Our Virtues

214. OUR Virtues?—It is probable that we, too, have still our virtues, although naturally they are not those sincere and massive virtues on account of which we hold our grandfathers in esteem and also at a little distance from us. We Europeans of the day after tomorrow, we firstlings of the twentieth century—with all our dangerous curiosity, our multifariousness and art of disguising, our mellow and seemingly sweetened cruelty in sense and spirit—we shall presumably, IF we must have virtues, have those only which have come to agreement with our most secret and heartfelt inclinations, with our most ardent requirements: well, then, let us look for them in our labyrinths!—where, as we know, so many things lose themselves, so many things get quite lost! And is there anything finer than to SEARCH for one's own virtues? Is it not almost to BELIEVE in one's own virtues? But this "believing in one's own virtues"—is it not practically the same as what was formerly called one's "good conscience," that long, respectable pigtail of an idea, which our grandfathers used to hang behind their heads, and often enough also behind their understandings? It seems, therefore, that however little we may imagine ourselves to be old-fashioned and grandfatherly respectable in other respects, in one thing we are nevertheless the worthy grandchildren of our grandfathers, we last Europeans with good consciences: we also still wear their pigtail.—Ah! if you only knew how soon, so very soon—it will be different!

214. OUR Virtues? Probably we, too, still have our virtues. Naturally, though, they are not the sincere, solid virtues that make us respect our grandfathers while keeping some distance. We are the Europeans of the day after tomorrow, the first arrivals of the twentieth century. We have all our dangerous curiosity, our many-sidedness, and our skill at disguise. Our cruelty in the senses and the spirit has mellowed and seems sweeter. IF we must have virtues, presumably we will have only virtues in harmony with our deepest, most secret inclinations. Our virtues must also suit our most passionate needs. Well then, let us look for our virtues in our labyrinths! As we know, so many things lose their way there, so many things get completely lost! And is anything finer than to SEARCH for one's own virtues? Isn't searching almost the same as coming to BELIEVE in one's own virtues? But isn't this "believing in one's own virtues" practically the same as what people once called their "good conscience"? That idea was a long, respectable pigtail our grandfathers wore behind their heads, and often enough behind their minds too. So, however little we may think ourselves old-fashioned or respectably grandfatherly in other ways, one resemblance seems to remain. In this one respect, we are worthy grandchildren of our grandfathers, we last Europeans with good consciences. We still wear their pigtail too. Ah! If you only knew how soon, how very soon, things will be different!

215. As in the stellar firmament there are sometimes two suns which determine the path of one planet, and in certain cases suns of different colours shine around a single planet, now with red light, now with green, and then simultaneously illumine and flood it with motley colours: so we modern men, owing to the complicated mechanism of our "firmament," are determined by DIFFERENT moralities; our actions shine alternately in different colours, and are seldom unequivocal—and there are often cases, also, in which our actions are MOTLEY-COLOURED.

215. In the starry sky, two suns sometimes determine the path of a single planet. In some cases, suns of different colours shine around one planet, bathing it first in red, then in green. Then they shine together, flooding the planet with mixed colours. In the same way, we modern people are shaped by DIFFERENT moralities because of the complex workings of our "firmament." Our actions shine in different colours by turns, and their meaning is seldom clear-cut. Often, too, our actions are MULTICOLOURED.

216. To love one's enemies? I think that has been well learnt: it takes place thousands of times at present on a large and small scale; indeed, at times the higher and sublimer thing takes place:—we learn to DESPISE when we love, and precisely when we love best; all of it, however, unconsciously, without noise, without ostentation, with the shame and secrecy of goodness, which forbids the utterance of the pompous word and the formula of virtue. Morality as attitude—is opposed to our taste nowadays. This is ALSO an advance, as it was an advance in our fathers that religion as an attitude finally became opposed to their taste, including the enmity and Voltairean bitterness against religion (and all that formerly belonged to freethinker-pantomime). It is the music in our conscience, the dance in our spirit, to which Puritan litanies, moral sermons, and goody-goodness won't chime.

216. To love our enemies? I think we have learned that lesson well. Today, it happens thousands of times, on both a large and a small scale. Indeed, sometimes something higher and more sublime happens: we learn to DESPISE when we love, precisely when we love best. Yet all this happens unconsciously, quietly, without showing off, with the modesty and secrecy of goodness. That goodness forbids grand words and stock declarations of virtue. Morality as a pose goes against our taste nowadays. This is ALSO progress. Our fathers made similar progress when religion as a pose finally went against their taste. Their distaste also extended to hostility and Voltairean bitterness toward religion (and everything once associated with the freethinker's theatrical posturing). The music in our conscience and the dance in our spirit cannot harmonize with Puritan litanies, moral sermons, and goody-goodness.

