257. EVERY elevation of the type "man," has hitherto been the work of an aristocratic society and so it will always be—a society believing in a long scale of gradations of rank and differences of worth among human beings, and requiring slavery in some form or other. Without the PATHOS OF DISTANCE, such as grows out of the incarnated difference of classes, out of the constant out-looking and down-looking of the ruling caste on subordinates and instruments, and out of their equally constant practice of obeying and commanding, of keeping down and keeping at a distance—that other more mysterious pathos could never have arisen, the longing for an ever new widening of distance within the soul itself, the formation of ever higher, rarer, further, more extended, more comprehensive states, in short, just the elevation of the type "man," the continued "self-surmounting of man," to use a moral formula in a supermoral sense. To be sure, one must not resign oneself to any humanitarian illusions about the history of the origin of an aristocratic society (that is to say, of the preliminary condition for the elevation of the type "man"): the truth is hard. Let us acknowledge unprejudicedly how every higher civilization hitherto has ORIGINATED! Men with a still natural nature, barbarians in every terrible sense of the word, men of prey, still in possession of unbroken strength of will and desire for power, threw themselves upon weaker, more moral, more peaceful races (perhaps trading or cattle-rearing communities), or upon old mellow civilizations in which the final vital force was flickering out in brilliant fireworks of wit and depravity. At the commencement, the noble caste was always the barbarian caste: their superiority did not consist first of all in their physical, but in their psychical power—they were more COMPLETE men (which at every point also implies the same as "more complete beasts").
257. EVERY elevation of the human type, "man," has so far been the work of an aristocratic society. And so it will always be. Such a society believes in a long hierarchy of ranks and differences in human worth. It also requires slavery in one form or another. Without the PATHOS OF DISTANCE, that other, more mysterious feeling could never have arisen. The first feeling grows from class differences embodied in life. It grows from the ruling caste constantly looking outward and downward at subordinates and tools. It also grows from their constant practice of obeying and commanding, keeping others down and at a distance. The other feeling is the longing for ever greater distance within the soul itself. It seeks to develop ever higher, rarer, more far-reaching, more expansive, and more inclusive states of the soul. In short, it seeks the elevation of the human type, "man," the continued "self-surmounting of man." Here a moral phrase is used in a sense beyond morality. To be sure, we must not indulge in humanitarian illusions about how aristocratic societies began. Such societies are the necessary starting point for elevating the human type, "man," and the truth about their beginnings is harsh. Let us acknowledge without prejudice how every higher civilization so far has ORIGINATED! Men whose nature was still natural, barbarians in every terrible sense, were predators. Their strength of will and desire for power were still unbroken. They attacked weaker, more moral, more peaceful peoples (perhaps trading or cattle-raising communities). Or they attacked old, mellow civilizations whose last vital energy was burning out in brilliant fireworks of wit and depravity. At the beginning, the noble caste was always the barbarian caste. Their superiority lay primarily not in physical strength, but in psychological strength. They were more COMPLETE men (which in every respect also means "more complete beasts").
258. Corruption—as the indication that anarchy threatens to break out among the instincts, and that the foundation of the emotions, called "life," is convulsed—is something radically different according to the organization in which it manifests itself. When, for instance, an aristocracy like that of France at the beginning of the Revolution, flung away its privileges with sublime disgust and sacrificed itself to an excess of its moral sentiments, it was corruption:—it was really only the closing act of the corruption which had existed for centuries, by virtue of which that aristocracy had abdicated step by step its lordly prerogatives and lowered itself to a FUNCTION of royalty (in the end even to its decoration and parade-dress). The essential thing, however, in a good and healthy aristocracy is that it should not regard itself as a function either of the kingship or the commonwealth, but as the SIGNIFICANCE and highest justification thereof—that it should therefore accept with a good conscience the sacrifice of a legion of individuals, who, FOR ITS SAKE, must be suppressed and reduced to imperfect men, to slaves and instruments. Its fundamental belief must be precisely that society is NOT allowed to exist for its own sake, but only as a foundation and scaffolding, by means of which a select class of beings may be able to elevate themselves to their higher duties, and in general to a higher EXISTENCE: like those sun-seeking climbing plants in Java—they are called Sipo Matador,—which encircle an oak so long and so often with their arms, until at last, high above it, but supported by it, they can unfold their tops in the open light, and exhibit their happiness.
258. Corruption signals that anarchy threatens to break out among the instincts, shaking the emotional foundation called "life." But corruption differs radically depending on the organization in which it appears. Consider France’s aristocracy at the beginning of the Revolution. In a gesture of sublime disgust, it threw away its privileges and sacrificed itself to excessive moral feeling. That was corruption. In fact, it was only the final act of a corruption that had lasted for centuries. Through that corruption, the aristocracy had gradually surrendered its rights as a ruling class. It had lowered itself to a FUNCTION of royalty, eventually becoming little more than royal decoration and ceremonial dress. The essential thing about a good, healthy aristocracy, however, is how it understands its role. It must not regard itself as serving either the monarchy or the state. Instead, it must see itself as their SIGNIFICANCE and highest justification. It must therefore accept with a clear conscience the sacrifice of vast numbers of individuals. FOR ITS SAKE, these individuals must be kept down and reduced to incomplete human beings, to slaves and tools. The aristocracy’s fundamental belief must be precisely this: society is NOT allowed to exist for its own sake. Society may exist only as a foundation and scaffolding for a select class of beings. With that support, this class may rise to its higher duties and, more generally, to a higher EXISTENCE. These beings resemble the sun-seeking climbing plants in Java called Sipo Matador. These plants wind their tendrils around an oak, again and again, until they finally rise high above it. Still supported by the oak, they can spread their crowns in the open light and display their happiness.
259. To refrain mutually from injury, from violence, from exploitation, and put one's will on a par with that of others: this may result in a certain rough sense in good conduct among individuals when the necessary conditions are given (namely, the actual similarity of the individuals in amount of force and degree of worth, and their co-relation within one organization). As soon, however, as one wished to take this principle more generally, and if possible even as the FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE OF SOCIETY, it would immediately disclose what it really is—namely, a Will to the DENIAL of life, a principle of dissolution and decay. Here one must think profoundly to the very basis and resist all sentimental weakness: life itself is ESSENTIALLY appropriation, injury, conquest of the strange and weak, suppression, severity, obtrusion of peculiar forms, incorporation, and at the least, putting it mildest, exploitation;—but why should one for ever use precisely these words on which for ages a disparaging purpose has been stamped? Even the organization within which, as was previously supposed, the individuals treat each other as equal—it takes place in every healthy aristocracy—must itself, if it be a living and not a dying organization, do all that towards other bodies, which the individuals within it refrain from doing to each other it will have to be the incarnated Will to Power, it will endeavour to grow, to gain ground, attract to itself and acquire ascendancy—not owing to any morality or immorality, but because it LIVES, and because life IS precisely Will to Power. On no point, however, is the ordinary consciousness of Europeans more unwilling to be corrected than on this matter, people now rave everywhere, even under the guise of science, about coming conditions of society in which "the exploiting character" is to be absent—that sounds to my ears as if they promised to invent a mode of life which should refrain from all organic functions. "Exploitation" does not belong to a depraved, or imperfect and primitive society it belongs to the nature of the living being as a primary organic function, it is a consequence of the intrinsic Will to Power, which is precisely the Will to Life—Granting that as a theory this is a novelty—as a reality it is the FUNDAMENTAL FACT of all history let us be so far honest towards ourselves!
259. People may agree not to injure, attack, or exploit one another, and to give each other's will equal standing. In a rough sense, this may amount to good conduct between individuals, provided the necessary conditions exist. These conditions are actual similarity in strength and worth, and membership in the same organization. But suppose someone wanted to apply this principle more broadly, even, if possible, as the FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLE OF SOCIETY. The principle would immediately reveal its true nature: a Will to the DENIAL of life, a principle of disintegration and decay. Here we must think things through to their very foundations and resist all sentimental weakness. Life itself is ESSENTIALLY taking possession, injuring, conquering what is foreign and weak, suppressing, imposing harshness and one's own forms, and absorbing. At the very least, to put it as mildly as possible, life is exploitation. But why must we always use precisely these words, which have carried a deliberately negative meaning for centuries? Consider even the organization whose members, as we supposed earlier, treat one another as equals. Such equality exists in every healthy aristocracy. If this organization is living rather than dying, it must act toward other organizations in all those ways its members avoid internally. The organization will have to embody the Will to Power. It will strive to grow, gain ground, draw things to itself, and establish dominance. Not because of any morality or immorality, but because it LIVES, and because life IS precisely Will to Power. Yet on no other point are ordinary Europeans more unwilling to have their thinking corrected. Everywhere now, people rave about a future society without "the exploiting character", even presenting their claims as science. To my ears, they sound as if they were promising to invent a life without any organic functions. "Exploitation" does not belong only to a depraved society, or an imperfect and primitive one. Exploitation belongs to the nature of living beings as a basic organic function. It follows from the inherent Will to Power, which is precisely the Will to Life. Granted, this may be new as a theory. But as a reality, it is the FUNDAMENTAL FACT of all history. Let us at least be that honest with ourselves!
