204. At the risk that moralizing may also reveal itself here as that which it has always been—namely, resolutely MONTRER SES PLAIES, according to Balzac—I would venture to protest against an improper and injurious alteration of rank, which quite unnoticed, and as if with the best conscience, threatens nowadays to establish itself in the relations of science and philosophy. I mean to say that one must have the right out of one's own EXPERIENCE—experience, as it seems to me, always implies unfortunate experience?—to treat of such an important question of rank, so as not to speak of colour like the blind, or AGAINST science like women and artists ("Ah! this dreadful science!" sigh their instinct and their shame, "it always FINDS THINGS OUT!"). The declaration of independence of the scientific man, his emancipation from philosophy, is one of the subtler after-effects of democratic organization and disorganization: the self-glorification and self-conceitedness of the learned man is now everywhere in full bloom, and in its best springtime—which does not mean to imply that in this case self-praise smells sweet. Here also the instinct of the populace cries, "Freedom from all masters!" and after science has, with the happiest results, resisted theology, whose "hand-maid" it had been too long, it now proposes in its wantonness and indiscretion to lay down laws for philosophy, and in its turn to play the "master"—what am I saying! to play the PHILOSOPHER on its own account. My memory—the memory of a scientific man, if you please!—teems with the naivetes of insolence which I have heard about philosophy and philosophers from young naturalists and old physicians (not to mention the most cultured and most conceited of all learned men, the philologists and schoolmasters, who are both the one and the other by profession). On one occasion it was the specialist and the Jack Horner who instinctively stood on the defensive against all synthetic tasks and capabilities; at another time it was the industrious worker who had got a scent of OTIUM and refined luxuriousness in the internal economy of the philosopher, and felt himself aggrieved and belittled thereby. On another occasion it was the colour-blindness of the utilitarian, who sees nothing in philosophy but a series of REFUTED systems, and an extravagant expenditure which "does nobody any good". At another time the fear of disguised mysticism and of the boundary-adjustment of knowledge became conspicuous, at another time the disregard of individual philosophers, which had involuntarily extended to disregard of philosophy generally. In fine, I found most frequently, behind the proud disdain of philosophy in young scholars, the evil after-effect of some particular philosopher, to whom on the whole obedience had been foresworn, without, however, the spell of his scornful estimates of other philosophers having been got rid of—the result being a general ill-will to all philosophy. (Such seems to me, for instance, the after-effect of Schopenhauer on the most modern Germany: by his unintelligent rage against Hegel, he has succeeded in severing the whole of the last generation of Germans from its connection with German culture, which culture, all things considered, has been an elevation and a divining refinement of the HISTORICAL SENSE, but precisely at this point Schopenhauer himself was poor, irreceptive, and un-German to the extent of ingeniousness.) On the whole, speaking generally, it may just have been the humanness, all-too-humanness of the modern philosophers themselves, in short, their contemptibleness, which has injured most radically the reverence for philosophy and opened the doors to the instinct of the populace. Let it but be acknowledged to what an extent our modern world diverges from the whole style of the world of Heraclitus, Plato, Empedocles, and whatever else all the royal and magnificent anchorites of the spirit were called, and with what justice an honest man of science MAY feel himself of a better family and origin, in view of such representatives of philosophy, who, owing to the fashion of the present day, are just as much aloft as they are down below—in Germany, for instance, the two lions of Berlin, the anarchist Eugen Duhring and the amalgamist Eduard von Hartmann. It is especially the sight of those hotch-potch philosophers, who call themselves "realists," or "positivists," which is calculated to implant a dangerous distrust in the soul of a young and ambitious scholar those philosophers, at the best, are themselves but scholars and specialists, that is very evident! All of them are persons who have been vanquished and BROUGHT BACK AGAIN under the dominion of science, who at one time or another claimed more from themselves, without having a right to the "more" and its responsibility—and who now, creditably, rancorously, and vindictively, represent in word and deed, DISBELIEF in the master-task and supremacy of philosophy After all, how could it be otherwise? Science flourishes nowadays and has the good conscience clearly visible on its countenance, while that to which the entire modern philosophy has gradually sunk, the remnant of philosophy of the present day, excites distrust and displeasure, if not scorn and pity Philosophy reduced to a "theory of knowledge," no more in fact than a diffident science of epochs and doctrine of forbearance a philosophy that never even gets beyond the threshold, and rigorously DENIES itself the right to enter—that is philosophy in its last throes, an end, an agony, something that awakens pity. How could such a philosophy—RULE!
204. I risk revealing moralizing here as what it has always been: a determined SHOWING OF ONE’S WOUNDS, as Balzac puts it. Even so, I venture to protest against an improper and harmful change in rank between science and philosophy. This change now threatens to establish itself almost unnoticed, as if with a perfectly clear conscience. Anyone addressing such an important question of rank must earn that right through personal EXPERIENCE. And doesn’t experience, it seems to me, always mean unfortunate experience? Otherwise, one speaks about color like a blind person, or AGAINST science like women and artists. ("Ah! this dreadful science!" their instinct and shame sigh, "it always FINDS THINGS OUT!") The scientist’s declaration of independence, his liberation from philosophy, is one of the subtler consequences of democratic organization and disorganization. Scholars’ self-glorification and conceit now flourish everywhere, enjoying the height of spring. This does not mean their self-praise smells sweet. Here, too, the instinct of the masses cries, "Freedom from all masters!" Science resisted theology with the happiest results, after serving too long as its "handmaid." Now, reckless and presumptuous, science proposes to dictate laws to philosophy and become the "master" in turn. What am I saying! Science proposes to play the PHILOSOPHER itself. My memory, the memory of a scientist, if you please, overflows with examples of naive insolence about philosophy and philosophers. I have heard them from young naturalists and old physicians. Not to mention philologists and schoolteachers, the most cultivated and conceited of all scholars, professionally committed to both qualities. Sometimes the specialist, the self-satisfied Jack Horner, instinctively resisted every task and ability involving a larger synthesis. Sometimes the industrious worker sensed LEISURE and refined luxury in the philosopher’s inner life, and felt offended and belittled. Sometimes the utilitarian’s color blindness was responsible. He sees philosophy as nothing but a series of REFUTED systems and extravagant spending that "does nobody any good". Sometimes there was an obvious fear of disguised mysticism and attempts to redefine the boundaries of knowledge. Sometimes contempt for individual philosophers had unintentionally spread into contempt for philosophy itself. Most often, however, I found something else behind young scholars’ proud disdain for philosophy: the harmful aftereffect of one particular philosopher. They had, on the whole, renounced obedience to him. Yet they remained under the spell of his contemptuous judgments of other philosophers. The result was hostility toward all philosophy. (Schopenhauer’s influence on contemporary Germany seems to me an example. His mindless rage against Hegel has cut the entire latest generation of Germans off from German culture. Taken as a whole, that culture has elevated the HISTORICAL SENSE and refined its powers of intuition. Yet precisely in this respect, Schopenhauer himself was deficient, unreceptive, and un-German to an ingenious degree.) On the whole, perhaps modern philosophers themselves have done the deepest damage to respect for philosophy. Their humanness, their all-too-humanness, in short, their contemptible character, may have opened the doors to the instinct of the masses. Just acknowledge how far our modern world departs from the whole style of Heraclitus, Plato, and Empedocles. The same goes for all those other regal and magnificent hermits of the spirit, whatever their names. And consider how justly an honest scientist MAY feel better bred and born when faced with today’s representatives of philosophy. Thanks to current fashion, these representatives stand as high in public esteem as they stand low in worth. In Germany, for instance, there are the two lions of Berlin: the anarchist Eugen Duhring and the amalgamist Eduard von Hartmann. Above all, those patchwork philosophers calling themselves "realists," or "positivists," can plant a dangerous distrust in young, ambitious scholars. At best, these philosophers are themselves only scholars and specialists. That much is very clear! All have been defeated and BROUGHT BACK AGAIN under science’s rule. At some point, they demanded more of themselves, without any right to that "more" or its responsibilities. Now, respectably, resentfully, and vindictively, they express DISBELIEF in philosophy’s supreme task and authority through their words and actions. After all, how could things be otherwise? Science flourishes today, its clear conscience plainly visible on its face. Meanwhile, all modern philosophy has gradually sunk into a remnant that inspires distrust and displeasure, if not scorn and pity. Philosophy has been reduced to a "theory of knowledge." In practice, it is merely a timid science of suspending judgment and a doctrine of restraint. Such philosophy never even gets beyond the threshold, and strictly DENIES itself the right to enter. This is philosophy in its death throes, an ending, an agony, something that arouses pity. How could such a philosophy RULE!
