is the safety he regains. Such a secretive person instinctively uses speech to remain silent and conceal himself. He finds endless ways to avoid communicating. He WANTS and insists that a mask take his place in his friends' hearts and minds. And if he does not want this, he will someday discover that a mask of him is there anyway. He will also discover that it is good for the mask to be there. Every profound spirit needs a mask. More than that, a mask continually grows around every profound spirit. The mask grows because people constantly misinterpret every word he speaks, every step he takes, every sign of life. Their interpretations are false because they are SUPERFICIAL.
41. One must subject oneself to one's own tests that one is destined for independence and command, and do so at the right time. One must not avoid one's tests, although they constitute perhaps the most dangerous game one can play, and are in the end tests made only before ourselves and before no other judge. Not to cleave to any person, be it even the dearest—every person is a prison and also a recess. Not to cleave to a fatherland, be it even the most suffering and necessitous—it is even less difficult to detach one's heart from a victorious fatherland. Not to cleave to a sympathy, be it even for higher men, into whose peculiar torture and helplessness chance has given us an insight. Not to cleave to a science, though it tempt one with the most valuable discoveries, apparently specially reserved for us. Not to cleave to one's own liberation, to the voluptuous distance and remoteness of the bird, which always flies further aloft in order always to see more under it—the danger of the flier. Not to cleave to our own virtues, nor become as a whole a victim to any of our specialties, to our "hospitality" for instance, which is the danger of dangers for highly developed and wealthy souls, who deal prodigally, almost indifferently with themselves, and push the virtue of liberality so far that it becomes a vice. One must know how TO CONSERVE ONESELF—the best test of independence.
41. We must test ourselves, at the right time, to see whether we are destined for independence and command. We must not avoid these tests, although they are perhaps the most dangerous game we can play. In the end, we face these tests before ourselves alone, with no other judge. Do not cling to any person, even the dearest. Every person is both a prison and a refuge. Do not cling to a homeland, even one suffering the greatest hardship and need. It is even easier to detach your heart from a victorious homeland. Do not cling to sympathy, even for higher men whose particular torment and helplessness chance has let us glimpse. Do not cling to a field of study, though it promises the most valuable discoveries, seemingly reserved especially for us. Do not cling to your own liberation, to the bird's blissful distance and remoteness. The bird keeps flying higher so that it can see ever more beneath it. This is the danger for those who fly. Do not cling to your own virtues, or let any single specialty consume your whole self. Our "hospitality", for instance, poses the greatest of all dangers for highly developed and wealthy souls. Such souls give themselves away lavishly, almost carelessly. They take the virtue of generosity so far that it becomes a vice. We must know how TO PRESERVE OURSELVES. This is the best test of independence.
42. A new order of philosophers is appearing; I shall venture to baptize them by a name not without danger. As far as I understand them, as far as they allow themselves to be understood—for it is their nature to WISH to remain something of a puzzle—these philosophers of the future might rightly, perhaps also wrongly, claim to be designated as "tempters." This name itself is after all only an attempt, or, if it be preferred, a temptation.
42. A new kind of philosopher is appearing. I will risk giving these philosophers a name that is not without danger. What follows is based on how far I understand them, and how far they allow themselves to be understood. For by nature, they WISH to remain something of a puzzle. These philosophers of the future might rightly, or perhaps wrongly, claim the name "tempters." After all, the name itself is only an attempt, or, if you prefer, a temptation.
43. Will they be new friends of "truth," these coming philosophers? Very probably, for all philosophers hitherto have loved their truths. But assuredly they will not be dogmatists. It must be contrary to their pride, and also contrary to their taste, that their truth should still be truth for every one—that which has hitherto been the secret wish and ultimate purpose of all dogmatic efforts. "My opinion is MY opinion: another person has not easily a right to it"—such a philosopher of the future will say, perhaps. One must renounce the bad taste of wishing to agree with many people. "Good" is no longer good when one's neighbour takes it into his mouth. And how could there be a "common good"! The expression contradicts itself; that which can be common is always of small value. In the end things must be as they are and have always been—the great things remain for the great, the abysses for the profound, the delicacies and thrills for the refined, and, to sum up shortly, everything rare for the rare.