260. In a tour through the many finer and coarser moralities which have hitherto prevailed or still prevail on the earth, I found certain traits recurring regularly together, and connected with one another, until finally two primary types revealed themselves to me, and a radical distinction was brought to light. There is MASTER-MORALITY and SLAVE-MORALITY,—I would at once add, however, that in all higher and mixed civilizations, there are also attempts at the reconciliation of the two moralities, but one finds still oftener the confusion and mutual misunderstanding of them, indeed sometimes their close juxtaposition—even in the same man, within one soul. The distinctions of moral values have either originated in a ruling caste, pleasantly conscious of being different from the ruled—or among the ruled class, the slaves and dependents of all sorts. In the first case, when it is the rulers who determine the conception "good," it is the exalted, proud disposition which is regarded as the distinguishing feature, and that which determines the order of rank. The noble type of man separates from himself the beings in whom the opposite of this exalted, proud disposition displays itself he despises them. Let it at once be noted that in this first kind of morality the antithesis "good" and "bad" means practically the same as "noble" and "despicable",—the antithesis "good" and "EVIL" is of a different origin. The cowardly, the timid, the insignificant, and those thinking merely of narrow utility are despised; moreover, also, the distrustful, with their constrained glances, the self-abasing, the dog-like kind of men who let themselves be abused, the mendicant flatterers, and above all the liars:—it is a fundamental belief of all aristocrats that the common people are untruthful. "We truthful ones"—the nobility in ancient Greece called themselves. It is obvious that everywhere the designations of moral value were at first applied to MEN; and were only derivatively and at a later period applied to ACTIONS; it is a gross mistake, therefore, when historians of morals start with questions like, "Why have sympathetic actions been praised?" The noble type of man regards HIMSELF as a determiner of values; he does not require to be approved of; he passes the judgment: "What is injurious to me is injurious in itself;" he knows that it is he himself only who confers honour on things; he is a CREATOR OF VALUES. He honours whatever he recognizes in himself: such morality equals self-glorification. In the foreground there is the feeling of plenitude, of power, which seeks to overflow, the happiness of high tension, the consciousness of a wealth which would fain give and bestow:—the noble man also helps the unfortunate, but not—or scarcely—out of pity, but rather from an impulse generated by the super-abundance of power. The noble man honours in himself the powerful one, him also who has power over himself, who knows how to speak and how to keep silence, who takes pleasure in subjecting himself to severity and hardness, and has reverence for all that is severe and hard. "Wotan placed a hard heart in my breast," says an old Scandinavian Saga: it is thus rightly expressed from the soul of a proud Viking. Such a type of man is even proud of not being made for sympathy; the hero of the Saga therefore adds warningly: "He who has not a hard heart when young, will never have one." The noble and brave who think thus are the furthest removed from the morality which sees precisely in sympathy, or in acting for the good of others, or in DESINTERESSEMENT, the characteristic of the moral; faith in oneself, pride in oneself, a radical enmity and irony towards "selflessness," belong as definitely to noble morality, as do a careless scorn and precaution in presence of sympathy and the "warm heart."—It is the powerful who KNOW how to honour, it is their art, their domain for invention. The profound reverence for age and for tradition—all law rests on this double reverence,—the belief and prejudice in favour of ancestors and unfavourable to newcomers, is typical in the morality of the powerful; and if, reversely, men of "modern ideas" believe almost instinctively in "progress" and the "future," and are more and more lacking in respect for old age, the ignoble origin of these "ideas" has complacently betrayed itself thereby. A morality of the ruling class, however, is more especially foreign and irritating to present-day taste in the sternness of its principle that one has duties only to one's equals; that one may act towards beings of a lower rank, towards all that is foreign, just as seems good to one, or "as the heart desires," and in any case "beyond good and evil": it is here that sympathy and similar sentiments can have a place. The ability and obligation to exercise prolonged gratitude and prolonged revenge—both only within the circle of equals,—artfulness in retaliation, RAFFINEMENT of the idea in friendship, a certain necessity to have enemies (as outlets for the emotions of envy, quarrelsomeness, arrogance—in fact, in order to be a good FRIEND): all these are typical characteristics of the noble morality, which, as has been pointed out, is not the morality of "modern ideas," and is therefore at present difficult to realize, and also to unearth and disclose.—It is otherwise with the second type of morality, SLAVE-MORALITY. Supposing that the abused, the oppressed, the suffering, the unemancipated, the weary, and those uncertain of themselves should moralize, what will be the common element in their moral estimates? Probably a pessimistic suspicion with regard to the entire situation of man will find expression, perhaps a condemnation of man, together with his situation. The slave has an unfavourable eye for the virtues of the powerful; he has a skepticism and distrust, a REFINEMENT of distrust of everything "good" that is there honoured—he would fain persuade himself that the very happiness there is not genuine. On the other hand, THOSE qualities which serve to alleviate the existence of sufferers are brought into prominence and flooded with light; it is here that sympathy, the kind, helping hand, the warm heart, patience, diligence, humility, and friendliness attain to honour; for here these are the most useful qualities, and almost the only means of supporting the burden of existence. Slave-morality is essentially the morality of utility. Here is the seat of the origin of the famous antithesis "good" and "evil":—power and dangerousness are assumed to reside in the evil, a certain dreadfulness, subtlety, and strength, which do not admit of being despised. According to slave-morality, therefore, the "evil" man arouses fear; according to master-morality, it is precisely the "good" man who arouses fear and seeks to arouse it, while the bad man is regarded as the despicable being. The contrast attains its maximum when, in accordance with the logical consequences of slave-morality, a shade of depreciation—it may be slight and well-intentioned—at last attaches itself to the "good" man of this morality; because, according to the servile mode of thought, the good man must in any case be the SAFE man: he is good-natured, easily deceived, perhaps a little stupid, un bonhomme. Everywhere that slave-morality gains the ascendancy, language shows a tendency to approximate the significations of the words "good" and "stupid."—A last fundamental difference: the desire for FREEDOM, the instinct for happiness and the refinements of the feeling of liberty belong as necessarily to slave-morals and morality, as artifice and enthusiasm in reverence and devotion are the regular symptoms of an aristocratic mode of thinking and estimating.—Hence we can understand without further detail why love AS A PASSION—it is our European specialty—must absolutely be of noble origin; as is well known, its invention is due to the Provencal poet-cavaliers, those brilliant, ingenious men of the "gai saber," to whom Europe owes so much, and almost owes itself.
260. I surveyed the many refined and crude moralities that have existed or still exist on earth. Certain traits kept appearing together and seemed connected. Eventually, two basic types emerged, revealing a fundamental distinction. There is MASTER-MORALITY and SLAVE-MORALITY. I should add immediately that all advanced and mixed civilizations also attempt to reconcile these two moralities. But confusion and mutual misunderstanding between them are even more common. Sometimes they exist side by side, even within the same person, within a single soul. Distinctions between moral values have arisen either among a ruling caste or among the ruled. The ruling caste takes pleasure in its difference from those it rules. The ruled include slaves and dependents of every kind. When rulers define "good," they see a lofty, proud spirit as the distinguishing quality that determines rank. The noble type separates himself from people who display the opposite spirit. He despises them. Notice immediately that, in this first morality, "good" and "bad" mean practically the same as "noble" and "despicable". The opposition between "good" and "EVIL" has a different origin. The cowardly, the timid, the insignificant, and those concerned only with narrow practical advantage are despised. So are distrustful people with their guarded glances, and people who abase themselves. So are dog-like people who let others abuse them, flatterers who beg for favors, and, above all, liars. All aristocrats hold a basic belief that common people are untruthful. "We truthful ones", the nobility of ancient Greece called themselves. Clearly, terms of moral value were everywhere first applied to PEOPLE. Only later were those terms extended to ACTIONS. Historians of morality therefore make a serious mistake when they begin with questions like, "Why have compassionate actions been praised?" The noble type regards HIMSELF as someone who determines values. He needs no approval. He judges: "Whatever harms me is harmful in itself." He knows that he alone gives things their honor. He is a CREATOR OF VALUES. He honors whatever he recognizes in himself. Such morality amounts to self-glorification. Above all, he feels a fullness of power that seeks to overflow. He feels the happiness of intense vitality, and knows he possesses riches that long to give and bestow. The noble man also helps the unfortunate, but not, or hardly, out of pity. Rather, his help comes from an impulse created by his overflowing power. The noble man honors the powerful person within himself, including the person who has power over himself. He honors the person who knows when to speak and when to remain silent. He takes pleasure in treating himself severely and harshly, and respects everything severe and harsh. "Wotan placed a hard heart in my breast," says an old Scandinavian Saga. These words truly express the soul of a proud Viking. Such a man is even proud that he was not made for compassion. The Saga's hero therefore adds a warning: "He who has not a hard heart when young, will never have one." Noble and brave people who think this way stand furthest from a morality that defines moral conduct through compassion. They stand equally far from defining it through serving others or through DESINTERESSEMENT, acting without personal interest. Faith in oneself and pride in oneself belong firmly to noble morality. So do deep hostility and mockery toward "selflessness". So, too, do casual contempt and caution toward compassion and the "warm heart." The powerful KNOW how to honor. Honoring is their art, their field of invention. Deep respect for age and tradition is typical of the morality of the powerful. All law rests on this double respect. This morality also shows faith and prejudice in favor of ancestors and against newcomers. By contrast, people with "modern ideas" believe almost instinctively in "progress" and the "future". They also show less and less respect for old age. In doing so, these "ideas" have smugly betrayed their lowborn origins. But one harsh principle makes ruling-class morality especially alien and offensive to present-day tastes: people have duties only toward their equals. They may treat lower-ranking beings and everything foreign however they see fit, or "as the heart desires". In any case, they may act "beyond good and evil". Here compassion and similar feelings can find a place. Noble morality also involves the ability and duty to maintain gratitude and revenge over long periods. Both apply only within the circle of equals. Other typical traits include skillful retaliation and a REFINEMENT of the idea of friendship. There is also a certain need for enemies. Enemies provide outlets for envy, quarrelsomeness, and arrogance, in fact, so that one can be a good FRIEND. As already noted, this noble morality is not the morality of "modern ideas". That makes it difficult today to grasp, and also to uncover and reveal. The second type, SLAVE-MORALITY, is different. Suppose the abused, oppressed, suffering, unfree, weary, and insecure begin making moral judgments. What will their judgments have in common? They will probably express a pessimistic suspicion about the whole human condition. Perhaps they will condemn humanity along with its condition. The slave views the virtues of the powerful unfavorably. He approaches everything honored as "good" among the powerful with skepticism and distrust, a REFINEMENT of distrust. He would like to convince himself that even their happiness is not genuine. Instead, qualities that ease the lives of sufferers are emphasized and brightly illuminated. Compassion, the kind and helping hand, the warm heart, patience, diligence, humility, and friendliness gain honor here. For sufferers, these are the most useful qualities, and almost the only means of bearing life's burden. Slave-morality is essentially a morality of usefulness. Here lies the origin of the famous opposition between "good" and "evil". Evil is assumed to possess power and dangerousness. It has a certain terrifying quality, subtlety, and strength that prevent anyone from despising it. In slave-morality, therefore, the "evil" man inspires fear. In master-morality, precisely the "good" man inspires fear and seeks to inspire it. The bad man, by contrast, is considered despicable. The contrast reaches its height when slave-morality follows its own logic to the end. A hint of disdain finally attaches to its "good" man, though that disdain may be slight and well-intentioned. For the servile way of thinking insists that the good man must, in any case, be the SAFE man. He is good-natured, easily deceived, perhaps a little stupid, un bonhomme, a simple, good-hearted fellow. Wherever slave-morality becomes dominant, language tends to bring the meanings of "good" and "stupid" closer together. One final basic difference: the desire for FREEDOM, the instinct for happiness, and refined feelings of liberty necessarily belong to slave-morality. Just as necessarily, elaborate expressions of reverence and devotion, and enthusiasm for them, regularly mark aristocratic thinking and judgment. We can therefore understand, without further explanation, why love AS A PASSION must be noble in origin. Such love is our European specialty. As everyone knows, its inventors were the Provencal poet-cavaliers, those brilliant, ingenious men of the "gai saber". Europe owes them so much, almost its very existence.
261. Vanity is one of the things which are perhaps most difficult for a noble man to understand: he will be tempted to deny it, where another kind of man thinks he sees it self-evidently. The problem for him is to represent to his mind beings who seek to arouse a good opinion of themselves which they themselves do not possess—and consequently also do not "deserve,"—and who yet BELIEVE in this good opinion afterwards. This seems to him on the one hand such bad taste and so self-disrespectful, and on the other hand so grotesquely unreasonable, that he would like to consider vanity an exception, and is doubtful about it in most cases when it is spoken of. He will say, for instance: "I may be mistaken about my value, and on the other hand may nevertheless demand that my value should be acknowledged by others precisely as I rate it:—that, however, is not vanity (but self-conceit, or, in most cases, that which is called 'humility,' and also 'modesty')." Or he will even say: "For many reasons I can delight in the good opinion of others, perhaps because I love and honour them, and rejoice in all their joys, perhaps also because their good opinion endorses and strengthens my belief in my own good opinion, perhaps because the good opinion of others, even in cases where I do not share it, is useful to me, or gives promise of usefulness:—all this, however, is not vanity." The man of noble character must first bring it home forcibly to his mind, especially with the aid of history, that, from time immemorial, in all social strata in any way dependent, the ordinary man WAS only that which he PASSED FOR:—not being at all accustomed to fix values, he did not assign even to himself any other value than that which his master assigned to him (it is the peculiar RIGHT OF MASTERS to create values). It may be looked upon as the result of an extraordinary atavism, that the ordinary man, even at present, is still always WAITING for an opinion about himself, and then instinctively submitting himself to it; yet by no means only to a "good" opinion, but also to a bad and unjust one (think, for instance, of the greater part of the self-appreciations and self-depreciations which believing women learn from their confessors, and which in general the believing Christian learns from his Church). In fact, conformably to the slow rise of the democratic social order (and its cause, the blending of the blood of masters and slaves), the originally noble and rare impulse of the masters to assign a value to themselves and to "think well" of themselves, will now be more and more encouraged and extended; but it has at all times an older, ampler, and more radically ingrained propensity opposed to it—and in the phenomenon of "vanity" this older propensity overmasters the younger. The vain person rejoices over EVERY good opinion which he hears about himself (quite apart from the point of view of its usefulness, and equally regardless of its truth or falsehood), just as he suffers from every bad opinion: for he subjects himself to both, he feels himself subjected to both, by that oldest instinct of subjection which breaks forth in him.—It is "the slave" in the vain man's blood, the remains of the slave's craftiness—and how much of the "slave" is still left in woman, for instance!—which seeks to SEDUCE to good opinions of itself; it is the slave, too, who immediately afterwards falls prostrate himself before these opinions, as though he had not called them forth.—And to repeat it again: vanity is an atavism.