205. The dangers that beset the evolution of the philosopher are, in fact, so manifold nowadays, that one might doubt whether this fruit could still come to maturity. The extent and towering structure of the sciences have increased enormously, and therewith also the probability that the philosopher will grow tired even as a learner, or will attach himself somewhere and "specialize" so that he will no longer attain to his elevation, that is to say, to his superspection, his circumspection, and his DESPECTION. Or he gets aloft too late, when the best of his maturity and strength is past, or when he is impaired, coarsened, and deteriorated, so that his view, his general estimate of things, is no longer of much importance. It is perhaps just the refinement of his intellectual conscience that makes him hesitate and linger on the way, he dreads the temptation to become a dilettante, a millepede, a milleantenna, he knows too well that as a discerner, one who has lost his self-respect no longer commands, no longer LEADS, unless he should aspire to become a great play-actor, a philosophical Cagliostro and spiritual rat-catcher—in short, a misleader. This is in the last instance a question of taste, if it has not really been a question of conscience. To double once more the philosopher's difficulties, there is also the fact that he demands from himself a verdict, a Yea or Nay, not concerning science, but concerning life and the worth of life—he learns unwillingly to believe that it is his right and even his duty to obtain this verdict, and he has to seek his way to the right and the belief only through the most extensive (perhaps disturbing and destroying) experiences, often hesitating, doubting, and dumbfounded. In fact, the philosopher has long been mistaken and confused by the multitude, either with the scientific man and ideal scholar, or with the religiously elevated, desensualized, desecularized visionary and God-intoxicated man; and even yet when one hears anybody praised, because he lives "wisely," or "as a philosopher," it hardly means anything more than "prudently and apart." Wisdom: that seems to the populace to be a kind of flight, a means and artifice for withdrawing successfully from a bad game; but the GENUINE philosopher—does it not seem so to US, my friends?—lives "unphilosophically" and "unwisely," above all, IMPRUDENTLY, and feels the obligation and burden of a hundred attempts and temptations of life—he risks HIMSELF constantly, he plays THIS bad game.
205. The dangers facing a philosopher’s development are now so numerous that one might doubt whether this fruit can still ripen. The sciences have grown enormously in scope and complexity. So the philosopher is also far more likely to grow tired while still a learner. Or he may settle somewhere and "specialize" so that he never reaches the heights he needs. From those heights, he could look over things, around them, and DOWN upon them. Or he reaches those heights too late, after the best of his maturity and strength has passed. Or he arrives weakened, coarsened, and worn down, so that his outlook and overall judgment no longer matter much. Perhaps the very sensitivity of his intellectual conscience makes him hesitate and linger along the way. He fears the temptation to become a dilettante, a millepede, a milleantenna. He knows too well that someone who judges things loses the power to command once he loses self-respect. He no longer LEADS, unless he aspires to become a great actor, a philosophical Cagliostro and spiritual rat-catcher. In short, someone who misleads. Ultimately, this is a question of taste, if it has not really been a question of conscience. To double the philosopher’s difficulties once again, he also demands a verdict from himself, a Yes or No. His verdict concerns not science, but life and the value of life. He comes reluctantly to believe that reaching this verdict is his right and even his duty. He must find his way to that right and that belief through the widest range of experiences. These experiences may unsettle and destroy him. Along the way, he often hesitates, doubts, and stands bewildered. In fact, ordinary people have long misunderstood the philosopher and confused him with other figures. They mistake him either for the scientist and ideal scholar, or for the spiritually exalted, God-intoxicated visionary. Such a visionary has left sensual pleasures and worldly concerns behind. Even now, when someone is praised for living "wisely," or "as a philosopher," the praise hardly means more than "prudently and apart." To ordinary people, wisdom seems to be a kind of escape. It is a means and a trick for successfully withdrawing from a bad game. But the GENUINE philosopher, does he not seem this way to US, my friends? He lives "unphilosophically" and "unwisely," and above all, IMPRUDENTLY. He feels the duty and burden of a hundred experiments with life and a hundred temptations. He constantly risks HIMSELF. He plays THIS bad game.
206. In relation to the genius, that is to say, a being who either ENGENDERS or PRODUCES—both words understood in their fullest sense—the man of learning, the scientific average man, has always something of the old maid about him; for, like her, he is not conversant with the two principal functions of man. To both, of course, to the scholar and to the old maid, one concedes respectability, as if by way of indemnification—in these cases one emphasizes the respectability—and yet, in the compulsion of this concession, one has the same admixture of vexation. Let us examine more closely: what is the scientific man? Firstly, a commonplace type of man, with commonplace virtues: that is to say, a non-ruling, non-authoritative, and non-self-sufficient type of man; he possesses industry, patient adaptableness to rank and file, equability and moderation in capacity and requirement; he has the instinct for people like himself, and for that which they require—for instance: the portion of independence and green meadow without which there is no rest from labour, the claim to honour and consideration (which first and foremost presupposes recognition and recognisability), the sunshine of a good name, the perpetual ratification of his value and usefulness, with which the inward DISTRUST which lies at the bottom of the heart of all dependent men and gregarious animals, has again and again to be overcome. The learned man, as is appropriate, has also maladies and faults of an ignoble kind: he is full of petty envy, and has a lynx-eye for the weak points in those natures to whose elevations he cannot attain. He is confiding, yet only as one who lets himself go, but does not FLOW; and precisely before the man of the great current he stands all the colder and more reserved—his eye is then like a smooth and irresponsive lake, which is no longer moved by rapture or sympathy. The worst and most dangerous thing of which a scholar is capable results from the instinct of mediocrity of his type, from the Jesuitism of mediocrity, which labours instinctively for the destruction of the exceptional man, and endeavours to break—or still better, to relax—every bent bow To relax, of course, with consideration, and naturally with an indulgent hand—to RELAX with confiding sympathy that is the real art of Jesuitism, which has always understood how to introduce itself as the religion of sympathy.