43. Will these coming philosophers be new friends of "truth"? Very probably, since all philosophers so far have loved their truths. But they certainly will not be dogmatists. Their pride and taste must reject the idea that their truth should also be truth for everyone. Until now, that has been the secret wish and ultimate aim of all dogmatic efforts. "My opinion is MY opinion: another person does not easily have a right to it," such a future philosopher will perhaps say. We must give up the bad taste of wanting to agree with many people. "Good" is no longer good when your neighbor uses the word. And how could there be a "common good"! The phrase contradicts itself. Whatever can be common is always of little value. In the end, things must remain as they are and have always been. Great things remain for the great, depths for the profound, delicacies and thrills for the refined. In short, everything rare remains for the rare.
44. Need I say expressly after all this that they will be free, VERY free spirits, these philosophers of the future—as certainly also they will not be merely free spirits, but something more, higher, greater, and fundamentally different, which does not wish to be misunderstood and mistaken? But while I say this, I feel under OBLIGATION almost as much to them as to ourselves (we free spirits who are their heralds and forerunners), to sweep away from ourselves altogether a stupid old prejudice and misunderstanding, which, like a fog, has too long made the conception of "free spirit" obscure. In every country of Europe, and the same in America, there is at present something which makes an abuse of this name a very narrow, prepossessed, enchained class of spirits, who desire almost the opposite of what our intentions and instincts prompt—not to mention that in respect to the NEW philosophers who are appearing, they must still more be closed windows and bolted doors. Briefly and regrettably, they belong to the LEVELLERS, these wrongly named "free spirits"—as glib-tongued and scribe-fingered slaves of the democratic taste and its "modern ideas" all of them men without solitude, without personal solitude, blunt honest fellows to whom neither courage nor honourable conduct ought to be denied, only, they are not free, and are ludicrously superficial, especially in their innate partiality for seeing the cause of almost ALL human misery and failure in the old forms in which society has hitherto existed—a notion which happily inverts the truth entirely! What they would fain attain with all their strength, is the universal, green-meadow happiness of the herd, together with security, safety, comfort, and alleviation of life for every one, their two most frequently chanted songs and doctrines are called "Equality of Rights" and "Sympathy with All Sufferers"—and suffering itself is looked upon by them as something which must be DONE AWAY WITH. We opposite ones, however, who have opened our eye and conscience to the question how and where the plant "man" has hitherto grown most vigorously, believe that this has always taken place under the opposite conditions, that for this end the dangerousness of his situation had to be increased enormously, his inventive faculty and dissembling power (his "spirit") had to develop into subtlety and daring under long oppression and compulsion, and his Will to Life had to be increased to the unconditioned Will to Power—we believe that severity, violence, slavery, danger in the street and in the heart, secrecy, stoicism, tempter's art and devilry of every kind,—that everything wicked, terrible, tyrannical, predatory, and serpentine in man, serves as well for the elevation of the human species as its opposite—we do not even say enough when we only say THIS MUCH, and in any case we find ourselves here, both with our speech and our silence, at the OTHER extreme of all modern ideology and gregarious desirability, as their antipodes perhaps? What wonder that we "free spirits" are not exactly the most communicative spirits? that we do not wish to betray in every respect WHAT a spirit can free itself from, and WHERE perhaps it will then be driven? And as to the import of the dangerous formula, "Beyond Good and Evil," with which we at least avoid confusion, we ARE something else than "libres-penseurs," "liben pensatori" "free-thinkers," and whatever these honest advocates of "modern ideas" like to call themselves. Having been at home, or at least guests, in many realms of the spirit, having escaped again and again from the gloomy, agreeable nooks in which preferences and prejudices, youth, origin, the accident of men and books, or even the weariness of travel seemed to confine us, full of malice against the seductions of dependency which he concealed in honours, money, positions, or exaltation of the senses, grateful even for distress and the vicissitudes of illness, because they always free us from some rule, and its "prejudice," grateful to the God, devil, sheep, and worm in us, inquisitive to a fault, investigators to the point of cruelty, with unhesitating fingers for the intangible, with teeth and stomachs for the most indigestible, ready for any business that requires sagacity and acute senses, ready for every adventure, owing to an excess of "free will", with anterior and posterior souls, into the ultimate intentions of which it is difficult to pry, with foregrounds and backgrounds to the end of which no foot may run, hidden ones under the mantles of light, appropriators, although we resemble heirs and spendthrifts, arrangers and collectors from morning till night, misers of our wealth and our full-crammed drawers, economical in learning and forgetting, inventive in scheming, sometimes proud of tables of categories, sometimes pedants, sometimes night-owls of work even in full day, yea, if necessary, even scarecrows—and it is necessary nowadays, that is to say, inasmuch as we are the born, sworn, jealous friends of SOLITUDE, of our own profoundest midnight and midday solitude—such kind of men are we, we free spirits! And perhaps ye are also something of the same kind, ye coming ones? ye NEW philosophers?