261. Vanity is perhaps one of the hardest things for a noble man to understand. He will be tempted to deny vanity where another kind of man thinks he plainly sees it. The noble man struggles to imagine people seeking a good opinion of themselves that they do not share. Consequently, they do not "deserve" that opinion either. Yet afterward, they BELIEVE in that good opinion. To him, this seems both tasteless and lacking in self-respect, as well as absurdly unreasonable. So he would like to see vanity as an exception. He doubts most claims that someone is vain. He will say, for example: "I may be wrong about my worth. Yet I may still demand that others recognize my worth exactly as I judge it. That, however, is not vanity (but conceit, or, in most cases, what people call 'humility' and also 'modesty')." Or he will even say: "I can enjoy others' good opinion for many reasons. Perhaps I love and honor them, and share in all their joys. Perhaps their good opinion confirms and strengthens my own belief in my worth. Perhaps their good opinion is useful to me, or promises to be useful, even when I do not share it. But none of this is vanity." The noble man must first force himself to grasp a fact, especially through history. From time immemorial, in all social classes dependent on others in any way, the ordinary man WAS only what he PASSED FOR. He was not at all used to setting values. So he gave even himself no value beyond what his master gave him. Creating values is the distinctive RIGHT OF MASTERS. An extraordinary return to an ancestral instinct may explain why ordinary people still always WAIT for an opinion about themselves. They then instinctively submit to that opinion. And they submit not only to a "good" opinion, but also to a bad and unjust one. Consider, for instance, most of the judgments of their own worth or worthlessness that devout women learn from their confessors. The same applies to what the believing Christian generally learns from his Church. The democratic social order is slowly rising, driven by the mingling of the blood of masters and slaves. Along with this rise, the masters' originally noble and rare impulse will increasingly be encouraged and spread. This is the impulse to determine their own worth and to "think well" of themselves. But an older, more widespread, and more deeply rooted tendency has always opposed that impulse. And in "vanity," this older tendency overpowers the newer one. The vain person delights in EVERY good opinion he hears about himself. He does so regardless of its usefulness, and equally regardless of its truth or falsehood. Just as surely, he suffers from every bad opinion. For he submits to both kinds of opinion and feels himself subject to both. That most ancient instinct of submission breaks out in him. It is "the slave" in the vain man's blood, the lingering cunning of the slave, that seeks to SEDUCE others into thinking well of him. And how much of the "slave" still remains in woman, for instance! It is also the slave who immediately afterward bows down before these opinions, as though he had not brought them about. And to repeat it once more: vanity is a return to an ancestral instinct.
262. A SPECIES originates, and a type becomes established and strong in the long struggle with essentially constant UNFAVOURABLE conditions. On the other hand, it is known by the experience of breeders that species which receive super-abundant nourishment, and in general a surplus of protection and care, immediately tend in the most marked way to develop variations, and are fertile in prodigies and monstrosities (also in monstrous vices). Now look at an aristocratic commonwealth, say an ancient Greek polis, or Venice, as a voluntary or involuntary contrivance for the purpose of REARING human beings; there are there men beside one another, thrown upon their own resources, who want to make their species prevail, chiefly because they MUST prevail, or else run the terrible danger of being exterminated. The favour, the super-abundance, the protection are there lacking under which variations are fostered; the species needs itself as species, as something which, precisely by virtue of its hardness, its uniformity, and simplicity of structure, can in general prevail and make itself permanent in constant struggle with its neighbours, or with rebellious or rebellion-threatening vassals. The most varied experience teaches it what are the qualities to which it principally owes the fact that it still exists, in spite of all Gods and men, and has hitherto been victorious: these qualities it calls virtues, and these virtues alone it develops to maturity. It does so with severity, indeed it desires severity; every aristocratic morality is intolerant in the education of youth, in the control of women, in the marriage customs, in the relations of old and young, in the penal laws (which have an eye only for the degenerating): it counts intolerance itself among the virtues, under the name of "justice." A type with few, but very marked features, a species of severe, warlike, wisely silent, reserved, and reticent men (and as such, with the most delicate sensibility for the charm and nuances of society) is thus established, unaffected by the vicissitudes of generations; the constant struggle with uniform UNFAVOURABLE conditions is, as already remarked, the cause of a type becoming stable and hard. Finally, however, a happy state of things results, the enormous tension is relaxed; there are perhaps no more enemies among the neighbouring peoples, and the means of life, even of the enjoyment of life, are present in superabundance. With one stroke the bond and constraint of the old discipline severs: it is no longer regarded as necessary, as a condition of existence—if it would continue, it can only do so as a form of LUXURY, as an archaizing TASTE. Variations, whether they be deviations (into the higher, finer, and rarer), or deteriorations and monstrosities, appear suddenly on the scene in the greatest exuberance and splendour; the individual dares to be individual and detach himself. At this turning-point of history there manifest themselves, side by side, and often mixed and entangled together, a magnificent, manifold, virgin-forest-like up-growth and up-striving, a kind of TROPICAL TEMPO in the rivalry of growth, and an extraordinary decay and self-destruction, owing to the savagely opposing and seemingly exploding egoisms, which strive with one another "for sun and light," and can no longer assign any limit, restraint, or forbearance for themselves by means of the hitherto existing morality. It was this morality itself which piled up the strength so enormously, which bent the bow in so threatening a manner:—it is now "out of date," it is getting "out of date." The dangerous and disquieting point has been reached when the greater, more manifold, more comprehensive life IS LIVED BEYOND the old morality; the "individual" stands out, and is obliged to have recourse to his own law-giving, his own arts and artifices for self-preservation, self-elevation, and self-deliverance. Nothing but new "Whys," nothing but new "Hows," no common formulas any longer, misunderstanding and disregard in league with each other, decay, deterioration, and the loftiest desires frightfully entangled, the genius of the race overflowing from all the cornucopias of good and bad, a portentous simultaneousness of Spring and Autumn, full of new charms and mysteries peculiar to the fresh, still inexhausted, still unwearied corruption. Danger is again present, the mother of morality, great danger; this time shifted into the individual, into the neighbour and friend, into the street, into their own child, into their own heart, into all the most personal and secret recesses of their desires and volitions. What will the moral philosophers who appear at this time have to preach? They discover, these sharp onlookers and loafers, that the end is quickly approaching, that everything around them decays and produces decay, that nothing will endure until the day after tomorrow, except one species of man, the incurably MEDIOCRE. The mediocre alone have a prospect of continuing and propagating themselves—they will be the men of the future, the sole survivors; "be like them! become mediocre!" is now the only morality which has still a significance, which still obtains a hearing.—But it is difficult to preach this morality of mediocrity! it can never avow what it is and what it desires! it has to talk of moderation and dignity and duty and brotherly love—it will have difficulty IN CONCEALING ITS IRONY!
262. A SPECIES emerges, and a type becomes established and strong, through a long struggle against essentially constant UNFAVOURABLE conditions. Breeders, on the other hand, know from experience what happens when species receive excessive nourishment, protection, and care. Such species immediately show a marked tendency to develop variations. They produce abundant wonders and monstrosities (including monstrous vices). Now consider an aristocratic commonwealth, such as an ancient Greek polis or Venice. See it as a deliberate or accidental arrangement for REARING human beings. Here, men live side by side, thrown back on their own resources, wanting their species to prevail. Above all, they want this because they MUST prevail or face the terrible danger of extermination. They lack the favourable treatment, abundance, and protection that encourage variations. The species needs itself as a species. Its toughness, uniformity, and simple structure enable it to prevail and survive through constant struggle. It struggles with its neighbours, or with vassals who rebel or threaten rebellion. All kinds of experience teach the species which qualities chiefly explain its continued existence, despite all Gods and men. Those same qualities explain its victories so far. It calls these qualities virtues, and develops these virtues alone to maturity. It does so harshly. Indeed, it wants harshness. Every aristocratic morality is intolerant in educating the young, controlling women, and regulating marriage customs and relations between generations. Its criminal laws are intolerant too, concerned only with those who are degenerating. Such a morality counts intolerance itself among the virtues, under the name of "justice." In this way, a type becomes established, with few but sharply defined features. It is a species of stern, warlike men, wisely silent, reserved, and restrained in speech. These very qualities give them an exquisitely fine sensitivity to society's charms and nuances. This type remains unchanged through the shifting fortunes of generations. As already noted, constant struggle against uniform UNFAVOURABLE conditions makes a type stable and tough. Eventually, however, favourable conditions arrive, and the enormous tension eases. Perhaps neighbouring peoples no longer include any enemies. The means of living, and even of enjoying life, are abundantly available. At one stroke, the bonds and restraints of the old discipline break. That discipline no longer seems necessary, no longer a condition of survival. If it continues, it can do so only as a LUXURY, as a TASTE for old ways. Variations suddenly appear in the greatest abundance and splendour. Some depart toward the higher, finer, and rarer. Others are deteriorations and monstrosities. The individual dares to be an individual and break away. At this historical turning point, magnificent and varied growth surges upward like a virgin forest. Growth competes at a kind of TROPICAL TEMPO. Alongside this growth, often mixed and tangled with it, comes extraordinary decay and self-destruction. These arise from fiercely opposed, seemingly explosive forms of selfishness, competing "for sun and light." The old morality can no longer make these competing egos accept any limits, restraint, or consideration for others. Yet that very morality had built up such enormous strength and bent the bow so threateningly. Now it is "out of date," it is becoming "out of date." The dangerous, unsettling point has arrived: a greater, more varied, more comprehensive life IS LIVED BEYOND the old morality. The "individual" stands apart and must make his own laws. He must devise his own skills and strategies for preserving, elevating, and freeing himself. Nothing but new "Whys," nothing but new "Hows," no shared formulas any longer. Misunderstanding joins forces with disregard. Decay, deterioration, and the loftiest desires become terribly entangled. The genius of the race overflows from every horn of plenty, both good and bad. Spring and Autumn arrive together in an ominous coincidence. This fresh corruption is still unexhausted, still unwearied, full of new charms and mysteries of its own. Danger, the mother of morality, is present again, great danger. This time, danger has moved into the individual, into the neighbour and friend, into the street. It has entered people's own children and hearts, and the most personal, secret corners of their desires and intentions. What will the moral philosophers who appear at this time have to preach? These sharp-eyed observers and idlers discover that the end is approaching fast. Everything around them is decaying and spreading decay. Nothing will last until the day after tomorrow except one species of human being: the incurably MEDIOCRE. Only the mediocre have a prospect of surviving and reproducing. They will be the people of the future, the sole survivors. "be like them! become mediocre!" is now the only morality that still means anything, that still finds an audience. But this morality of mediocrity is difficult to preach! It can never admit what it is or what it wants! It must speak of moderation, dignity, duty, and brotherly love. It will have difficulty CONCEALING ITS IRONY!
263. There is an INSTINCT FOR RANK, which more than anything else is already the sign of a HIGH rank; there is a DELIGHT in the NUANCES of reverence which leads one to infer noble origin and habits. The refinement, goodness, and loftiness of a soul are put to a perilous test when something passes by that is of the highest rank, but is not yet protected by the awe of authority from obtrusive touches and incivilities: something that goes its way like a living touchstone, undistinguished, undiscovered, and tentative, perhaps voluntarily veiled and disguised. He whose task and practice it is to investigate souls, will avail himself of many varieties of this very art to determine the ultimate value of a soul, the unalterable, innate order of rank to which it belongs: he will test it by its INSTINCT FOR REVERENCE. DIFFERENCE ENGENDRE HAINE: the vulgarity of many a nature spurts up suddenly like dirty water, when any holy vessel, any jewel from closed shrines, any book bearing the marks of great destiny, is brought before it; while on the other hand, there is an involuntary silence, a hesitation of the eye, a cessation of all gestures, by which it is indicated that a soul FEELS the nearness of what is worthiest of respect. The way in which, on the whole, the reverence for the BIBLE has hitherto been maintained in Europe, is perhaps the best example of discipline and refinement of manners which Europe owes to Christianity: books of such profoundness and supreme significance require for their protection an external tyranny of authority, in order to acquire the PERIOD of thousands of years which is necessary to exhaust and unriddle them. Much has been achieved when the sentiment has been at last instilled into the masses (the shallow-pates and the boobies of every kind) that they are not allowed to touch everything, that there are holy experiences before which they must take off their shoes and keep away the unclean hand—it is almost their highest advance towards humanity. On the contrary, in the so-called cultured classes, the believers in "modern ideas," nothing is perhaps so repulsive as their lack of shame, the easy insolence of eye and hand with which they touch, taste, and finger everything; and it is possible that even yet there is more RELATIVE nobility of taste, and more tact for reverence among the people, among the lower classes of the people, especially among peasants, than among the newspaper-reading DEMIMONDE of intellect, the cultured class.