206. Compared with a genius, the scholar, the average scientific man, always has something of the old maid about him. A genius is a being who either ENGENDERS or PRODUCES, both words taken in their fullest sense. Like the old maid, the scholar is unfamiliar with humanity’s two principal functions. Of course, both the scholar and the old maid are granted respectability, as if in compensation. In these cases, respectability gets special emphasis. Yet being compelled to grant such respectability brings the same tinge of irritation. Let us look more closely: what is the scientific man? First, he is an ordinary type of man, with ordinary virtues. He neither rules nor commands, nor is he self-sufficient. He is hardworking and patiently adapts to his place in the ranks. He is even-tempered and moderate in his abilities and demands. He has an instinct for people like himself and for their needs. These include a measure of independence and a green meadow, without which there is no rest from work. They include a claim to honor and consideration, which above all requires being recognized and recognizable. He needs the sunshine of a good name and constant confirmation of his value and usefulness. Such confirmation must repeatedly overcome the inner DISTRUST deep in the hearts of all dependent men and herd animals. As befits him, the scholar also has ailments and faults of a low kind. He is full of petty envy. He has a lynx’s sharp eye for weaknesses in people whose heights he cannot reach. He is trusting, but only like someone who lets himself go without beginning to FLOW. Yet before a man who flows like a powerful current, the scholar becomes all the colder and more reserved. His eye then resembles a smooth, unresponsive lake, no longer stirred by rapture or fellow feeling. The worst and most dangerous thing a scholar can do arises from his type’s instinct for mediocrity. It arises from the Jesuitism of mediocrity, which instinctively works to destroy the exceptional man. This Jesuitism tries to break every drawn bow, or, better still, to slacken it. To slacken it considerately, of course, and naturally with a gentle hand. To RELAX it with trusting sympathy: that is the true art of Jesuitism. Jesuitism has always known how to present itself as the religion of sympathy.
207. However gratefully one may welcome the OBJECTIVE spirit—and who has not been sick to death of all subjectivity and its confounded IPSISIMOSITY!—in the end, however, one must learn caution even with regard to one's gratitude, and put a stop to the exaggeration with which the unselfing and depersonalizing of the spirit has recently been celebrated, as if it were the goal in itself, as if it were salvation and glorification—as is especially accustomed to happen in the pessimist school, which has also in its turn good reasons for paying the highest honours to "disinterested knowledge" The objective man, who no longer curses and scolds like the pessimist, the IDEAL man of learning in whom the scientific instinct blossoms forth fully after a thousand complete and partial failures, is assuredly one of the most costly instruments that exist, but his place is in the hand of one who is more powerful He is only an instrument, we may say, he is a MIRROR—he is no "purpose in himself" The objective man is in truth a mirror accustomed to prostration before everything that wants to be known, with such desires only as knowing or "reflecting" implies—he waits until something comes, and then expands himself sensitively, so that even the light footsteps and gliding-past of spiritual beings may not be lost on his surface and film Whatever "personality" he still possesses seems to him accidental, arbitrary, or still oftener, disturbing, so much has he come to regard himself as the passage and reflection of outside forms and events He calls up the recollection of "himself" with an effort, and not infrequently wrongly, he readily confounds himself with other persons, he makes mistakes with regard to his own needs, and here only is he unrefined and negligent Perhaps he is troubled about the health, or the pettiness and confined atmosphere of wife and friend, or the lack of companions and society—indeed, he sets himself to reflect on his suffering, but in vain! His thoughts already rove away to the MORE GENERAL case, and tomorrow he knows as little as he knew yesterday how to help himself He does not now take himself seriously and devote time to himself he is serene, NOT from lack of trouble, but from lack of capacity for grasping and dealing with HIS trouble The habitual complaisance with respect to all objects and experiences, the radiant and impartial hospitality with which he receives everything that comes his way, his habit of inconsiderate good-nature, of dangerous indifference as to Yea and Nay: alas! there are enough of cases in which he has to atone for these virtues of his!—and as man generally, he becomes far too easily the CAPUT MORTUUM of such virtues. Should one wish love or hatred from him—I mean love and hatred as God, woman, and animal understand them—he will do what he can, and furnish what he can. But one must not be surprised if it should not be much—if he should show himself just at this point to be false, fragile, questionable, and deteriorated. His love is constrained, his hatred is artificial, and rather UN TOUR DE FORCE, a slight ostentation and exaggeration. He is only genuine so far as he can be objective; only in his serene totality is he still "nature" and "natural." His mirroring and eternally self-polishing soul no longer knows how to affirm, no longer how to deny; he does not command; neither does he destroy. "JE NE MEPRISE PRESQUE RIEN"—he says, with Leibniz: let us not overlook nor undervalue the PRESQUE! Neither is he a model man; he does not go in advance of any one, nor after, either; he places himself generally too far off to have any reason for espousing the cause of either good or evil. If he has been so long confounded with the PHILOSOPHER, with the Caesarian trainer and dictator of civilization, he has had far too much honour, and what is more essential in him has been overlooked—he is an instrument, something of a slave, though certainly the sublimest sort of slave, but nothing in himself—PRESQUE RIEN! The objective man is an instrument, a costly, easily injured, easily tarnished measuring instrument and mirroring apparatus, which is to be taken care of and respected; but he is no goal, not outgoing nor upgoing, no complementary man in whom the REST of existence justifies itself, no termination—and still less a commencement, an engendering, or primary cause, nothing hardy, powerful, self-centred, that wants to be master; but rather only a soft, inflated, delicate, movable potter's-form, that must wait for some kind of content and frame to "shape" itself thereto—for the most part a man without frame and content, a "selfless" man. Consequently, also, nothing for women, IN PARENTHESI.
207. We may gratefully welcome the OBJECTIVE spirit. And who has not been sick to death of subjectivity and its damned obsession with the self! Yet in the end, we must learn to be cautious even about our gratitude. We must stop exaggerating the value of stripping the mind of self and personality. Recently, people have celebrated this as if it were a goal in itself, as if it meant salvation and glory. This is especially common in the pessimist school. That school, in turn, has good reasons for paying the highest honors to "disinterested knowledge." The objective man no longer curses and scolds like the pessimist. He is the IDEAL scholar. In him, the scientific instinct fully flowers after a thousand complete and partial failures. He is certainly one of the most precious instruments in existence. But his place is in the hands of someone more powerful. He is only an instrument, we might say. He is a MIRROR, not a "purpose in himself." The objective man is truly a mirror, accustomed to bowing before everything that seeks to be known. His only desires are those involved in knowing or "reflecting." He waits for something to come, then opens himself with delicate sensitivity. Even the light footsteps and passing movements of spiritual beings must leave their traces on his reflective surface. Whatever "personality" he still possesses seems accidental, arbitrary, or, more often, a disturbance. He has grown so used to seeing himself as a channel and reflection of outside forms and events. He struggles to remember "himself," and often remembers incorrectly. He readily confuses himself with other people and misunderstands his own needs. Only in attending to himself is he careless and lacking in refinement. Perhaps he worries about his health, or the pettiness and stifling atmosphere of his wife and friend. Perhaps he lacks companions and society. He does indeed try to reflect on his suffering, but in vain! His thoughts have already wandered to the MORE GENERAL case. Tomorrow he knows as little as yesterday about how to help himself. He no longer takes himself seriously or gives himself time. He is serene, NOT because he has no troubles, but because he cannot grasp and handle HIS troubles. He habitually accommodates every object and experience. He welcomes everything that comes his way with radiant, impartial hospitality. He is thoughtlessly good-natured and dangerously indifferent to Yes and No. Alas, there are plenty of cases in which he must pay for these virtues! And as a human being overall, he all too easily becomes their CAPUT MORTUUM, their lifeless residue. Suppose someone wants love or hatred from him. I mean love and hatred as God, woman, and animal understand them. He will do what he can and offer what he can. But no one should be surprised if he offers little. Precisely here, he may prove false, fragile, questionable, and diminished. His love is forced. His hatred is artificial, more a feat of effort, a little showing off and exaggeration. He is genuine only insofar as he can be objective. Only in his serene wholeness is he still "nature" and "natural." His soul, always reflecting and polishing itself, no longer knows how to affirm or deny. He does not command, nor does he destroy. "I despise almost nothing," he says with Leibniz. Let us neither overlook nor underestimate the ALMOST! Nor is he a model human being. He leads no one and follows no one either. He generally stands too far away to have any reason to take the side of good or evil. For so long, people have confused him with the PHILOSOPHER, the Caesar-like shaper and dictator of civilization. In doing so, they have honored him far too much. More importantly, they have overlooked what is essential in him. He is an instrument, something of a slave, though certainly the most sublime kind of slave. But in himself he is nothing, ALMOST NOTHING! The objective man is an instrument, a precious measuring instrument and mirror, easily damaged and tarnished. He must be cared for and respected. But he is no goal, neither a movement outward nor a rise upward. He is no completing human being through whom the REST of existence gains its justification. He is no conclusion, still less a beginning, a source of new life, or a first cause. He is nothing tough, powerful, or centered in himself that seeks mastery. Rather, he is only a soft, swollen, delicate, pliable form of clay awaiting some content and structure. Only then can he "shape" himself to fit them. For the most part, he is a man without structure or content, a "selfless" man. Consequently, he is also no man for women, IN PASSING.