217. Let us be careful in dealing with those who attach great importance to being credited with moral tact and subtlety in moral discernment! They never forgive us if they have once made a mistake BEFORE us (or even with REGARD to us)—they inevitably become our instinctive calumniators and detractors, even when they still remain our "friends."—Blessed are the forgetful: for they "get the better" even of their blunders.

217. Be careful with people who care deeply about being seen as tactful and perceptive in moral matters! They never forgive us if they make even one mistake BEFORE us (or even ABOUT us). They inevitably become our instinctive slanderers and critics, even when they remain our "friends." Blessed are the forgetful: for they "get the better" even of their blunders.

218. The psychologists of France—and where else are there still psychologists nowadays?—have never yet exhausted their bitter and manifold enjoyment of the betise bourgeoise, just as though... in short, they betray something thereby. Flaubert, for instance, the honest citizen of Rouen, neither saw, heard, nor tasted anything else in the end; it was his mode of self-torment and refined cruelty. As this is growing wearisome, I would now recommend for a change something else for a pleasure—namely, the unconscious astuteness with which good, fat, honest mediocrity always behaves towards loftier spirits and the tasks they have to perform, the subtle, barbed, Jesuitical astuteness, which is a thousand times subtler than the taste and understanding of the middle-class in its best moments—subtler even than the understanding of its victims:—a repeated proof that "instinct" is the most intelligent of all kinds of intelligence which have hitherto been discovered. In short, you psychologists, study the philosophy of the "rule" in its struggle with the "exception": there you have a spectacle fit for Gods and godlike malignity! Or, in plainer words, practise vivisection on "good people," on the "homo bonae voluntatis," ON YOURSELVES!

218. The psychologists of France (and where else are there still psychologists today?) have never tired of their bitter, varied pleasure in bourgeois stupidity. Just as though... In short, their pleasure gives something away. Flaubert, for instance, the honest citizen of Rouen, eventually saw, heard, and tasted nothing else. This was his way of tormenting himself and practicing refined cruelty. Since this is growing tiresome, I would now recommend a different pleasure for a change. Consider the unconscious cunning with which good, fat, honest mediocrity always treats higher spirits and their tasks. This cunning is subtle, barbed, and Jesuitical. It is a thousand times subtler than middle-class taste and understanding at their best. It is subtler even than its victims' understanding. Here is yet another proof that "instinct" is the most intelligent of all kinds of intelligence discovered so far. In short, you psychologists, study the philosophy of the "rule" in its struggle with the "exception". There you have a spectacle fit for gods and godlike malice! Or, more plainly, practice vivisection on "good people", on the "homo bonae voluntatis", the person of good will, ON YOURSELVES!

219. The practice of judging and condemning morally, is the favourite revenge of the intellectually shallow on those who are less so, it is also a kind of indemnity for their being badly endowed by nature, and finally, it is an opportunity for acquiring spirit and BECOMING subtle—malice spiritualises. They are glad in their inmost heart that there is a standard according to which those who are over-endowed with intellectual goods and privileges, are equal to them, they contend for the "equality of all before God," and almost NEED the belief in God for this purpose. It is among them that the most powerful antagonists of atheism are found. If any one were to say to them "A lofty spirituality is beyond all comparison with the honesty and respectability of a merely moral man"—it would make them furious, I shall take care not to say so. I would rather flatter them with my theory that lofty spirituality itself exists only as the ultimate product of moral qualities, that it is a synthesis of all qualities attributed to the "merely moral" man, after they have been acquired singly through long training and practice, perhaps during a whole series of generations, that lofty spirituality is precisely the spiritualising of justice, and the beneficent severity which knows that it is authorized to maintain GRADATIONS OF RANK in the world, even among things—and not only among men.

219. Moral judgment and condemnation are the favorite revenge of intellectually shallow people against those who are less shallow. They also offer compensation for the shallow people’s poor natural gifts. Finally, they offer a chance to develop intellect and BECOME subtle: malice sharpens the mind. Deep down, these people are glad there is a standard that puts the intellectually gifted and privileged on their level. They fight for the "equality of all before God," and almost NEED belief in God for this purpose. Among them are the strongest opponents of atheism. Suppose someone told them, "A superior intellect is beyond all comparison with the honesty and respectability of a merely moral person." They would be furious. I shall take care not to say so. Instead, I would flatter them with my theory that superior intellect itself exists only as the final product of moral qualities. It combines all the qualities attributed to the "merely moral" person. These qualities must first be acquired individually through long training and practice, perhaps over a whole series of generations. Superior intellect is precisely justice developed into an intellectual power. It is also the beneficial sternness that knows it has the authority to maintain GRADATIONS OF RANK in the world. This ranking applies even to things, not only to people.