263. There is an INSTINCT FOR RANK that, more than anything else, already marks someone as HIGH in rank. There is a DELIGHT in the NUANCES of reverence that suggests noble origins and habits. A soul’s refinement, goodness, and greatness face a dangerous test when something of the highest rank passes by. Such greatness may not yet have authority’s awe to protect it from intrusive handling and rudeness. It goes its way like a living touchstone, unrecognized, undiscovered, and tentative, perhaps deliberately veiled and disguised. Someone whose work and habit is to study souls will use many forms of this very art. The aim is to determine a soul’s ultimate worth and its fixed, inborn place in the order of rank. The investigator will test the soul’s INSTINCT FOR REVERENCE. DIFFERENCE BREEDS HATRED: the vulgarity of many people suddenly gushes up like dirty water when something sacred is brought before them. It may be a holy vessel, a jewel from a sealed shrine, or a book marked by a great destiny. Others, by contrast, fall silent without meaning to. Their eyes hesitate, and every gesture stops. These responses show that a soul FEELS the presence of what most deserves respect. The reverence for the BIBLE maintained in Europe until now is perhaps the best example of something Europe owes Christianity. That debt is a discipline and refinement of manners. Books of such depth and supreme importance need the protection of an external tyranny of authority. Only then can they gain the PERIOD of thousands of years needed to fully explore and unravel them. Much has been achieved once the masses (the shallow minds and fools of every kind) have finally learned a limit. They are not allowed to touch everything. There are sacred experiences before which they must remove their shoes and keep unclean hands away. This restraint is almost their greatest step toward humanity. By contrast, perhaps nothing is so repulsive in the so-called cultured classes, the believers in "modern ideas," as their shamelessness. With casually insolent eyes and hands, they touch, taste, and finger everything. It is possible that ordinary people still have more RELATIVE nobility of taste and a finer sense of reverence. This may be truer of the lower classes, especially peasants, than of the newspaper-reading intellectual DEMIMONDE, the cultured class.
264. It cannot be effaced from a man's soul what his ancestors have preferably and most constantly done: whether they were perhaps diligent economizers attached to a desk and a cash-box, modest and citizen-like in their desires, modest also in their virtues; or whether they were accustomed to commanding from morning till night, fond of rude pleasures and probably of still ruder duties and responsibilities; or whether, finally, at one time or another, they have sacrificed old privileges of birth and possession, in order to live wholly for their faith—for their "God,"—as men of an inexorable and sensitive conscience, which blushes at every compromise. It is quite impossible for a man NOT to have the qualities and predilections of his parents and ancestors in his constitution, whatever appearances may suggest to the contrary. This is the problem of race. Granted that one knows something of the parents, it is admissible to draw a conclusion about the child: any kind of offensive incontinence, any kind of sordid envy, or of clumsy self-vaunting—the three things which together have constituted the genuine plebeian type in all times—such must pass over to the child, as surely as bad blood; and with the help of the best education and culture one will only succeed in DECEIVING with regard to such heredity.—And what else does education and culture try to do nowadays! In our very democratic, or rather, very plebeian age, "education" and "culture" MUST be essentially the art of deceiving—deceiving with regard to origin, with regard to the inherited plebeianism in body and soul. An educator who nowadays preached truthfulness above everything else, and called out constantly to his pupils: "Be true! Be natural! Show yourselves as you are!"—even such a virtuous and sincere ass would learn in a short time to have recourse to the FURCA of Horace, NATURAM EXPELLERE: with what results? "Plebeianism" USQUE RECURRET. [FOOTNOTE: Horace's "Epistles," I. x. 24.]
264. What a man's ancestors did most willingly and most often cannot be erased from his soul. Perhaps they were hardworking savers, tied to a desk and a cashbox. Their desires were modest and middle-class, and their virtues were modest too. Or perhaps they were used to commanding from morning till night. They enjoyed rough pleasures and probably still rougher duties and responsibilities. Or perhaps, at some point, they sacrificed ancient privileges of birth and property to live entirely for their faith. They lived for their "God," with a conscience both unforgiving and sensitive, a conscience that blushes at every compromise. It is quite impossible for a man NOT to inherit his parents' and ancestors' qualities and preferences. Appearances may suggest otherwise, but these traits are part of his makeup. This is the problem of race. If we know something about the parents, we may draw conclusions about the child. Any offensive lack of self-control, any sordid envy, or any clumsy boasting must pass to the child, as surely as bad blood. Together, these three traits have always defined the true plebeian type. Even the best education and culture can only succeed in DECEIVING people about such an inheritance. And what else do education and culture try to do nowadays! In our very democratic, or rather, very plebeian age, "education" and "culture" MUST essentially be the art of deception. They conceal people's origins and the plebeian traits inherited in body and soul. Imagine an educator who today preached truthfulness above everything else and constantly called out to his pupils: "Be truthful! Be natural! Show yourselves as you are!" Even such a virtuous and sincere ass would soon learn to reach for Horace's pitchfork, his FURCA. He would try to drive out nature, NATURAM EXPELLERE. With what results? "Plebeianism" USQUE RECURRET, will always return. [FOOTNOTE: Horace's "Epistles," I. x. 24.]
265. At the risk of displeasing innocent ears, I submit that egoism belongs to the essence of a noble soul, I mean the unalterable belief that to a being such as "we," other beings must naturally be in subjection, and have to sacrifice themselves. The noble soul accepts the fact of his egoism without question, and also without consciousness of harshness, constraint, or arbitrariness therein, but rather as something that may have its basis in the primary law of things:—if he sought a designation for it he would say: "It is justice itself." He acknowledges under certain circumstances, which made him hesitate at first, that there are other equally privileged ones; as soon as he has settled this question of rank, he moves among those equals and equally privileged ones with the same assurance, as regards modesty and delicate respect, which he enjoys in intercourse with himself—in accordance with an innate heavenly mechanism which all the stars understand. It is an ADDITIONAL instance of his egoism, this artfulness and self-limitation in intercourse with his equals—every star is a similar egoist; he honours HIMSELF in them, and in the rights which he concedes to them, he has no doubt that the exchange of honours and rights, as the ESSENCE of all intercourse, belongs also to the natural condition of things. The noble soul gives as he takes, prompted by the passionate and sensitive instinct of requital, which is at the root of his nature. The notion of "favour" has, INTER PARES, neither significance nor good repute; there may be a sublime way of letting gifts as it were light upon one from above, and of drinking them thirstily like dew-drops; but for those arts and displays the noble soul has no aptitude. His egoism hinders him here: in general, he looks "aloft" unwillingly—he looks either FORWARD, horizontally and deliberately, or downwards—HE KNOWS THAT HE IS ON A HEIGHT.
265. At the risk of offending innocent ears, I suggest that egoism is essential to a noble soul. I mean the unshakable belief that other beings must naturally submit to beings such as "we" and sacrifice themselves. The noble soul accepts his egoism without question. Nor does he see any harshness, coercion, or arbitrariness in his egoism. Instead, he sees something that may rest on the fundamental law of things. If he wanted a name for his egoism, he would say: "It is justice itself." Under certain circumstances, he recognizes others as equally privileged, though those circumstances initially made him hesitate. Once he has settled this question of rank, he moves confidently among his equals, who share his privileges. He treats them with the same modesty and delicate respect that he shows himself. He follows an inborn celestial mechanism that all the stars understand. His skill and restraint in dealing with his equals are an ADDITIONAL expression of his egoism. Every star is an egoist in the same way. He honours HIMSELF in his equals and in the rights he grants them. He has no doubt that exchanging honours and rights is the ESSENCE of all dealings between people. He also sees this exchange as part of the natural order of things. The noble soul gives as he takes. He is driven by a passionate, sensitive instinct to return what he receives, an instinct rooted in his nature. Among equals, the idea of "favour" has neither meaning nor a good reputation. There may be a sublime art of letting gifts fall upon you from above, as it were. You may drink them thirstily like drops of dew. But the noble soul has no talent for such arts and displays. His egoism stands in his way here. In general, he is reluctant to look "upward". He looks either FORWARD, levelly and deliberately, or downward. HE KNOWS THAT HE STANDS ON HIGH GROUND.
266. "One can only truly esteem him who does not LOOK OUT FOR himself."—Goethe to Rath Schlosser.
266. "You can only truly respect someone who does not LOOK OUT FOR himself." Goethe to Rath Schlosser.
267. The Chinese have a proverb which mothers even teach their children: "SIAO-SIN" ("MAKE THY HEART SMALL"). This is the essentially fundamental tendency in latter-day civilizations. I have no doubt that an ancient Greek, also, would first of all remark the self-dwarfing in us Europeans of today—in this respect alone we should immediately be "distasteful" to him.
267. The Chinese have a proverb that even mothers teach their children: "SIAO-SIN" ("MAKE YOUR HEART SMALL"). Making ourselves smaller is the most basic tendency in modern civilizations. I have no doubt that an ancient Greek, too, would first notice how we Europeans today diminish ourselves. For that reason alone, we would immediately be "distasteful" to him.
268. What, after all, is ignobleness?—Words are vocal symbols for ideas; ideas, however, are more or less definite mental symbols for frequently returning and concurring sensations, for groups of sensations. It is not sufficient to use the same words in order to understand one another: we must also employ the same words for the same kind of internal experiences, we must in the end have experiences IN COMMON. On this account the people of one nation understand one another better than those belonging to different nations, even when they use the same language; or rather, when people have lived long together under similar conditions (of climate, soil, danger, requirement, toil) there ORIGINATES therefrom an entity that "understands itself"—namely, a nation. In all souls a like number of frequently recurring experiences have gained the upper hand over those occurring more rarely: about these matters people understand one another rapidly and always more rapidly—the history of language is the history of a process of abbreviation; on the basis of this quick comprehension people always unite closer and closer. The greater the danger, the greater is the need of agreeing quickly and readily about what is necessary; not to misunderstand one another in danger—that is what cannot at all be dispensed with in intercourse. Also in all loves and friendships one has the experience that nothing of the kind continues when the discovery has been made that in using the same words, one of the two parties has feelings, thoughts, intuitions, wishes, or fears different from those of the other. (The fear of the "eternal misunderstanding": that is the good genius which so often keeps persons of different sexes from too hasty attachments, to which sense and heart prompt them—and NOT some Schopenhauerian "genius of the species"!) Whichever groups of sensations within a soul awaken most readily, begin to speak, and give the word of command—these decide as to the general order of rank of its values, and determine ultimately its list of desirable things. A man's estimates of value betray something of the STRUCTURE of his soul, and wherein it sees its conditions of life, its intrinsic needs. Supposing now that necessity has from all time drawn together only such men as could express similar requirements and similar experiences by similar symbols, it results on the whole that the easy COMMUNICABILITY of need, which implies ultimately the undergoing only of average and COMMON experiences, must have been the most potent of all the forces which have hitherto operated upon mankind. The more similar, the more ordinary people, have always had and are still having the advantage; the more select, more refined, more unique, and difficultly comprehensible, are liable to stand alone; they succumb to accidents in their isolation, and seldom propagate themselves. One must appeal to immense opposing forces, in order to thwart this natural, all-too-natural PROGRESSUS IN SIMILE, the evolution of man to the similar, the ordinary, the average, the gregarious—to the IGNOBLE—!