208. When a philosopher nowadays makes known that he is not a skeptic—I hope that has been gathered from the foregoing description of the objective spirit?—people all hear it impatiently; they regard him on that account with some apprehension, they would like to ask so many, many questions... indeed among timid hearers, of whom there are now so many, he is henceforth said to be dangerous. With his repudiation of skepticism, it seems to them as if they heard some evil-threatening sound in the distance, as if a new kind of explosive were being tried somewhere, a dynamite of the spirit, perhaps a newly discovered Russian NIHILINE, a pessimism BONAE VOLUNTATIS, that not only denies, means denial, but—dreadful thought! PRACTISES denial. Against this kind of "good-will"—a will to the veritable, actual negation of life—there is, as is generally acknowledged nowadays, no better soporific and sedative than skepticism, the mild, pleasing, lulling poppy of skepticism; and Hamlet himself is now prescribed by the doctors of the day as an antidote to the "spirit," and its underground noises. "Are not our ears already full of bad sounds?" say the skeptics, as lovers of repose, and almost as a kind of safety police; "this subterranean Nay is terrible! Be still, ye pessimistic moles!" The skeptic, in effect, that delicate creature, is far too easily frightened; his conscience is schooled so as to start at every Nay, and even at that sharp, decided Yea, and feels something like a bite thereby. Yea! and Nay!—they seem to him opposed to morality; he loves, on the contrary, to make a festival to his virtue by a noble aloofness, while perhaps he says with Montaigne: "What do I know?" Or with Socrates: "I know that I know nothing." Or: "Here I do not trust myself, no door is open to me." Or: "Even if the door were open, why should I enter immediately?" Or: "What is the use of any hasty hypotheses? It might quite well be in good taste to make no hypotheses at all. Are you absolutely obliged to straighten at once what is crooked? to stuff every hole with some kind of oakum? Is there not time enough for that? Has not the time leisure? Oh, ye demons, can ye not at all WAIT? The uncertain also has its charms, the Sphinx, too, is a Circe, and Circe, too, was a philosopher."—Thus does a skeptic console himself; and in truth he needs some consolation. For skepticism is the most spiritual expression of a certain many-sided physiological temperament, which in ordinary language is called nervous debility and sickliness; it arises whenever races or classes which have been long separated, decisively and suddenly blend with one another. In the new generation, which has inherited as it were different standards and valuations in its blood, everything is disquiet, derangement, doubt, and tentativeness; the best powers operate restrictively, the very virtues prevent each other growing and becoming strong, equilibrium, ballast, and perpendicular stability are lacking in body and soul. That, however, which is most diseased and degenerated in such nondescripts is the WILL; they are no longer familiar with independence of decision, or the courageous feeling of pleasure in willing—they are doubtful of the "freedom of the will" even in their dreams Our present-day Europe, the scene of a senseless, precipitate attempt at a radical blending of classes, and CONSEQUENTLY of races, is therefore skeptical in all its heights and depths, sometimes exhibiting the mobile skepticism which springs impatiently and wantonly from branch to branch, sometimes with gloomy aspect, like a cloud over-charged with interrogative signs—and often sick unto death of its will! Paralysis of will, where do we not find this cripple sitting nowadays! And yet how bedecked oftentimes' How seductively ornamented! There are the finest gala dresses and disguises for this disease, and that, for instance, most of what places itself nowadays in the show-cases as "objectiveness," "the scientific spirit," "L'ART POUR L'ART," and "pure voluntary knowledge," is only decked-out skepticism and paralysis of will—I am ready to answer for this diagnosis of the European disease—The disease of the will is diffused unequally over Europe, it is worst and most varied where civilization has longest prevailed, it decreases according as "the barbarian" still—or again—asserts his claims under the loose drapery of Western culture It is therefore in the France of today, as can be readily disclosed and comprehended, that the will is most infirm, and France, which has always had a masterly aptitude for converting even the portentous crises of its spirit into something charming and seductive, now manifests emphatically its intellectual ascendancy over Europe, by being the school and exhibition of all the charms of skepticism The power to will and to persist, moreover, in a resolution, is already somewhat stronger in Germany, and again in the North of Germany it is stronger than in Central Germany, it is considerably stronger in England, Spain, and Corsica, associated with phlegm in the former and with hard skulls in the latter—not to mention Italy, which is too young yet to know what it wants, and must first show whether it can exercise will, but it is strongest and most surprising of all in that immense middle empire where Europe as it were flows back to Asia—namely, in Russia There the power to will has been long stored up and accumulated, there the will—uncertain whether to be negative or affirmative—waits threateningly to be discharged (to borrow their pet phrase from our physicists) Perhaps not only Indian wars and complications in Asia would be necessary to free Europe from its greatest danger, but also internal subversion, the shattering of the empire into small states, and above all the introduction of parliamentary imbecility, together with the obligation of every one to read his newspaper at breakfast I do not say this as one who desires it, in my heart I should rather prefer the contrary—I mean such an increase in the threatening attitude of Russia, that Europe would have to make up its mind to become equally threatening—namely, TO ACQUIRE ONE WILL, by means of a new caste to rule over the Continent, a persistent, dreadful will of its own, that can set its aims thousands of years ahead; so that the long spun-out comedy of its petty-statism, and its dynastic as well as its democratic many-willed-ness, might finally be brought to a close. The time for petty politics is past; the next century will bring the struggle for the dominion of the world—the COMPULSION to great politics.