44. After all this, must I explicitly say that these philosophers of the future will be free, VERY free spirits? Just as certainly, they will not merely be free spirits. They will be something more, higher, greater, and fundamentally different, something that does not want to be misunderstood or mistaken for anything else. But in saying this, I feel an OBLIGATION to clear away a stupid old prejudice and misunderstanding. I owe this almost as much to them as to ourselves, the free spirits who announce and prepare their arrival. Like a fog, this misunderstanding has obscured the meaning of "free spirit" for too long. In every European country, and in America too, a very narrow, biased, shackled class of minds now misuses this name. These people want almost the opposite of what our intentions and instincts urge us toward. And to the NEW philosophers now emerging, these people must be even more like closed windows and bolted doors. In short, and regrettably, these wrongly named "free spirits" belong to the LEVELLERS. They are all smooth-talking, tirelessly scribbling slaves to democratic taste and its "modern ideas". They are men without solitude, without a solitude of their own. They are straightforward, honest fellows whose courage and honorable conduct should not be denied. But they are not free, and they are ridiculously shallow. Their shallowness shows especially in their instinctive tendency to blame almost ALL human misery and failure on society's traditional forms. A notion that neatly turns the truth completely upside down! What they strive for with all their strength is universal happiness in the herd's green pasture. They also want security, safety, comfort, and an easier life for everyone. Their two most frequently repeated songs and doctrines are called "Equality of Rights" and "Sympathy with All Sufferers". They regard suffering itself as something that must be DONE AWAY WITH. We who take the opposite side have opened our eyes and conscience to a question. How and where has the plant "man" grown most vigorously until now? We believe this growth has always occurred under the opposite conditions. For such growth, the dangers of man's situation had to increase enormously. Under prolonged oppression and constraint, his inventiveness and power to deceive (his "spirit") had to become subtle and daring. His Will to Life had to grow into an unconditional Will to Power. We believe that harshness, violence, slavery, danger in the streets and in the heart, secrecy, stoicism, temptation, and every kind of devilry contribute to humanity's advancement. Everything wicked, terrible, tyrannical, predatory, and snake-like in man serves this advancement just as much as its opposite. Even saying THIS MUCH does not say enough. In any case, both our words and our silence place us at the OTHER extreme from all modern ideology and herd aspirations. Perhaps we are their polar opposites? Is it any wonder that we "free spirits" are not exactly the most communicative spirits? Or that we do not want to reveal everything about WHAT a spirit can free itself from? Or WHERE that freedom may then drive it? And consider the meaning of the dangerous phrase "Beyond Good and Evil", which at least keeps us from being confused with others. We ARE something other than "libres-penseurs," "liben pensatori" "free-thinkers," or whatever these honest advocates of "modern ideas" like to call themselves. We have made ourselves at home, or at least been guests, in many realms of the spirit. Again and again, we have escaped the gloomy, comfortable corners that seemed to confine us. Preferences and prejudices, youth, background, chance encounters with people and books, or even weariness from travel seemed to hold us there. We are full of hostility toward the temptations of dependence hidden in honors, money, positions, or heightened sensual pleasure. We are grateful even for hardship and the ups and downs of illness. They always free us from some rule and its "prejudice". We are grateful to the God, devil, sheep, and worm within us. We are curious to a fault, and our investigations go as far as cruelty. Our fingers reach without hesitation for the intangible. We have the teeth and stomachs for what is hardest to digest. We are ready for any task requiring shrewdness and sharp senses. An excess of "free will" makes us ready for every adventure. Our souls have fronts and backs, and their deepest intentions are difficult to uncover. We have foregrounds and backgrounds whose limits no traveler on foot can reach. We hide beneath cloaks of light. We take possession, although we look like heirs and spendthrifts. We organize and collect from morning until night. We hoard our wealth and our crammed drawers, careful in how we learn and forget. We are inventive planners, sometimes proud of our tables of categories, sometimes pedants. Sometimes we are night owls at work even in broad daylight. Yes, if necessary, we are even scarecrows. And that is necessary today, because we are the born, sworn, fiercely protective friends of SOLITUDE. We cherish our own deepest midnight and midday solitude. Such people are we, we free spirits! And perhaps you who are coming are something like us too? You NEW philosophers?