268. What, after all, is ignobleness? Words are spoken symbols for ideas. Ideas, in turn, are more or less definite mental symbols for sensations that frequently recur together, for groups of sensations. Using the same words is not enough for us to understand one another. We must also use the same words for the same kinds of inner experiences. Ultimately, we must have experiences IN COMMON. For this reason, people from one nation understand one another better than people from different nations, even when speaking the same language. Or rather, when people live together for a long time under similar conditions, something ORIGINATES from their shared life. These conditions include climate, soil, danger, needs, and work. What emerges is a group that "understands itself": a nation. In all souls, a similar set of frequently recurring experiences has gained the upper hand over rarer experiences. People understand one another quickly about these familiar matters, and increasingly quickly. The history of language is the history of a process of shortening. This quick understanding brings people closer and closer together. The greater the danger, the greater the need to agree quickly and easily about what is necessary. When people face danger together, avoiding misunderstandings is absolutely essential. In all love affairs and friendships, too, we find that neither love nor friendship survives a certain discovery. Both people use the same words, but those words express different feelings, thoughts, intuitions, wishes, or fears for each. (The fear of the "eternal misunderstanding" is the benevolent spirit that so often keeps people of different sexes from forming attachments too hastily. Their senses and hearts urge them toward those attachments. What holds them back is NOT some Schopenhauerian "genius of the species"!) The groups of sensations that awaken most readily in a soul, speak up, and give orders determine its hierarchy of values. Ultimately, those sensations determine what the soul finds desirable. A person's judgments of value reveal something of the STRUCTURE of their soul. These judgments also reveal what the soul sees as its conditions for living and its deepest needs. Now suppose that necessity has always brought together only people able to express similar needs and experiences through similar symbols. On that assumption, the easy COMMUNICABILITY of need must, overall, have been the strongest force yet to act on humanity. Such easy communication ultimately means having only average and COMMON experiences. People who are more alike and more ordinary have always had the advantage, and still do. The more exceptional, refined, unique, and difficult to understand are likely to stand alone. In their isolation, they fall victim to accidents and seldom reproduce. We must call on immense opposing forces to thwart this natural, all-too-natural PROGRESSUS IN SIMILE. This is humanity's evolution toward the similar, the ordinary, the average, the herdlike: toward the IGNOBLE!
269. The more a psychologist—a born, an unavoidable psychologist and soul-diviner—turns his attention to the more select cases and individuals, the greater is his danger of being suffocated by sympathy: he NEEDS sternness and cheerfulness more than any other man. For the corruption, the ruination of higher men, of the more unusually constituted souls, is in fact, the rule: it is dreadful to have such a rule always before one's eyes. The manifold torment of the psychologist who has discovered this ruination, who discovers once, and then discovers ALMOST repeatedly throughout all history, this universal inner "desperateness" of higher men, this eternal "too late!" in every sense—may perhaps one day be the cause of his turning with bitterness against his own lot, and of his making an attempt at self-destruction—of his "going to ruin" himself. One may perceive in almost every psychologist a tell-tale inclination for delightful intercourse with commonplace and well-ordered men; the fact is thereby disclosed that he always requires healing, that he needs a sort of flight and forgetfulness, away from what his insight and incisiveness—from what his "business"—has laid upon his conscience. The fear of his memory is peculiar to him. He is easily silenced by the judgment of others; he hears with unmoved countenance how people honour, admire, love, and glorify, where he has PERCEIVED—or he even conceals his silence by expressly assenting to some plausible opinion. Perhaps the paradox of his situation becomes so dreadful that, precisely where he has learnt GREAT SYMPATHY, together with great CONTEMPT, the multitude, the educated, and the visionaries, have on their part learnt great reverence—reverence for "great men" and marvelous animals, for the sake of whom one blesses and honours the fatherland, the earth, the dignity of mankind, and one's own self, to whom one points the young, and in view of whom one educates them. And who knows but in all great instances hitherto just the same happened: that the multitude worshipped a God, and that the "God" was only a poor sacrificial animal! SUCCESS has always been the greatest liar—and the "work" itself is a success; the great statesman, the conqueror, the discoverer, are disguised in their creations until they are unrecognizable; the "work" of the artist, of the philosopher, only invents him who has created it, is REPUTED to have created it; the "great men," as they are reverenced, are poor little fictions composed afterwards; in the world of historical values spurious coinage PREVAILS. Those great poets, for example, such as Byron, Musset, Poe, Leopardi, Kleist, Gogol (I do not venture to mention much greater names, but I have them in my mind), as they now appear, and were perhaps obliged to be: men of the moment, enthusiastic, sensuous, and childish, light-minded and impulsive in their trust and distrust; with souls in which usually some flaw has to be concealed; often taking revenge with their works for an internal defilement, often seeking forgetfulness in their soaring from a too true memory, often lost in the mud and almost in love with it, until they become like the Will-o'-the-Wisps around the swamps, and PRETEND TO BE stars—the people then call them idealists,—often struggling with protracted disgust, with an ever-reappearing phantom of disbelief, which makes them cold, and obliges them to languish for GLORIA and devour "faith as it is" out of the hands of intoxicated adulators:—what a TORMENT these great artists are and the so-called higher men in general, to him who has once found them out! It is thus conceivable that it is just from woman—who is clairvoyant in the world of suffering, and also unfortunately eager to help and save to an extent far beyond her powers—that THEY have learnt so readily those outbreaks of boundless devoted SYMPATHY, which the multitude, above all the reverent multitude, do not understand, and overwhelm with prying and self-gratifying interpretations. This sympathizing invariably deceives itself as to its power; woman would like to believe that love can do EVERYTHING—it is the SUPERSTITION peculiar to her. Alas, he who knows the heart finds out how poor, helpless, pretentious, and blundering even the best and deepest love is—he finds that it rather DESTROYS than saves!—It is possible that under the holy fable and travesty of the life of Jesus there is hidden one of the most painful cases of the martyrdom of KNOWLEDGE ABOUT LOVE: the martyrdom of the most innocent and most craving heart, that never had enough of any human love, that DEMANDED love, that demanded inexorably and frantically to be loved and nothing else, with terrible outbursts against those who refused him their love; the story of a poor soul insatiated and insatiable in love, that had to invent hell to send thither those who WOULD NOT love him—and that at last, enlightened about human love, had to invent a God who is entire love, entire CAPACITY for love—who takes pity on human love, because it is so paltry, so ignorant! He who has such sentiments, he who has such KNOWLEDGE about love—SEEKS for death!—But why should one deal with such painful matters? Provided, of course, that one is not obliged to do so.
269. The more a psychologist studies exceptional people, the greater his danger of being suffocated by sympathy. I mean a born psychologist, someone who cannot help reading souls. He NEEDS firmness and cheerfulness more than anyone else. For the corruption and ruin of higher men, of unusually gifted souls, is actually the rule. It is dreadful to have such a rule constantly before your eyes. The psychologist who discovers this ruin suffers in many ways. He discovers it once, then ALMOST repeatedly throughout history: this universal inner "despair" of higher men. Everywhere, in every sense, he encounters the eternal "too late!" Perhaps this torment may one day turn him bitterly against his own fate. He may attempt to destroy himself, to "go to ruin" himself. Almost every psychologist shows a revealing fondness for pleasant company with ordinary, orderly people. This fondness reveals his constant need for healing. He needs some escape and forgetfulness from what his insight and sharp perception have burdened his conscience with. Such is the burden of his "business". He has a distinctive fear of his own memory. Other people's judgments easily silence him. With an unmoved face, he hears people honor, admire, love, and glorify where he has PERCEIVED. Or he even hides his silence by explicitly agreeing with some plausible opinion. Perhaps the contradiction in his position becomes dreadful. Precisely where he has learned GREAT SYMPATHY alongside great CONTEMPT, others have learned great reverence. These others are the masses, the educated, and the visionaries. They revere "great men" and marvelous creatures. For their sake, people bless and honor their homeland, the earth, human dignity, and themselves. People hold these figures up to the young and educate the young with these figures in mind. And who knows whether the same thing has happened in every great case until now? Perhaps the masses worshipped a God, while that "God" was only a poor sacrificial animal! SUCCESS has always been the greatest liar, and the "work" itself is a success. The great statesman, conqueror, and discoverer are disguised by their achievements until they become unrecognizable. The artist's or philosopher's "work" merely invents the person who created it, who is REPUTED to have created it. The "great men" whom people revere are pitiful little fictions put together afterward. In the world of historical values, counterfeit currency PREVAILS. Consider great poets such as Byron, Musset, Poe, Leopardi, Kleist, and Gogol. I dare not mention much greater names, though I have them in mind. Consider these poets as they now appear, and perhaps had to be. They lived for the moment, passionate, sensual, and childish, careless and impulsive in their trust and distrust. Their souls usually contained some flaw that had to be hidden. Often, through their works, they took revenge for an inner stain. Often their soaring flights sought escape from a memory that was all too accurate. Often they were lost in the mud and almost in love with it. Eventually they became like Will-o'-the-Wisps around swamps and PRETENDED TO BE stars. People then called them idealists. Often they struggled with prolonged disgust and an endlessly returning ghost of unbelief. This unbelief chilled them and forced them to yearn for GLORY. It forced them to devour "faith just as it is" from the hands of their intoxicated flatterers. What a TORMENT these great artists are to anyone who has seen through them! The same holds for so-called higher men in general. So it is understandable that THEY have so readily learned from women those outbursts of boundless, devoted SYMPATHY. Women see clearly into the world of suffering. Unfortunately, their eagerness to help and save also reaches far beyond their powers. The masses, especially the reverent masses, do not understand these outbursts. They smother them in prying interpretations that gratify themselves. Such sympathy always deceives itself about its power. Woman would like to believe that love can do EVERYTHING. This is her particular SUPERSTITION. Alas, anyone who knows the heart discovers how poor, helpless, presumptuous, and clumsy even the best, deepest love is. He discovers that love DESTROYS rather than saves! Perhaps the sacred fable and distorted portrayal of Jesus' life hide an especially painful martyrdom: the martyrdom of KNOWLEDGE ABOUT LOVE. Perhaps this was the suffering of the most innocent heart, the heart most hungry for love. No human love ever satisfied it. It DEMANDED love, demanded relentlessly and frantically to be loved, and wanted nothing else. It erupted terribly against those who refused it their love. Perhaps this was the story of a poor soul, unsatisfied and impossible to satisfy in love. It had to invent hell for those who WOULD NOT love it. At last, having learned the truth about human love, it had to invent a God who is entirely love. This God is entirely CAPACITY for love. He pities human love because human love is so paltry, so ignorant! Anyone who feels this way, anyone with such KNOWLEDGE about love, SEEKS death! But why should anyone dwell on such painful matters? Provided, of course, that one is not obliged to.
270. The intellectual haughtiness and loathing of every man who has suffered deeply—it almost determines the order of rank HOW deeply men can suffer—the chilling certainty, with which he is thoroughly imbued and coloured, that by virtue of his suffering he KNOWS MORE than the shrewdest and wisest can ever know, that he has been familiar with, and "at home" in, many distant, dreadful worlds of which "YOU know nothing"!—this silent intellectual haughtiness of the sufferer, this pride of the elect of knowledge, of the "initiated," of the almost sacrificed, finds all forms of disguise necessary to protect itself from contact with officious and sympathizing hands, and in general from all that is not its equal in suffering. Profound suffering makes noble: it separates.—One of the most refined forms of disguise is Epicurism, along with a certain ostentatious boldness of taste, which takes suffering lightly, and puts itself on the defensive against all that is sorrowful and profound. They are "gay men" who make use of gaiety, because they are misunderstood on account of it—they WISH to be misunderstood. There are "scientific minds" who make use of science, because it gives a gay appearance, and because scientificness leads to the conclusion that a person is superficial—they WISH to mislead to a false conclusion. There are free insolent minds which would fain conceal and deny that they are broken, proud, incurable hearts (the cynicism of Hamlet—the case of Galiani); and occasionally folly itself is the mask of an unfortunate OVER-ASSURED knowledge.—From which it follows that it is the part of a more refined humanity to have reverence "for the mask," and not to make use of psychology and curiosity in the wrong place.