208. When a philosopher today announces that he is not a skeptic, everyone listens impatiently. I hope my earlier description of the objective spirit made my own position clear. People regard such a philosopher with some apprehension. They would like to ask so many, many questions... Indeed, timid listeners, of whom there are now so many, henceforth call him dangerous. His rejection of skepticism sounds to them like some distant threat. They feel as if a new explosive were being tested somewhere, a dynamite of the spirit. Perhaps it is a newly discovered Russian NIHILINE, a pessimism BONAE VOLUNTATIS, a pessimism of good will. Such pessimism not only denies and intends denial but, dreadful thought, PRACTICES denial. Against this kind of "good will," a will toward the real, actual negation of life, skepticism is the best sedative. So people generally agree nowadays. Skepticism is a mild, pleasant, sleep-inducing poppy. Today's doctors even prescribe Hamlet as an antidote to the "spirit" and its underground rumblings. "Aren't our ears already full of bad sounds?" ask the skeptics. They love peace and quiet, and almost serve as a kind of safety police. "This underground No is terrible! Be quiet, you pessimistic moles!" The skeptic is, in fact, a delicate creature, far too easily frightened. His conscience has been trained to recoil from every No, and even from a sharp, decisive Yes. Either feels something like a bite. Yes! And No! To him, both seem opposed to morality. Instead, he loves to celebrate his own virtue through a noble detachment. Perhaps he says with Montaigne: "What do I know?" Or with Socrates: "I know that I know nothing." Or: "Here I don't trust myself. No door is open to me." Or: "Even if the door were open, why should I go straight in?" Or: "What's the use of hasty hypotheses? Perhaps making no hypotheses at all would show perfectly good taste. Must you straighten everything crooked at once? Must you plug every hole with some kind of oakum? Isn't there enough time for that? Doesn't time itself have time to spare? Oh, you demons, can't you WAIT at all? Uncertainty has its charms too. The Sphinx, too, is a Circe, and Circe, too, was a philosopher." This is how a skeptic consoles himself, and he truly needs some consolation. For skepticism is the most intellectual expression of a certain complex physical condition. In ordinary language, that condition is called nervous weakness and sickliness. Skepticism arises whenever races or classes, long separated, suddenly and decisively mix. The new generation has inherited different standards and values, as though carrying them in its blood. In that generation, everything is unrest, disorder, doubt, and hesitation. Its strongest powers hold one another back. Its very virtues prevent one another from growing strong. Body and soul lack balance, ballast, and the stability to stand upright. But the WILL is the most diseased and degenerate part of these people of indeterminate character. They no longer know independent decision or the courageous pleasure of willing. Even in their dreams, they doubt the "freedom of the will." Present-day Europe is attempting a senseless, headlong, radical mixing of classes, and CONSEQUENTLY of races. Europe is therefore skeptical from top to bottom. Sometimes its skepticism leaps restlessly and recklessly from branch to branch. Sometimes skepticism looks gloomy, like a cloud overloaded with question marks. And often Europe is sick to death from its ailing will! Paralysis of the will, where do we not find this cripple sitting today! Yet how often the cripple is dressed up! How seductively adorned! This disease has the finest festive clothes and disguises. Most of what is displayed today as "objectivity," "the scientific spirit," "L'ART POUR L'ART," and "pure voluntary knowledge" belongs here. Most of it is merely skepticism and paralysis of the will dressed up. I am ready to stand behind this diagnosis of Europe's disease. The disease of the will is spread unevenly across Europe. It is worst and most varied where civilization has existed longest. It diminishes wherever "the barbarian" still asserts, or again asserts, his claims beneath the loose clothing of Western culture. So the will is weakest in today's France, as can readily be shown and understood. France has always excelled at turning even its alarming spiritual crises into something charming and seductive. Now France emphatically displays its intellectual dominance over Europe by teaching and exhibiting all the charms of skepticism. The power to will, and to stick to a decision, is already somewhat stronger in Germany. Within Germany, that power is stronger in the north than in the center. It is considerably stronger in England, Spain, and Corsica. In England, that strength comes with an unexcitable temperament. In Spain and Corsica, it comes with thick skulls. Not to mention Italy, still too young to know what it wants. Italy must first show whether it can exercise its will. But this power is strongest and most surprising in that immense empire between Europe and Asia, namely Russia. There Europe seems to flow back into Asia. In Russia, the power to will has long been stored up and accumulated. There the will waits threateningly to be discharged, to borrow our physicists' favorite expression. That will remains uncertain whether to deny or affirm. Perhaps wars in India and complications in Asia would not be enough to free Europe from its greatest danger. Perhaps internal upheaval would also be needed, along with the empire's breakup into small states. Above all, perhaps parliamentary idiocy would need to be introduced, along with everyone's obligation to read a newspaper at breakfast. I do not say this because I want it. In my heart, I would rather have the opposite. I mean a Russia so increasingly threatening that Europe would have to decide to become equally threatening. Europe would have TO ACQUIRE ONE WILL through a new caste ruling the Continent. It would need a persistent, terrible will of its own, capable of setting goals thousands of years ahead. Then Europe's drawn-out comedy of petty states might finally end, along with its competing wills, dynastic as well as democratic. The time for petty politics is over. The next century will bring the struggle for world domination, the COMPULSION to great politics.
209. As to how far the new warlike age on which we Europeans have evidently entered may perhaps favour the growth of another and stronger kind of skepticism, I should like to express myself preliminarily merely by a parable, which the lovers of German history will already understand. That unscrupulous enthusiast for big, handsome grenadiers (who, as King of Prussia, brought into being a military and skeptical genius—and therewith, in reality, the new and now triumphantly emerged type of German), the problematic, crazy father of Frederick the Great, had on one point the very knack and lucky grasp of the genius: he knew what was then lacking in Germany, the want of which was a hundred times more alarming and serious than any lack of culture and social form—his ill-will to the young Frederick resulted from the anxiety of a profound instinct. MEN WERE LACKING; and he suspected, to his bitterest regret, that his own son was not man enough. There, however, he deceived himself; but who would not have deceived himself in his place? He saw his son lapsed to atheism, to the ESPRIT, to the pleasant frivolity of clever Frenchmen—he saw in the background the great bloodsucker, the spider skepticism; he suspected the incurable wretchedness of a heart no longer hard enough either for evil or good, and of a broken will that no longer commands, is no longer ABLE to command. Meanwhile, however, there grew up in his son that new kind of harder and more dangerous skepticism—who knows TO WHAT EXTENT it was encouraged just by his father's hatred and the icy melancholy of a will condemned to solitude?—the skepticism of daring manliness, which is closely related to the genius for war and conquest, and made its first entrance into Germany in the person of the great Frederick. This skepticism despises and nevertheless grasps; it undermines and takes possession; it does not believe, but it does not thereby lose itself; it gives the spirit a dangerous liberty, but it keeps strict guard over the heart. It is the GERMAN form of skepticism, which, as a continued Fredericianism, risen to the highest spirituality, has kept Europe for a considerable time under the dominion of the German spirit and its critical and historical distrust Owing to the insuperably strong and tough masculine character of the great German philologists and historical critics (who, rightly estimated, were also all of them artists of destruction and dissolution), a NEW conception of the German spirit gradually established itself—in spite of all Romanticism in music and philosophy—in which the leaning towards masculine skepticism was decidedly prominent whether, for instance, as fearlessness of gaze, as courage and sternness of the dissecting hand, or as resolute will to dangerous voyages of discovery, to spiritualized North Pole expeditions under barren and dangerous skies. There may be good grounds for it when warm-blooded and superficial humanitarians cross themselves before this spirit, CET ESPRIT FATALISTE, IRONIQUE, MEPHISTOPHELIQUE, as Michelet calls it, not without a shudder. But if one would realize how characteristic is this fear of the "man" in the German spirit which awakened Europe out of its "dogmatic slumber," let us call to mind the former conception which had to be overcome by this new one—and that it is not so very long ago that a masculinized woman could dare, with unbridled presumption, to recommend the Germans to the interest of Europe as gentle, good-hearted, weak-willed, and poetical fools. Finally, let us only understand profoundly enough Napoleon's astonishment when he saw Goethe it reveals what had been regarded for centuries as the "German spirit" "VOILA UN HOMME!"—that was as much as to say "But this is a MAN! And I only expected to see a German!"