220. Now that the praise of the "disinterested person" is so popular one must—probably not without some danger—get an idea of WHAT people actually take an interest in, and what are the things generally which fundamentally and profoundly concern ordinary men—including the cultured, even the learned, and perhaps philosophers also, if appearances do not deceive. The fact thereby becomes obvious that the greater part of what interests and charms higher natures, and more refined and fastidious tastes, seems absolutely "uninteresting" to the average man—if, notwithstanding, he perceive devotion to these interests, he calls it desinteresse, and wonders how it is possible to act "disinterestedly." There have been philosophers who could give this popular astonishment a seductive and mystical, other-worldly expression (perhaps because they did not know the higher nature by experience?), instead of stating the naked and candidly reasonable truth that "disinterested" action is very interesting and "interested" action, provided that... "And love?"—What! Even an action for love's sake shall be "unegoistic"? But you fools—! "And the praise of the self-sacrificer?"—But whoever has really offered sacrifice knows that he wanted and obtained something for it—perhaps something from himself for something from himself; that he relinquished here in order to have more there, perhaps in general to be more, or even feel himself "more." But this is a realm of questions and answers in which a more fastidious spirit does not like to stay: for here truth has to stifle her yawns so much when she is obliged to answer. And after all, truth is a woman; one must not use force with her.

220. Now that praising the "disinterested person" is so popular, we must ask WHAT people actually take an interest in. Asking may involve some danger. What things generally concern ordinary people most deeply? These people include the cultured, even scholars, and perhaps philosophers too, if appearances do not deceive us. One fact then becomes obvious. Most things that interest and delight higher natures, with their more refined and demanding tastes, seem completely "uninteresting" to the average person. Yet if the average person sees devotion to these interests, he calls it desinteresse. He wonders how anyone can act "disinterestedly." Some philosophers have given this popular astonishment an alluring, mystical, otherworldly expression. Perhaps they had no firsthand knowledge of a higher nature? Instead, they could have stated the plain, perfectly reasonable truth: "disinterested" action is deeply interesting and "interested" action, provided that... "And love?" What! Even an act done for love is supposed to be "unselfish"? But you fools! "And the praise of those who sacrifice themselves?" But anyone who has truly made a sacrifice knows he wanted something in return, and got it. Perhaps he gave up something in himself for something else in himself. He gave up something here to gain more there, perhaps to be more overall, or even to feel himself "more." But a more demanding mind dislikes lingering in this realm of questions and answers. For here truth must work so hard to stifle her yawns when she is forced to answer. And after all, truth is a woman. One must not use force with her.

221. "It sometimes happens," said a moralistic pedant and trifle-retailer, "that I honour and respect an unselfish man: not, however, because he is unselfish, but because I think he has a right to be useful to another man at his own expense. In short, the question is always who HE is, and who THE OTHER is. For instance, in a person created and destined for command, self-denial and modest retirement, instead of being virtues, would be the waste of virtues: so it seems to me. Every system of unegoistic morality which takes itself unconditionally and appeals to every one, not only sins against good taste, but is also an incentive to sins of omission, an ADDITIONAL seduction under the mask of philanthropy—and precisely a seduction and injury to the higher, rarer, and more privileged types of men. Moral systems must be compelled first of all to bow before the GRADATIONS OF RANK; their presumption must be driven home to their conscience—until they thoroughly understand at last that it is IMMORAL to say that 'what is right for one is proper for another.'"—So said my moralistic pedant and bonhomme. Did he perhaps deserve to be laughed at when he thus exhorted systems of morals to practise morality? But one should not be too much in the right if one wishes to have the laughers on ONE'S OWN side; a grain of wrong pertains even to good taste.