270. Every man who has suffered deeply feels an intellectual arrogance and disgust. HOW deeply people can suffer almost determines their rank. The sufferer is filled with a chilling certainty that shapes his whole outlook. Through his suffering, he KNOWS MORE than even the shrewdest and wisest can ever know. He has known many distant, dreadful worlds and felt "at home" in them, worlds "YOU know nothing" about! Such is the sufferer’s silent intellectual arrogance, the pride of those chosen for knowledge, the "initiated," the almost sacrificed. This pride needs every kind of disguise to protect itself from meddling, sympathetic hands. More generally, it needs protection from everything that is not its equal in suffering. Deep suffering makes people noble: it sets them apart. One of the most subtle disguises is Epicurism, together with a certain showy boldness of taste. This boldness treats suffering lightly and guards against everything sorrowful and profound. These are "cheerful men" who use cheerfulness because it causes others to misunderstand them. They WISH to be misunderstood. There are "scientific minds" who use science because it gives them a cheerful appearance. They also use it because a scientific approach leads others to conclude that they are superficial. They WISH to lead others to a false conclusion. There are free, insolent minds eager to hide and deny that they are broken, proud, incurable hearts. Consider Hamlet’s cynicism and the case of Galiani. And sometimes foolishness itself masks an unhappy knowledge that is far TOO CERTAIN. It follows that a more refined humanity should respect "the mask." Such humanity should not use psychology and curiosity where they do not belong.
271. That which separates two men most profoundly is a different sense and grade of purity. What does it matter about all their honesty and reciprocal usefulness, what does it matter about all their mutual good-will: the fact still remains—they "cannot smell each other!" The highest instinct for purity places him who is affected with it in the most extraordinary and dangerous isolation, as a saint: for it is just holiness—the highest spiritualization of the instinct in question. Any kind of cognizance of an indescribable excess in the joy of the bath, any kind of ardour or thirst which perpetually impels the soul out of night into the morning, and out of gloom, out of "affliction" into clearness, brightness, depth, and refinement:—just as much as such a tendency DISTINGUISHES—it is a noble tendency—it also SEPARATES.—The pity of the saint is pity for the FILTH of the human, all-too-human. And there are grades and heights where pity itself is regarded by him as impurity, as filth.
271. What separates two men most deeply is a difference in their sense and degree of purity. What does all their honesty and usefulness to each other matter? What does all their goodwill toward each other matter? The fact remains: they "cannot smell each other!" The highest instinct for purity leaves the man who has it in an extraordinary and dangerous isolation, like a saint. For holiness itself is the highest spiritual expression of this instinct. There may be some awareness of an indescribably intense joy in bathing. There may be some passion or thirst constantly driving the soul from night into morning. It drives the soul out of gloom, out of "affliction" into clarity, brightness, depth, and refinement. Just as much as this tendency DISTINGUISHES a person, it also SEPARATES him. It is a noble tendency. The saint's pity is pity for the FILTH of the human, all-too-human. And there are levels and heights where the saint regards pity itself as impurity, as filth.
272. Signs of nobility: never to think of lowering our duties to the rank of duties for everybody; to be unwilling to renounce or to share our responsibilities; to count our prerogatives, and the exercise of them, among our DUTIES.
272. Signs of nobility: never to consider lowering our duties to the level of duties for everyone. To be unwilling to give up or share our responsibilities. To count our special privileges, and the use of them, among our DUTIES.
273. A man who strives after great things, looks upon every one whom he encounters on his way either as a means of advance, or a delay and hindrance—or as a temporary resting-place. His peculiar lofty BOUNTY to his fellow-men is only possible when he attains his elevation and dominates. Impatience, and the consciousness of being always condemned to comedy up to that time—for even strife is a comedy, and conceals the end, as every means does—spoil all intercourse for him; this kind of man is acquainted with solitude, and what is most poisonous in it.
273. A man striving for great things sees everyone he meets as a way forward, an obstacle, or a temporary resting place. His distinctive, lofty GENEROSITY toward others becomes possible only when he reaches the heights and rules over others. Until then, impatience and the knowledge that he is always condemned to play a part spoil all his dealings with others. For even struggle is a performance, and like every means to an end, it hides the goal. This kind of man knows solitude and what is most poisonous in solitude.
274. THE PROBLEM OF THOSE WHO WAIT.—Happy chances are necessary, and many incalculable elements, in order that a higher man in whom the solution of a problem is dormant, may yet take action, or "break forth," as one might say—at the right moment. On an average it DOES NOT happen; and in all corners of the earth there are waiting ones sitting who hardly know to what extent they are waiting, and still less that they wait in vain. Occasionally, too, the waking call comes too late—the chance which gives "permission" to take action—when their best youth, and strength for action have been used up in sitting still; and how many a one, just as he "sprang up," has found with horror that his limbs are benumbed and his spirits are now too heavy! "It is too late," he has said to himself—and has become self-distrustful and henceforth for ever useless.—In the domain of genius, may not the "Raphael without hands" (taking the expression in its widest sense) perhaps not be the exception, but the rule?—Perhaps genius is by no means so rare: but rather the five hundred HANDS which it requires in order to tyrannize over the [GREEK INSERTED HERE], "the right time"—in order to take chance by the forelock!
274. THE PROBLEM OF THOSE WHO WAIT. A higher man may carry the solution to a problem dormant within him. For him to act at the right moment, or "break forth," as one might say, takes lucky chances and many unpredictable factors. Usually, this DOES NOT happen. In all corners of the earth, people sit waiting, hardly knowing how much they are waiting, still less that they wait in vain. Sometimes, too, the wake-up call comes too late: the chance that gives them "permission" to act. By then, sitting still has used up their best years and their strength for action. How many, just as they "sprang up," have discovered with horror that their limbs are numb and their spirits too heavy! "It is too late," they have told themselves. They have lost trust in themselves and become forever useless. In the realm of genius, might the "Raphael without hands" be the rule rather than the exception? Take that expression in its broadest sense. Perhaps genius is not so rare after all. What is rare, perhaps, is the five hundred HANDS genius needs to dominate the [GREEK INSERTED HERE], "the right time." Those hands are needed to seize chance by the forelock!
275. He who does not WISH to see the height of a man, looks all the more sharply at what is low in him, and in the foreground—and thereby betrays himself.
275. Anyone who does not WANT to see a man's greatness looks all the more closely at his low and surface-level qualities. In doing so, he reveals himself.
276. In all kinds of injury and loss the lower and coarser soul is better off than the nobler soul: the dangers of the latter must be greater, the probability that it will come to grief and perish is in fact immense, considering the multiplicity of the conditions of its existence.—In a lizard a finger grows again which has been lost; not so in man.—
276. In all kinds of injury and loss, the lower, coarser soul fares better than the nobler soul. The nobler soul must face greater dangers. In fact, the chances of its coming to grief and perishing are immense, given its many conditions for existence. A lizard regrows a lost finger. A human does not.
277. It is too bad! Always the old story! When a man has finished building his house, he finds that he has learnt unawares something which he OUGHT absolutely to have known before he—began to build. The eternal, fatal "Too late!" The melancholia of everything COMPLETED—!
277. What a shame! Always the same old story! When a man finishes building his house, he discovers he has learned something without realizing it. Something he absolutely OUGHT to have known before he started building. The eternal, fatal "Too late!" The sadness of everything COMPLETED!
278.—Wanderer, who art thou? I see thee follow thy path without scorn, without love, with unfathomable eyes, wet and sad as a plummet which has returned to the light insatiated out of every depth—what did it seek down there?—with a bosom that never sighs, with lips that conceal their loathing, with a hand which only slowly grasps: who art thou? what hast thou done? Rest thee here: this place has hospitality for every one—refresh thyself! And whoever thou art, what is it that now pleases thee? What will serve to refresh thee? Only name it, whatever I have I offer thee! "To refresh me? To refresh me? Oh, thou prying one, what sayest thou! But give me, I pray thee—-" What? what? Speak out! "Another mask! A second mask!"
278. Wanderer, who are you? I see you follow your path without scorn, without love. Your eyes are unfathomable, wet and sad, like a sounding weight returned to the light, unsatisfied after every depth. What did it seek down there? Your chest never heaves a sigh. Your lips hide their disgust. Your hand is slow to grasp. Who are you? What have you done? Rest here: everyone is welcome in this place. Refresh yourself! And whoever you are, what would please you now? What would refresh you? Just name it. Whatever I have, I offer you! "Refresh me? Refresh me? Oh, you prying soul, what are you saying! But please, give me..." What? What? Speak up! "Another mask! A second mask!"
279. Men of profound sadness betray themselves when they are happy: they have a mode of seizing upon happiness as though they would choke and strangle it, out of jealousy—ah, they know only too well that it will flee from them!
279. Deeply sad men give themselves away when they are happy. They grab at happiness as though they would choke and strangle it out of jealousy. Ah, they know only too well that happiness will flee from them!
280. "Bad! Bad! What? Does he not—go back?" Yes! But you misunderstand him when you complain about it. He goes back like every one who is about to make a great spring.
280. "Bad! Bad! What? Isn't he stepping back?" Yes! But you misunderstand him when you complain about his stepping back. He steps back like everyone who is about to make a great leap.
281.—"Will people believe it of me? But I insist that they believe it of me: I have always thought very unsatisfactorily of myself and about myself, only in very rare cases, only compulsorily, always without delight in 'the subject,' ready to digress from 'myself,' and always without faith in the result, owing to an unconquerable distrust of the POSSIBILITY of self-knowledge, which has led me so far as to feel a CONTRADICTIO IN ADJECTO even in the idea of 'direct knowledge' which theorists allow themselves:—this matter of fact is almost the most certain thing I know about myself. There must be a sort of repugnance in me to BELIEVE anything definite about myself.—Is there perhaps some enigma therein? Probably; but fortunately nothing for my own teeth.—Perhaps it betrays the species to which I belong?—but not to myself, as is sufficiently agreeable to me."
281. "Will people believe this about me? But I insist that they do: my thoughts about myself have always been deeply unsatisfactory. I have thought about myself only very rarely, only when forced to, and always without enjoying 'the subject.' I have always been ready to turn away from 'myself,' and have never trusted the result. This lack of trust comes from my unconquerable distrust of the POSSIBILITY of self-knowledge. My distrust goes so far that even the idea of 'direct knowledge,' which theorists permit themselves, strikes me as self-contradictory. This fact is almost the most certain thing I know about myself. There must be some resistance in me to BELIEVING anything definite about myself. Is there perhaps a riddle in that resistance? Probably, but fortunately not one for me to sink my teeth into. Perhaps my resistance reveals the kind of person I belong among? But not to me, which suits me well enough."
282.—"But what has happened to you?"—"I do not know," he said, hesitatingly; "perhaps the Harpies have flown over my table."—It sometimes happens nowadays that a gentle, sober, retiring man becomes suddenly mad, breaks the plates, upsets the table, shrieks, raves, and shocks everybody—and finally withdraws, ashamed, and raging at himself—whither? for what purpose? To famish apart? To suffocate with his memories?—To him who has the desires of a lofty and dainty soul, and only seldom finds his table laid and his food prepared, the danger will always be great—nowadays, however, it is extraordinarily so. Thrown into the midst of a noisy and plebeian age, with which he does not like to eat out of the same dish, he may readily perish of hunger and thirst—or, should he nevertheless finally "fall to," of sudden nausea.—We have probably all sat at tables to which we did not belong; and precisely the most spiritual of us, who are most difficult to nourish, know the dangerous DYSPEPSIA which originates from a sudden insight and disillusionment about our food and our messmates—the AFTER-DINNER NAUSEA.
282. "But what has happened to you?" "I do not know," he said hesitantly. "Perhaps the Harpies have flown over my table." Sometimes these days, a gentle, levelheaded, reserved man suddenly goes mad. He breaks the plates, overturns the table, screams, rants, and shocks everyone. Finally he retreats, ashamed and furious with himself. But where does he go? For what purpose? To starve in isolation? To suffocate under his memories? For someone with the desires of a noble and refined soul, the danger will always be great. Such a person rarely finds his table set and his food prepared. Today, however, the danger is extraordinarily great. He is thrown into a noisy, common age, whose company he does not care to share at the table. He may easily die of hunger and thirst. Or, if he finally does "dig in," he may die of sudden nausea. We have probably all sat at tables where we did not belong. And those of us with the most spiritual depth are the hardest to nourish. We know the dangerous INDIGESTION that comes from suddenly seeing our food and our table companions clearly and losing our illusions. We know the AFTER-DINNER NAUSEA.