209. We Europeans have clearly entered a new, warlike age. How far might this age encourage another, stronger kind of skepticism? For now, I would like to answer only through a parable. Lovers of German history will already understand it. Consider the unscrupulous enthusiast for big, handsome grenadiers, the troubled, crazy father of Frederick the Great. As King of Prussia, he brought a military and skeptical genius into being. In doing so, he actually created the new type of German that has now emerged triumphant. On one point, this father had a genius’s instinct and lucky touch. He knew what Germany then lacked. This shortage was a hundred times more alarming and serious than any lack of culture or social polish. His hostility toward the young Frederick arose from the anxiety of a deep instinct. MEN WERE LACKING. And he suspected, to his bitterest regret, that his own son was not man enough. On that point, however, he was mistaken. But who in his position would not have been mistaken? He saw his son falling into atheism, into ESPRIT, into the charming frivolity of clever Frenchmen. In the background, he saw the great bloodsucker, the spider of skepticism. He suspected the incurable misery of a heart no longer hard enough for either evil or good. He suspected a broken will that no longer commanded and was no longer ABLE to command. Meanwhile, however, a new, harder, more dangerous kind of skepticism was growing in his son. Who knows TO WHAT EXTENT his father’s hatred encouraged this skepticism? Who knows how much it owed to the icy melancholy of a will condemned to solitude? This was the skepticism of daring manliness, closely related to the genius for war and conquest. It first entered Germany in the person of the great Frederick. This skepticism despises yet grasps, undermines and takes possession. It does not believe, but it does not lose itself as a result. It gives the mind a dangerous freedom, but keeps a strict watch over the heart. This is the GERMAN form of skepticism, a continuation of Fredericianism raised to the highest intellectual level. For a considerable time, it has kept Europe under the rule of the German spirit and its critical, historical distrust. The great German philologists and historical critics had an overwhelmingly strong, tough, masculine character. Properly understood, all of them were also artists of destruction and dissolution. Thanks to their character, a NEW understanding of the German spirit gradually took hold, despite all Romanticism in music and philosophy. In this understanding, the leaning toward masculine skepticism stood out clearly. It appeared as a fearless gaze, as courage and severity in the dissecting hand. Or it appeared as a firm will to undertake dangerous voyages of discovery, intellectual North Pole expeditions under bleak, dangerous skies. Warm-blooded, superficial humanitarians may have good reasons to cross themselves before this spirit. Michelet calls it, not without a shudder, CET ESPRIT FATALISTE, IRONIQUE, MEPHISTOPHELIQUE: this fatalistic, ironic, Mephistophelean spirit. But consider how revealing this fear of the "man" in the German spirit is. This was the spirit that woke Europe from its "dogmatic slumber." To understand that fear, recall the earlier image of the German spirit, which the new image had to overcome. Not so long ago, a masculinized woman could dare, with boundless arrogance, to recommend the Germans to Europe’s attention. She presented them as gentle, good-hearted, weak-willed, poetic fools. Finally, let us understand deeply enough Napoleon’s astonishment when he saw Goethe. His astonishment reveals what people had understood for centuries by the "German spirit." "VOILA UN HOMME!" amounted to saying, "But this is a MAN! And I only expected to see a German!"
210. Supposing, then, that in the picture of the philosophers of the future, some trait suggests the question whether they must not perhaps be skeptics in the last-mentioned sense, something in them would only be designated thereby—and not they themselves. With equal right they might call themselves critics, and assuredly they will be men of experiments. By the name with which I ventured to baptize them, I have already expressly emphasized their attempting and their love of attempting is this because, as critics in body and soul, they will love to make use of experiments in a new, and perhaps wider and more dangerous sense? In their passion for knowledge, will they have to go further in daring and painful attempts than the sensitive and pampered taste of a democratic century can approve of?—There is no doubt these coming ones will be least able to dispense with the serious and not unscrupulous qualities which distinguish the critic from the skeptic I mean the certainty as to standards of worth, the conscious employment of a unity of method, the wary courage, the standing-alone, and the capacity for self-responsibility, indeed, they will avow among themselves a DELIGHT in denial and dissection, and a certain considerate cruelty, which knows how to handle the knife surely and deftly, even when the heart bleeds They will be STERNER (and perhaps not always towards themselves only) than humane people may desire, they will not deal with the "truth" in order that it may "please" them, or "elevate" and "inspire" them—they will rather have little faith in "TRUTH" bringing with it such revels for the feelings. They will smile, those rigorous spirits, when any one says in their presence "That thought elevates me, why should it not be true?" or "That work enchants me, why should it not be beautiful?" or "That artist enlarges me, why should he not be great?" Perhaps they will not only have a smile, but a genuine disgust for all that is thus rapturous, idealistic, feminine, and hermaphroditic, and if any one could look into their inmost hearts, he would not easily find therein the intention to reconcile "Christian sentiments" with "antique taste," or even with "modern parliamentarism" (the kind of reconciliation necessarily found even among philosophers in our very uncertain and consequently very conciliatory century). Critical discipline, and every habit that conduces to purity and rigour in intellectual matters, will not only be demanded from themselves by these philosophers of the future, they may even make a display thereof as their special adornment—nevertheless they will not want to be called critics on that account. It will seem to them no small indignity to philosophy to have it decreed, as is so welcome nowadays, that "philosophy itself is criticism and critical science—and nothing else whatever!" Though this estimate of philosophy may enjoy the approval of all the Positivists of France and Germany (and possibly it even flattered the heart and taste of KANT: let us call to mind the titles of his principal works), our new philosophers will say, notwithstanding, that critics are instruments of the philosopher, and just on that account, as instruments, they are far from being philosophers themselves! Even the great Chinaman of Konigsberg was only a great critic.
210. Suppose some feature of the philosophers of the future raises a question: must they perhaps be skeptics in the sense just described? That would identify only one feature of these philosophers, not define who they are. They could just as rightly call themselves critics, and they will certainly be experimenters. The name I ventured to give them already emphasized their willingness to try things and their love of trying. Is this because, as critics in body and soul, they will love experimenting in a new sense? Perhaps their experiments will also have a wider and more dangerous meaning. In their passion for knowledge, will they have to attempt things more daring and painful than a democratic century can approve? That century’s tastes are sensitive and pampered. Without doubt, these future philosophers will need the serious qualities that distinguish the critic from the skeptic. These qualities are not without scruples. I mean confidence in standards of value, the deliberate use of a consistent method, cautious courage, independence, and personal responsibility. Indeed, among themselves they will admit to a DELIGHT in denial and dissection. They will also admit to a certain thoughtful cruelty. Such cruelty knows how to handle the knife firmly and skillfully, even when the heart bleeds. They will be STERNER than humane people might wish, and perhaps not always only toward themselves. They will not pursue the "truth" so that it may "please" them, or "elevate" and "inspire" them. Rather, they will have little faith that "TRUTH" brings such emotional delights. These rigorous spirits will smile when someone says in their presence, "That thought elevates me, why should it not be true?" Or, "That work enchants me, why should it not be beautiful?" Or, "That artist enlarges me, why should he not be great?" Perhaps they will feel not just amusement but genuine disgust at everything so rapturous, idealistic, feminine, and hermaphroditic. If anyone could look into their deepest hearts, they would not easily find any intention to reconcile "Christian sentiments" with "antique taste." Nor would they easily find an intention to reconcile those sentiments even with "modern parliamentarism." Such reconciliation necessarily appears even among philosophers in our very uncertain and therefore very conciliatory century. These philosophers of the future will demand critical discipline of themselves. They will demand every habit that promotes clarity and rigor in intellectual matters. They may even display these habits as their special distinction. Nevertheless, they will not want to be called critics on that account. They will regard a declaration so welcome today as no small insult to philosophy: "philosophy itself is criticism and critical science, and nothing else whatever!" All the Positivists of France and Germany may approve of this judgment of philosophy. Possibly it even appealed to the heart and taste of KANT. Let us recall the titles of his main works. Nevertheless, our new philosophers will say that critics are the philosopher’s instruments. Precisely because critics are instruments, they are far from being philosophers themselves! Even the great Chinaman of Konigsberg was only a great critic.