221. "Sometimes," said a moralizing pedant and peddler of trifles, "I honor and respect an unselfish man. But not because he is unselfish. Rather, I think he has a right to benefit another man at his own expense. In short, the question is always who HE is, and who THE OTHER is. Take someone born and destined to command. For such a person, self-denial and modest withdrawal would waste virtues rather than be virtues. At least, so it seems to me. Every morality of unselfishness that claims unconditional authority and addresses everyone offends good taste. Such a morality also encourages people to neglect their duties. It offers an ADDITIONAL temptation disguised as love of humanity. And that temptation specifically harms the higher, rarer, and more privileged types of men. Moral systems must first be forced to bow before the GRADATIONS OF RANK. They must be made to feel guilty about their arrogance. Eventually, they must fully understand that saying 'what is right for one is proper for another' is IMMORAL." So said my moralizing pedant and good-natured fellow. Did he perhaps deserve to be laughed at for urging moral systems to practice morality? But anyone who wants the laughers on ONE'S OWN side should not be too completely right. Even good taste needs a grain of wrong.

222. Wherever sympathy (fellow-suffering) is preached nowadays—and, if I gather rightly, no other religion is any longer preached—let the psychologist have his ears open through all the vanity, through all the noise which is natural to these preachers (as to all preachers), he will hear a hoarse, groaning, genuine note of SELF-CONTEMPT. It belongs to the overshadowing and uglifying of Europe, which has been on the increase for a century (the first symptoms of which are already specified documentarily in a thoughtful letter of Galiani to Madame d'Epinay)—IF IT IS NOT REALLY THE CAUSE THEREOF! The man of "modern ideas," the conceited ape, is excessively dissatisfied with himself—this is perfectly certain. He suffers, and his vanity wants him only "to suffer with his fellows."

222. Wherever sympathy (suffering with others) is preached today, let the psychologist listen closely. If I understand correctly, no other religion is preached anymore. Beneath all the vanity and all the noise natural to these preachers (as to all preachers), he will hear something. It is a hoarse, groaning, genuine note of SELF-CONTEMPT. This self-contempt is part of the growing darkness and ugliness that have spread across Europe for a century. (Galiani already documented the first symptoms in a thoughtful letter to Madame d'Epinay.) IF SELF-CONTEMPT IS NOT ACTUALLY THE CAUSE! The man of "modern ideas," that conceited ape, is deeply dissatisfied with himself. That is absolutely certain. He suffers, and his vanity wants him only "to suffer with his fellows."

223. The hybrid European—a tolerably ugly plebeian, taken all in all—absolutely requires a costume: he needs history as a storeroom of costumes. To be sure, he notices that none of the costumes fit him properly—he changes and changes. Let us look at the nineteenth century with respect to these hasty preferences and changes in its masquerades of style, and also with respect to its moments of desperation on account of "nothing suiting" us. It is in vain to get ourselves up as romantic, or classical, or Christian, or Florentine, or barocco, or "national," in moribus et artibus: it does not "clothe us"! But the "spirit," especially the "historical spirit," profits even by this desperation: once and again a new sample of the past or of the foreign is tested, put on, taken off, packed up, and above all studied—we are the first studious age in puncto of "costumes," I mean as concerns morals, articles of belief, artistic tastes, and religions; we are prepared as no other age has ever been for a carnival in the grand style, for the most spiritual festival—laughter and arrogance, for the transcendental height of supreme folly and Aristophanic ridicule of the world. Perhaps we are still discovering the domain of our invention just here, the domain where even we can still be original, probably as parodists of the world's history and as God's Merry-Andrews,—perhaps, though nothing else of the present have a future, our laughter itself may have a future!

223. The hybrid European is, all in all, a fairly ugly commoner who absolutely needs a costume. He needs history as a storeroom of costumes. Admittedly, he notices that none of the costumes fit him properly. He keeps changing them. Let us look at the nineteenth century’s hasty choices and changes in its masquerades of style. Let us also consider its moments of despair because "nothing suits" us. We dress up in vain as romantic, classical, Christian, Florentine, baroque, or "national," in our customs and arts. None of this "clothes us"! But the "spirit," especially the "historical spirit," benefits even from this despair. Again and again, another sample from the past or a foreign culture is tried on, taken off, and packed away. Above all, each sample is studied. We are the first age to study "costumes" closely. I mean costumes in morals, beliefs, artistic tastes, and religions. We are ready, as no other age has ever been, for a carnival on a grand scale. We are ready for the most spiritual festival of laughter and arrogance. We are ready for the transcendent heights of supreme folly and Aristophanic mockery of the world. Perhaps this is where we are still discovering our own field of invention, where even we can still be original. Probably we can be original as parodists of world history and as God's clowns. Perhaps, though nothing else in the present has a future, our laughter itself may have a future!