283. If one wishes to praise at all, it is a delicate and at the same time a noble self-control, to praise only where one DOES NOT agree—otherwise in fact one would praise oneself, which is contrary to good taste:—a self-control, to be sure, which offers excellent opportunity and provocation to constant MISUNDERSTANDING. To be able to allow oneself this veritable luxury of taste and morality, one must not live among intellectual imbeciles, but rather among men whose misunderstandings and mistakes amuse by their refinement—or one will have to pay dearly for it!—"He praises me, THEREFORE he acknowledges me to be right"—this asinine method of inference spoils half of the life of us recluses, for it brings the asses into our neighbourhood and friendship.
283. If one wishes to praise at all, praising only where one DOES NOT agree shows delicate and noble self-control. Otherwise, one would actually be praising oneself, which is in bad taste. Such self-control, admittedly, offers plenty of opportunity and provocation for constant MISUNDERSTANDING. To afford this real luxury of taste and morality, one must not live among intellectual imbeciles. Instead, one must live among men whose misunderstandings and mistakes are amusing because they are so refined. Otherwise, one will pay dearly for this luxury! "He praises me, THEREFORE he admits I am right." This asinine way of reasoning spoils half the lives of us recluses, because it brings asses into our company and friendship.
284. To live in a vast and proud tranquility; always beyond... To have, or not to have, one's emotions, one's For and Against, according to choice; to lower oneself to them for hours; to SEAT oneself on them as upon horses, and often as upon asses:—for one must know how to make use of their stupidity as well as of their fire. To conserve one's three hundred foregrounds; also one's black spectacles: for there are circumstances when nobody must look into our eyes, still less into our "motives." And to choose for company that roguish and cheerful vice, politeness. And to remain master of one's four virtues, courage, insight, sympathy, and solitude. For solitude is a virtue with us, as a sublime bent and bias to purity, which divines that in the contact of man and man—"in society"—it must be unavoidably impure. All society makes one somehow, somewhere, or sometime—"commonplace."
284. To live in a vast and proud calm, always beyond... To choose whether or not to have one's emotions, one's support and opposition. To lower oneself to these feelings for hours. To SEAT oneself on them like horses, and often like donkeys. For one must know how to use their stupidity as well as their fire. To keep one's three hundred outward faces, and one's dark glasses too. For there are times when no one must look into our eyes, still less into our "motives." And to choose as a companion that mischievous and cheerful vice, politeness. And to remain master of one's four virtues: courage, insight, sympathy, and solitude. For solitude is a virtue for us. Solitude is a lofty inclination and bias toward purity, sensing that contact between people, "in society," must inevitably make it impure. All society makes one, somehow, somewhere, or sometime, "commonplace."
285. The greatest events and thoughts—the greatest thoughts, however, are the greatest events—are longest in being comprehended: the generations which are contemporary with them do not EXPERIENCE such events—they live past them. Something happens there as in the realm of stars. The light of the furthest stars is longest in reaching man; and before it has arrived man DENIES—that there are stars there. "How many centuries does a mind require to be understood?"—that is also a standard, one also makes a gradation of rank and an etiquette therewith, such as is necessary for mind and for star.
285. The greatest events and thoughts take the longest to understand. But the greatest thoughts are themselves the greatest events. The generations alive at the time do not EXPERIENCE these events. They live right past them. Something similar happens among the stars. Light from the most distant stars takes the longest to reach us. And before that light arrives, we DENY that those stars exist. "How many centuries does a mind need to be understood?" This question, too, provides a standard. We also use it to establish ranks and rules of respect, necessary for minds and stars alike.
286. "Here is the prospect free, the mind exalted." [FOOTNOTE: Goethe's "Faust," Part II, Act V. The words of Dr. Marianus.]—But there is a reverse kind of man, who is also upon a height, and has also a free prospect—but looks DOWNWARDS.
286. "Here the view is open, the mind uplifted." [FOOTNOTE: Goethe's "Faust," Part II, Act V. The words of Dr. Marianus.] But there is an opposite kind of man. He too stands on a height and has an open view, but he looks DOWNWARDS.
287. What is noble? What does the word "noble" still mean for us nowadays? How does the noble man betray himself, how is he recognized under this heavy overcast sky of the commencing plebeianism, by which everything is rendered opaque and leaden?—It is not his actions which establish his claim—actions are always ambiguous, always inscrutable; neither is it his "works." One finds nowadays among artists and scholars plenty of those who betray by their works that a profound longing for nobleness impels them; but this very NEED of nobleness is radically different from the needs of the noble soul itself, and is in fact the eloquent and dangerous sign of the lack thereof. It is not the works, but the BELIEF which is here decisive and determines the order of rank—to employ once more an old religious formula with a new and deeper meaning—it is some fundamental certainty which a noble soul has about itself, something which is not to be sought, is not to be found, and perhaps, also, is not to be lost.—THE NOBLE SOUL HAS REVERENCE FOR ITSELF.—
287. What is noble? What does the word "noble" still mean to us today? How does a noble man reveal himself? How can he be recognized beneath the heavy, overcast sky of the emerging rule of the common people? Under that sky, everything becomes murky and leaden. His actions do not establish his claim to nobility. Actions are always ambiguous, always impossible to fully understand. Nor do his "works" establish his claim. Today, many artists and scholars reveal through their works a deep longing for nobility. But this very NEED for nobility is fundamentally different from the needs of the noble soul itself. In fact, this need is a telling and dangerous sign that nobility is lacking. What matters here is not the works but the BELIEF, which determines rank. Once again, I am using an old religious formula with a new and deeper meaning. What matters is a fundamental certainty a noble soul has about itself. This certainty cannot be sought, cannot be found, and perhaps cannot be lost either. THE NOBLE SOUL HAS REVERENCE FOR ITSELF.
288. There are men who are unavoidably intellectual, let them turn and twist themselves as they will, and hold their hands before their treacherous eyes—as though the hand were not a betrayer; it always comes out at last that they have something which they hide—namely, intellect. One of the subtlest means of deceiving, at least as long as possible, and of successfully representing oneself to be stupider than one really is—which in everyday life is often as desirable as an umbrella,—is called ENTHUSIASM, including what belongs to it, for instance, virtue. For as Galiani said, who was obliged to know it: VERTU EST ENTHOUSIASME.
288. Some men cannot help being intellectual, however they twist and turn or cover their revealing eyes with their hands. As if their hands did not betray them too. In the end, their secret always comes out: they have intellect. One of the subtlest ways to deceive others, at least for as long as possible, is called ENTHUSIASM. It lets you successfully appear stupider than you really are, which in everyday life is often as desirable as an umbrella. ENTHUSIASM includes everything that goes with it, virtue, for instance. For as Galiani said, and he had reason to know: VIRTUE IS ENTHUSIASM.
289. In the writings of a recluse one always hears something of the echo of the wilderness, something of the murmuring tones and timid vigilance of solitude; in his strongest words, even in his cry itself, there sounds a new and more dangerous kind of silence, of concealment. He who has sat day and night, from year's end to year's end, alone with his soul in familiar discord and discourse, he who has become a cave-bear, or a treasure-seeker, or a treasure-guardian and dragon in his cave—it may be a labyrinth, but can also be a gold-mine—his ideas themselves eventually acquire a twilight-colour of their own, and an odour, as much of the depth as of the mould, something uncommunicative and repulsive, which blows chilly upon every passer-by. The recluse does not believe that a philosopher—supposing that a philosopher has always in the first place been a recluse—ever expressed his actual and ultimate opinions in books: are not books written precisely to hide what is in us?—indeed, he will doubt whether a philosopher CAN have "ultimate and actual" opinions at all; whether behind every cave in him there is not, and must necessarily be, a still deeper cave: an ampler, stranger, richer world beyond the surface, an abyss behind every bottom, beneath every "foundation." Every philosophy is a foreground philosophy—this is a recluse's verdict: "There is something arbitrary in the fact that the PHILOSOPHER came to a stand here, took a retrospect, and looked around; that he HERE laid his spade aside and did not dig any deeper—there is also something suspicious in it." Every philosophy also CONCEALS a philosophy; every opinion is also a LURKING-PLACE, every word is also a MASK.
289. In a recluse’s writings, you always hear something of the wilderness’s echo, something of solitude’s murmuring and timid watchfulness. Even his strongest words, even his cry, carry a new and more dangerous kind of silence and concealment. He has sat alone with his soul, day and night, year after year, in familiar conflict and conversation. He has become a cave-bear, or a treasure-seeker, or a treasure-guardian and dragon in his cave. His cave may be a labyrinth, but it can also be a gold-mine. Eventually, his ideas themselves take on their own twilight colour and a smell of both depth and mould. Something in those ideas is closed off and repellent, sending a chill over everyone who passes. The recluse does not believe that a philosopher has ever expressed his true and final views in books. This assumes that a philosopher has always been, first and foremost, a recluse. Aren’t books written precisely to hide what is inside us? Indeed, the recluse doubts whether a philosopher CAN have "final and true" views at all. He wonders whether behind every cave within the philosopher there is not, and necessarily must be, a still deeper cave. Beyond the surface lies a wider, stranger, richer world, an abyss behind every bottom, beneath every "foundation." Every philosophy is a philosophy of the foreground. This is the recluse’s verdict: "There is something arbitrary about the PHILOSOPHER stopping here, looking back, and looking around. He laid his spade aside HERE and dug no deeper. There is also something suspicious about that." Every philosophy also CONCEALS a philosophy. Every opinion is also a HIDING-PLACE, every word is also a MASK.
290. Every deep thinker is more afraid of being understood than of being misunderstood. The latter perhaps wounds his vanity; but the former wounds his heart, his sympathy, which always says: "Ah, why would you also have as hard a time of it as I have?"
290. Every deep thinker fears being understood more than being misunderstood. Being misunderstood perhaps hurts his pride. But being understood hurts his heart, his compassion, which always says: "Ah, why would you want to struggle as much as I have?"
291. Man, a COMPLEX, mendacious, artful, and inscrutable animal, uncanny to the other animals by his artifice and sagacity, rather than by his strength, has invented the good conscience in order finally to enjoy his soul as something SIMPLE; and the whole of morality is a long, audacious falsification, by virtue of which generally enjoyment at the sight of the soul becomes possible. From this point of view there is perhaps much more in the conception of "art" than is generally believed.
291. Man is a COMPLEX, deceitful, crafty, and mysterious animal. Other animals find him unnerving because of his cunning and intelligence, rather than his strength. He invented the good conscience so he could finally enjoy his soul as something SIMPLE. And all morality is a long, bold falsification that generally makes it possible to enjoy looking at the soul. From this perspective, there is perhaps much more to the idea of "art" than people generally believe.
292. A philosopher: that is a man who constantly experiences, sees, hears, suspects, hopes, and dreams extraordinary things; who is struck by his own thoughts as if they came from the outside, from above and below, as a species of events and lightning-flashes PECULIAR TO HIM; who is perhaps himself a storm pregnant with new lightnings; a portentous man, around whom there is always rumbling and mumbling and gaping and something uncanny going on. A philosopher: alas, a being who often runs away from himself, is often afraid of himself—but whose curiosity always makes him "come to himself" again.
292. A philosopher: a man who constantly experiences, sees, hears, suspects, hopes, and dreams extraordinary things. His own thoughts strike him as if they came from outside, from above and below. They are like events and lightning flashes UNIQUE TO HIM. Perhaps he is himself a storm brewing new lightning. He is a man who seems to foretell great things. Around him there is always rumbling, muttering, and astonished staring, and something uncanny is always happening. A philosopher: alas, a being who often runs away from himself and is often afraid of himself. But his curiosity always makes him "come to himself" again.
293. A man who says: "I like that, I take it for my own, and mean to guard and protect it from every one"; a man who can conduct a case, carry out a resolution, remain true to an opinion, keep hold of a woman, punish and overthrow insolence; a man who has his indignation and his sword, and to whom the weak, the suffering, the oppressed, and even the animals willingly submit and naturally belong; in short, a man who is a MASTER by nature—when such a man has sympathy, well! THAT sympathy has value! But of what account is the sympathy of those who suffer! Or of those even who preach sympathy! There is nowadays, throughout almost the whole of Europe, a sickly irritability and sensitiveness towards pain, and also a repulsive irrestrainableness in complaining, an effeminizing, which, with the aid of religion and philosophical nonsense, seeks to deck itself out as something superior—there is a regular cult of suffering. The UNMANLINESS of that which is called "sympathy" by such groups of visionaries, is always, I believe, the first thing that strikes the eye.—One must resolutely and radically taboo this latest form of bad taste; and finally I wish people to put the good amulet, "GAI SABER" ("gay science," in ordinary language), on heart and neck, as a protection against it.