211. I insist upon it that people finally cease confounding philosophical workers, and in general scientific men, with philosophers—that precisely here one should strictly give "each his own," and not give those far too much, these far too little. It may be necessary for the education of the real philosopher that he himself should have once stood upon all those steps upon which his servants, the scientific workers of philosophy, remain standing, and MUST remain standing he himself must perhaps have been critic, and dogmatist, and historian, and besides, poet, and collector, and traveler, and riddle-reader, and moralist, and seer, and "free spirit," and almost everything, in order to traverse the whole range of human values and estimations, and that he may BE ABLE with a variety of eyes and consciences to look from a height to any distance, from a depth up to any height, from a nook into any expanse. But all these are only preliminary conditions for his task; this task itself demands something else—it requires him TO CREATE VALUES. The philosophical workers, after the excellent pattern of Kant and Hegel, have to fix and formalize some great existing body of valuations—that is to say, former DETERMINATIONS OF VALUE, creations of value, which have become prevalent, and are for a time called "truths"—whether in the domain of the LOGICAL, the POLITICAL (moral), or the ARTISTIC. It is for these investigators to make whatever has happened and been esteemed hitherto, conspicuous, conceivable, intelligible, and manageable, to shorten everything long, even "time" itself, and to SUBJUGATE the entire past: an immense and wonderful task, in the carrying out of which all refined pride, all tenacious will, can surely find satisfaction. THE REAL PHILOSOPHERS, HOWEVER, ARE COMMANDERS AND LAW-GIVERS; they say: "Thus SHALL it be!" They determine first the Whither and the Why of mankind, and thereby set aside the previous labour of all philosophical workers, and all subjugators of the past—they grasp at the future with a creative hand, and whatever is and was, becomes for them thereby a means, an instrument, and a hammer. Their "knowing" is CREATING, their creating is a law-giving, their will to truth is—WILL TO POWER.—Are there at present such philosophers? Have there ever been such philosophers? MUST there not be such philosophers some day? ...
211. I insist that people finally stop confusing philosophical workers, and scientific researchers in general, with philosophers. Here, above all, we should strictly give "each his own," giving the workers neither too much nor philosophers too little. A real philosopher's education may require him to pass through every stage where his servants remain. These servants, the scientific workers of philosophy, MUST remain at those stages. The philosopher himself must perhaps have been a critic, a dogmatist, and a historian. He must perhaps also have been a poet, collector, traveler, riddle-reader, moralist, seer, "free spirit," and almost everything else. All this would allow him to explore the full range of human values and judgments. He would then BE ABLE to see through many different eyes and consciences. He could look from a height into any distance, from a depth to any height, from a corner into any expanse. But all these experiences are only preparations for his task. The task itself demands something else: he must CREATE VALUES. Philosophical workers, following the excellent example of Kant and Hegel, must establish and formalize some great existing system of values. These systems are earlier DETERMINATIONS OF VALUE, creations of value that have become dominant and are temporarily called "truths." Such work may concern the LOGICAL, the POLITICAL (moral), or the ARTISTIC. These researchers must make everything that has happened and been valued until now visible, conceivable, understandable, and manageable. They must shorten everything long, even "time" itself, and SUBJUGATE the entire past. This is an immense and wonderful task. In carrying it out, all refined pride and all persistent will can surely find satisfaction. THE REAL PHILOSOPHERS, HOWEVER, ARE COMMANDERS AND LAW-GIVERS. They say: "Thus SHALL it be!" They first determine humanity's destination and purpose. In doing so, they set aside the previous work of all philosophical workers and all who have subjugated the past. They reach for the future with a creative hand. Everything that is and has been thus becomes their means, their instrument, their hammer. Their "knowing" is CREATING, their creating is law-giving, their will to truth is WILL TO POWER. Are there such philosophers today? Have there ever been such philosophers? MUST there not be such philosophers someday? ...
212. It is always more obvious to me that the philosopher, as a man INDISPENSABLE for the morrow and the day after the morrow, has ever found himself, and HAS BEEN OBLIGED to find himself, in contradiction to the day in which he lives; his enemy has always been the ideal of his day. Hitherto all those extraordinary furtherers of humanity whom one calls philosophers—who rarely regarded themselves as lovers of wisdom, but rather as disagreeable fools and dangerous interrogators—have found their mission, their hard, involuntary, imperative mission (in the end, however, the greatness of their mission), in being the bad conscience of their age. In putting the vivisector's knife to the breast of the very VIRTUES OF THEIR AGE, they have betrayed their own secret; it has been for the sake of a NEW greatness of man, a new untrodden path to his aggrandizement. They have always disclosed how much hypocrisy, indolence, self-indulgence, and self-neglect, how much falsehood was concealed under the most venerated types of contemporary morality, how much virtue was OUTLIVED, they have always said "We must remove hence to where YOU are least at home" In the face of a world of "modern ideas," which would like to confine every one in a corner, in a "specialty," a philosopher, if there could be philosophers nowadays, would be compelled to place the greatness of man, the conception of "greatness," precisely in his comprehensiveness and multifariousness, in his all-roundness, he would even determine worth and rank according to the amount and variety of that which a man could bear and take upon himself, according to the EXTENT to which a man could stretch his responsibility Nowadays the taste and virtue of the age weaken and attenuate the will, nothing is so adapted to the spirit of the age as weakness of will consequently, in the ideal of the philosopher, strength of will, sternness, and capacity for prolonged resolution, must specially be included in the conception of "greatness", with as good a right as the opposite doctrine, with its ideal of a silly, renouncing, humble, selfless humanity, was suited to an opposite age—such as the sixteenth century, which suffered from its accumulated energy of will, and from the wildest torrents and floods of selfishness In the time of Socrates, among men only of worn-out instincts, old conservative Athenians who let themselves go—"for the sake of happiness," as they said, for the sake of pleasure, as their conduct indicated—and who had continually on their lips the old pompous words to which they had long forfeited the right by the life they led, IRONY was perhaps necessary for greatness of soul, the wicked Socratic assurance of the old physician and plebeian, who cut ruthlessly into his own flesh, as into the flesh and heart of the "noble," with a look that said plainly enough "Do not dissemble before me! here—we are equal!" At present, on the contrary, when throughout Europe the herding-animal alone attains to honours, and dispenses honours, when "equality of right" can too readily be transformed into equality in wrong—I mean to say into general war against everything rare, strange, and privileged, against the higher man, the higher soul, the higher duty, the higher responsibility, the creative plenipotence and lordliness—at present it belongs to the conception of "greatness" to be noble, to wish to be apart, to be capable of being different, to stand alone, to have to live by personal initiative, and the philosopher will betray something of his own ideal when he asserts "He shall be the greatest who can be the most solitary, the most concealed, the most divergent, the man beyond good and evil, the master of his virtues, and of super-abundance of will; precisely this shall be called GREATNESS: as diversified as can be entire, as ample as can be full." And to ask once more the question: Is greatness POSSIBLE—nowadays?
212. It becomes ever clearer to me that the philosopher is INDISPENSABLE for tomorrow and the day after. He has always opposed his own time, and HAS BEEN OBLIGED to oppose it. His enemy has always been the ideal of his age. Until now, all those extraordinary people who advance humanity, whom we call philosophers, have shared a mission. They rarely saw themselves as lovers of wisdom, but rather as disagreeable fools and dangerous questioners. Their mission has been to act as the bad conscience of their age. It has been a hard, unchosen, unavoidable mission, yet ultimately its greatness lay in that very task. They have turned the knife of a vivisectionist against the very VIRTUES OF THEIR AGE, revealing their own secret. They have done so for the sake of a NEW human greatness, a new, unexplored path toward human elevation. They have always exposed the hypocrisy, laziness, self-indulgence, self-neglect, and falsehood hidden beneath their age's most respected forms of morality. They have exposed how much virtue had OUTLIVED its time. They have always said, "We must leave here for the place where YOU feel least at home." The world of "modern ideas" wants to confine everyone to a corner, to a "specialty." Faced with such a world, a philosopher, if philosophers could exist today, would have to locate human greatness elsewhere. He would find "greatness" precisely in a person's breadth, versatility, and all-around development. He would even judge worth and rank by how much, and how many different things, someone could bear and undertake. He would judge by the EXTENT to which someone could expand his responsibility. Today, the age's tastes and virtues weaken and diminish the will. Nothing suits the spirit of the age so well as weakness of will. So the philosopher's ideal of "greatness" must give special importance to strength of will, sternness, and lasting resolve. This ideal has just as much justification as the opposite teaching had in an opposite age. That teaching held up an ideal of foolish, self-denying, humble, selfless humanity. Such an ideal suited an age like the sixteenth century. That century suffered from its accumulated force of will and the wildest torrents and floods of selfishness. In Socrates' time, by contrast, he lived among men whose instincts were all worn out. These old, conservative Athenians let themselves go, "for the sake of happiness," as they said. Their conduct showed that they meant for the sake of pleasure. They constantly repeated the old, pompous words that their way of life had long deprived them of any right to use. Among such men, IRONY was perhaps necessary for greatness of soul. So perhaps was the wicked confidence of Socrates, that old physician and plebeian. He cut ruthlessly into his own flesh, just as he cut into the flesh and hearts of the "noble." His look said plainly enough, "Do not pretend with me! Here, we are equals!" Today, by contrast, throughout Europe, only the herd animal receives honors and hands them out. "Equality of right" can all too easily become equality in wrongdoing. I mean a general war against everything rare, strange, and privileged. A war against the higher man, the higher soul, the higher duty, and the higher responsibility. A war against the full power to create and the authority to command. Today, then, "greatness" means being noble, wanting to stand apart, being capable of being different, and standing alone. It means having to live on one's own initiative. The philosopher will reveal something of his own ideal when he declares: "The greatest shall be the most solitary, the most hidden, the most different. He shall be the man beyond good and evil, master of his virtues, with an overflowing abundance of will. Precisely this shall be called GREATNESS: as varied as he can be while remaining whole, as broad as he can be while remaining full." And once again, the question: Is greatness POSSIBLE today?
213. It is difficult to learn what a philosopher is, because it cannot be taught: one must "know" it by experience—or one should have the pride NOT to know it. The fact that at present people all talk of things of which they CANNOT have any experience, is true more especially and unfortunately as concerns the philosopher and philosophical matters:—the very few know them, are permitted to know them, and all popular ideas about them are false. Thus, for instance, the truly philosophical combination of a bold, exuberant spirituality which runs at presto pace, and a dialectic rigour and necessity which makes no false step, is unknown to most thinkers and scholars from their own experience, and therefore, should any one speak of it in their presence, it is incredible to them. They conceive of every necessity as troublesome, as a painful compulsory obedience and state of constraint; thinking itself is regarded by them as something slow and hesitating, almost as a trouble, and often enough as "worthy of the SWEAT of the noble"—but not at all as something easy and divine, closely related to dancing and exuberance! "To think" and to take a matter "seriously," "arduously"—that is one and the same thing to them; such only has been their "experience."—Artists have here perhaps a finer intuition; they who know only too well that precisely when they no longer do anything "arbitrarily," and everything of necessity, their feeling of freedom, of subtlety, of power, of creatively fixing, disposing, and shaping, reaches its climax—in short, that necessity and "freedom of will" are then the same thing with them. There is, in fine, a gradation of rank in psychical states, to which the gradation of rank in the problems corresponds; and the highest problems repel ruthlessly every one who ventures too near them, without being predestined for their solution by the loftiness and power of his spirituality. Of what use is it for nimble, everyday intellects, or clumsy, honest mechanics and empiricists to press, in their plebeian ambition, close to such problems, and as it were into this "holy of holies"—as so often happens nowadays! But coarse feet must never tread upon such carpets: this is provided for in the primary law of things; the doors remain closed to those intruders, though they may dash and break their heads thereon. People have always to be born to a high station, or, more definitely, they have to be BRED for it: a person has only a right to philosophy—taking the word in its higher significance—in virtue of his descent; the ancestors, the "blood," decide here also. Many generations must have prepared the way for the coming of the philosopher; each of his virtues must have been separately acquired, nurtured, transmitted, and embodied; not only the bold, easy, delicate course and current of his thoughts, but above all the readiness for great responsibilities, the majesty of ruling glance and contemning look, the feeling of separation from the multitude with their duties and virtues, the kindly patronage and defense of whatever is misunderstood and calumniated, be it God or devil, the delight and practice of supreme justice, the art of commanding, the amplitude of will, the lingering eye which rarely admires, rarely looks up, rarely loves....
213. It is difficult to learn what a philosopher is, because this cannot be taught. One must "know" it through experience, or have the pride NOT to know it. Nowadays, everyone talks about things they CANNOT have experienced. Unfortunately, this is especially true of talk about philosophers and philosophy. Very few people know these things, very few are allowed to know them, and all popular ideas about them are false. Consider, for example, the truly philosophical combination of bold, exuberant spirit moving at lightning speed and rigorously logical reasoning. Such reasoning follows necessity without a single false step. Most thinkers and scholars have never experienced this combination themselves. So if anyone describes it in their presence, they find it unbelievable. They see every necessity as a burden, as painful, forced obedience and restriction. They regard thinking itself as slow and hesitant, almost as a hardship, and often as "worthy of the SWEAT of the noble." They never see thinking as something easy and divine, closely related to dancing and exuberance! "To think" and to approach something "seriously," "arduously" mean the same thing to them. That is the only kind of thinking they have "experienced." Artists perhaps have a finer intuition here. They know only too well what happens when they stop doing anything "arbitrarily" and do everything out of necessity. At precisely that moment, their sense of freedom, subtlety, and power reaches its peak. So does their sense of creatively determining, arranging, and shaping things. In short, necessity and "freedom of will" then become the same thing for them. In short, states of mind have a hierarchy, and problems have a corresponding hierarchy. The highest problems ruthlessly repel anyone who ventures too close without being destined to solve them. That destiny depends on the loftiness and power of the person's spirit. What good does it do for quick, ordinary minds, or clumsy, honest mechanics and empiricists, to approach such problems? In their commoner's ambition, they push into this "holy of holies," as happens so often nowadays! But coarse feet must never tread on such carpets. The fundamental law of things ensures this. The doors remain closed to these intruders, though they may smash their heads against them. People must always be born to a high position, or, more precisely, they must be BRED for it. A person has a right to philosophy, in the higher sense of the word, only through his ancestry. Here too, ancestors, "blood," decide. Many generations must have prepared the way for the philosopher's arrival. Each of his virtues must have been separately acquired, nurtured, passed down, and made part of his nature. These virtues include not only the bold, easy, delicate flow of his thoughts, but above all his readiness for great responsibilities. They include the majesty of his commanding gaze and his look of contempt. They include his sense of separation from the masses, with their duties and virtues. They include his kindly protection and defense of whatever is misunderstood and slandered, whether God or devil. They include his delight in, and practice of, the highest justice, his art of command, and his vast will. They include his lingering gaze, which rarely admires, rarely looks up, rarely loves....