293. A man says: "I like that. I claim it as my own and intend to guard and protect it from everyone." He can argue a case, carry out a decision, stand by an opinion, and hold on to a woman. He can punish and crush insolence. He has his anger and his sword. The weak, the suffering, the oppressed, and even animals willingly submit to him and naturally belong to him. In short, he is a MASTER by nature. When such a man feels sympathy, well! THAT sympathy has value! But what is the sympathy of those who suffer worth! Or even the sympathy of those who preach sympathy! Nowadays, almost all of Europe shows a sickly irritability and sensitivity to pain. There is also a repulsive inability to stop complaining, a growing effeminacy. With help from religion and philosophical nonsense, this effeminacy tries to dress itself up as something superior. There is a full-blown cult of suffering. I believe the UNMANLINESS of what such groups of visionaries call "sympathy" is always the first thing that strikes us. We must firmly and completely reject this latest form of bad taste. Finally, I wish people would wear the good protective charm, "GAI SABER" ("joyful knowledge," in ordinary language), over their hearts and around their necks, to protect themselves against it.
294. THE OLYMPIAN VICE.—Despite the philosopher who, as a genuine Englishman, tried to bring laughter into bad repute in all thinking minds—"Laughing is a bad infirmity of human nature, which every thinking mind will strive to overcome" (Hobbes),—I would even allow myself to rank philosophers according to the quality of their laughing—up to those who are capable of GOLDEN laughter. And supposing that Gods also philosophize, which I am strongly inclined to believe, owing to many reasons—I have no doubt that they also know how to laugh thereby in an overman-like and new fashion—and at the expense of all serious things! Gods are fond of ridicule: it seems that they cannot refrain from laughter even in holy matters.
294. THE OLYMPIAN VICE. One philosopher, a true Englishman, tried to discredit laughter among all thinking minds. “Laughter is a harmful weakness of human nature, which every thinking mind will try to overcome” (Hobbes). Despite him, I would even rank philosophers by the quality of their laughter, up to those capable of GOLDEN laughter. And suppose Gods also philosophize, as I am strongly inclined to believe for many reasons. Then I have no doubt that Gods also laugh while philosophizing, in a new, overman-like way. And at the expense of all serious things! Gods love ridicule: it seems they cannot keep from laughing even at holy matters.
295. The genius of the heart, as that great mysterious one possesses it, the tempter-god and born rat-catcher of consciences, whose voice can descend into the nether-world of every soul, who neither speaks a word nor casts a glance in which there may not be some motive or touch of allurement, to whose perfection it pertains that he knows how to appear,—not as he is, but in a guise which acts as an ADDITIONAL constraint on his followers to press ever closer to him, to follow him more cordially and thoroughly;—the genius of the heart, which imposes silence and attention on everything loud and self-conceited, which smoothes rough souls and makes them taste a new longing—to lie placid as a mirror, that the deep heavens may be reflected in them;—the genius of the heart, which teaches the clumsy and too hasty hand to hesitate, and to grasp more delicately; which scents the hidden and forgotten treasure, the drop of goodness and sweet spirituality under thick dark ice, and is a divining-rod for every grain of gold, long buried and imprisoned in mud and sand; the genius of the heart, from contact with which every one goes away richer; not favoured or surprised, not as though gratified and oppressed by the good things of others; but richer in himself, newer than before, broken up, blown upon, and sounded by a thawing wind; more uncertain, perhaps, more delicate, more fragile, more bruised, but full of hopes which as yet lack names, full of a new will and current, full of a new ill-will and counter-current... but what am I doing, my friends? Of whom am I talking to you? Have I forgotten myself so far that I have not even told you his name? Unless it be that you have already divined of your own accord who this questionable God and spirit is, that wishes to be PRAISED in such a manner? For, as it happens to every one who from childhood onward has always been on his legs, and in foreign lands, I have also encountered on my path many strange and dangerous spirits; above all, however, and again and again, the one of whom I have just spoken: in fact, no less a personage than the God DIONYSUS, the great equivocator and tempter, to whom, as you know, I once offered in all secrecy and reverence my first-fruits—the last, as it seems to me, who has offered a SACRIFICE to him, for I have found no one who could understand what I was then doing. In the meantime, however, I have learned much, far too much, about the philosophy of this God, and, as I said, from mouth to mouth—I, the last disciple and initiate of the God Dionysus: and perhaps I might at last begin to give you, my friends, as far as I am allowed, a little taste of this philosophy? In a hushed voice, as is but seemly: for it has to do with much that is secret, new, strange, wonderful, and uncanny. The very fact that Dionysus is a philosopher, and that therefore Gods also philosophize, seems to me a novelty which is not unensnaring, and might perhaps arouse suspicion precisely among philosophers;—among you, my friends, there is less to be said against it, except that it comes too late and not at the right time; for, as it has been disclosed to me, you are loth nowadays to believe in God and gods. It may happen, too, that in the frankness of my story I must go further than is agreeable to the strict usages of your ears? Certainly the God in question went further, very much further, in such dialogues, and was always many paces ahead of me... Indeed, if it were allowed, I should have to give him, according to human usage, fine ceremonious tides of lustre and merit, I should have to extol his courage as investigator and discoverer, his fearless honesty, truthfulness, and love of wisdom. But such a God does not know what to do with all that respectable trumpery and pomp. "Keep that," he would say, "for thyself and those like thee, and whoever else require it! I—have no reason to cover my nakedness!" One suspects that this kind of divinity and philosopher perhaps lacks shame?—He once said: "Under certain circumstances I love mankind"—and referred thereby to Ariadne, who was present; "in my opinion man is an agreeable, brave, inventive animal, that has not his equal upon earth, he makes his way even through all labyrinths. I like man, and often think how I can still further advance him, and make him stronger, more evil, and more profound."—"Stronger, more evil, and more profound?" I asked in horror. "Yes," he said again, "stronger, more evil, and more profound; also more beautiful"—and thereby the tempter-god smiled with his halcyon smile, as though he had just paid some charming compliment. One here sees at once that it is not only shame that this divinity lacks;—and in general there are good grounds for supposing that in some things the Gods could all of them come to us men for instruction. We men are—more human.—
295. The genius of the heart, such as that great mysterious figure possesses. He is the tempter-god and born rat-catcher of consciences. His voice can reach into the underworld of every soul. Every word he speaks, every glance he casts, may carry some purpose or hint of temptation. Part of his perfection is knowing how to appear, not as he is, but in another guise. That guise puts an ADDITIONAL pressure on his followers to draw ever closer to him. It makes them follow him more wholeheartedly and completely. The genius of the heart silences everything loud and self-important, making it listen. It smooths rough souls and gives them a new longing: to lie still as a mirror, reflecting the deep heavens. The genius of the heart teaches the clumsy, impatient hand to pause and grasp more gently. It senses hidden, forgotten treasure, the drop of goodness and sweet spirituality beneath thick, dark ice. It is a divining rod for every grain of gold long buried and trapped in mud and sand. Everyone who encounters the genius of the heart leaves richer. Not because they have received favors or surprises. Not as though someone else’s gifts had pleased them while weighing them down. Instead, they are richer in themselves, newer than before, broken open, breathed upon, and made to resonate by a thawing wind. Perhaps they are more uncertain, more sensitive, more fragile, more bruised. But they are full of hopes that have no names yet. They are full of a new will and current, a new ill will and countercurrent... But what am I doing, my friends? Who am I talking to you about? Have I forgotten myself so completely that I have not even told you his name? Unless you have already guessed for yourselves who this questionable God and spirit is, who wants such PRAISE? Like everyone who has been constantly on the move in foreign lands since childhood, I have encountered strange, dangerous spirits. Above all, though, I have repeatedly encountered the one I just described. He is none other than the God DIONYSUS, the great master of double meanings and temptation. As you know, I once offered him my first fruits in complete secrecy and reverence. I seem to be the last person to have offered him a SACRIFICE. For I have found no one who could understand what I was doing then. Since then, however, I have learned much, far too much, about this God’s philosophy. And, as I said, I learned it directly from his lips. I am the last disciple and initiate of the God Dionysus. Perhaps I might finally begin giving you, my friends, a little taste of his philosophy, as far as I am allowed? In a hushed voice, as is only fitting. For his philosophy concerns much that is secret, new, strange, wonderful, and uncanny. Dionysus is a philosopher, which means that Gods also practice philosophy. This very idea seems to me a novelty with a certain seductive power. Perhaps philosophers, above all, might find it suspicious. You, my friends, have less reason to object, except that the idea comes too late and at the wrong time. For, as I have been told, you are reluctant nowadays to believe in God and gods. Perhaps, too, the frankness of my account will take me beyond what your ears are accustomed to tolerating? Certainly, in such conversations, the God in question went further, much further. He was always many steps ahead of me... Indeed, if I were allowed, I would have to give him splendid, ceremonial titles honoring his distinction and worth. That is what we humans do. I would have to praise his courage as an investigator and discoverer. I would praise his fearless honesty, truthfulness, and love of wisdom. But such a God has no use for all that respectable finery and pomp. "Keep that," he would say, "for yourself and people like you, and whoever else needs it! I have no reason to cover my nakedness!" One suspects that this sort of divinity and philosopher perhaps lacks shame? He once said: "Under certain circumstances I love humanity." He was referring to Ariadne, who was present. "In my opinion, the human being is a pleasant, brave, inventive animal, with no equal on earth. Humans find their way even through every labyrinth. I like humanity. I often think about how I can advance humans further, making them stronger, more evil, and more profound." "Stronger, more evil, and more profound?" I asked in horror. "Yes," he repeated, "stronger, more evil, and more profound. Also more beautiful." And the tempter-god smiled his serenely cheerful smile, as though he had just paid some charming compliment. We see at once that shame is not the only thing this divinity lacks. And in general, there are good reasons to suppose that all the Gods could learn some things from us humans. We humans are more human.
296. Alas! what are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so variegated, young and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices, that you made me sneeze and laugh—and now? You have already doffed your novelty, and some of you, I fear, are ready to become truths, so immortal do they look, so pathetically honest, so tedious! And was it ever otherwise? What then do we write and paint, we mandarins with Chinese brush, we immortalisers of things which LEND themselves to writing, what are we alone capable of painting? Alas, only that which is just about to fade and begins to lose its odour! Alas, only exhausted and departing storms and belated yellow sentiments! Alas, only birds strayed and fatigued by flight, which now let themselves be captured with the hand—with OUR hand! We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, things only which are exhausted and mellow! And it is only for your AFTERNOON, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which alone I have colours, many colours, perhaps, many variegated softenings, and fifty yellows and browns and greens and reds;—but nobody will divine thereby how ye looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and marvels of my solitude, you, my old, beloved—EVIL thoughts!
296. Alas! What are you, after all, my written and painted thoughts! Not long ago you were so colorful, young, and malicious, so full of thorns and secret spices. You made me sneeze and laugh. And now? You have already lost your novelty. Some of you, I fear, are ready to become truths. You look so immortal, so pathetically honest, so tedious! And was it ever any different? What, then, do we write and paint, we mandarins with Chinese brushes? We immortalize things that LEND themselves to writing. What alone can we paint? Alas, only what is just about to fade and begins to lose its scent! Alas, only exhausted, dying storms and late, yellow feelings! Alas, only birds that have strayed and grown tired from flying. Now they let themselves be caught by hand, by OUR hand! We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer, only things that are exhausted and mellow! And you, my written and painted thoughts, I have colors only for your AFTERNOON. Many colors, perhaps, many varied, softened shades, and fifty yellows and browns and greens and reds. But those colors will tell nobody how you looked in your morning. You sudden sparks and wonders of my solitude, you, my old, beloved EVIL thoughts!