224. The historical sense (or the capacity for divining quickly the order of rank of the valuations according to which a people, a community, or an individual has lived, the "divining instinct" for the relationships of these valuations, for the relation of the authority of the valuations to the authority of the operating forces),—this historical sense, which we Europeans claim as our specialty, has come to us in the train of the enchanting and mad semi-barbarity into which Europe has been plunged by the democratic mingling of classes and races—it is only the nineteenth century that has recognized this faculty as its sixth sense. Owing to this mingling, the past of every form and mode of life, and of cultures which were formerly closely contiguous and superimposed on one another, flows forth into us "modern souls"; our instincts now run back in all directions, we ourselves are a kind of chaos: in the end, as we have said, the spirit perceives its advantage therein. By means of our semi-barbarity in body and in desire, we have secret access everywhere, such as a noble age never had; we have access above all to the labyrinth of imperfect civilizations, and to every form of semi-barbarity that has at any time existed on earth; and in so far as the most considerable part of human civilization hitherto has just been semi-barbarity, the "historical sense" implies almost the sense and instinct for everything, the taste and tongue for everything: whereby it immediately proves itself to be an IGNOBLE sense. For instance, we enjoy Homer once more: it is perhaps our happiest acquisition that we know how to appreciate Homer, whom men of distinguished culture (as the French of the seventeenth century, like Saint-Evremond, who reproached him for his ESPRIT VASTE, and even Voltaire, the last echo of the century) cannot and could not so easily appropriate—whom they scarcely permitted themselves to enjoy. The very decided Yea and Nay of their palate, their promptly ready disgust, their hesitating reluctance with regard to everything strange, their horror of the bad taste even of lively curiosity, and in general the averseness of every distinguished and self-sufficing culture to avow a new desire, a dissatisfaction with its own condition, or an admiration of what is strange: all this determines and disposes them unfavourably even towards the best things of the world which are not their property or could not become their prey—and no faculty is more unintelligible to such men than just this historical sense, with its truckling, plebeian curiosity. The case is not different with Shakespeare, that marvelous Spanish-Moorish-Saxon synthesis of taste, over whom an ancient Athenian of the circle of AEschylus would have half-killed himself with laughter or irritation: but we—accept precisely this wild motleyness, this medley of the most delicate, the most coarse, and the most artificial, with a secret confidence and cordiality; we enjoy it as a refinement of art reserved expressly for us, and allow ourselves to be as little disturbed by the repulsive fumes and the proximity of the English populace in which Shakespeare's art and taste lives, as perhaps on the Chiaja of Naples, where, with all our senses awake, we go our way, enchanted and voluntarily, in spite of the drain-odour of the lower quarters of the town. That as men of the "historical sense" we have our virtues, is not to be disputed:—we are unpretentious, unselfish, modest, brave, habituated to self-control and self-renunciation, very grateful, very patient, very complaisant—but with all this we are perhaps not very "tasteful." Let us finally confess it, that what is most difficult for us men of the "historical sense" to grasp, feel, taste, and love, what finds us fundamentally prejudiced and almost hostile, is precisely the perfection and ultimate maturity in every culture and art, the essentially noble in works and men, their moment of smooth sea and halcyon self-sufficiency, the goldenness and coldness which all things show that have perfected themselves. Perhaps our great virtue of the historical sense is in necessary contrast to GOOD taste, at least to the very bad taste; and we can only evoke in ourselves imperfectly, hesitatingly, and with compulsion the small, short, and happy godsends and glorifications of human life as they shine here and there: those moments and marvelous experiences when a great power has voluntarily come to a halt before the boundless and infinite,—when a super-abundance of refined delight has been enjoyed by a sudden checking and petrifying, by standing firmly and planting oneself fixedly on still trembling ground. PROPORTIONATENESS is strange to us, let us confess it to ourselves; our itching is really the itching for the infinite, the immeasurable. Like the rider on his forward panting horse, we let the reins fall before the infinite, we modern men, we semi-barbarians—and are only in OUR highest bliss when we—ARE IN MOST DANGER.

224. The historical sense is the ability to quickly grasp the ranking of values that has guided a people, community, or individual. It is the "divining instinct" for how these values relate to one another. It also grasps how the authority of these values relates to the authority of the forces at work. We Europeans claim this historical sense as our specialty. It came to us through the enchanting, mad semi-barbarity into which democratic mixing of classes and races has plunged Europe. Only the nineteenth century recognized this ability as its sixth sense. Because of this mixing, the past of every form and way of life flows into us "modern souls." So does the past of cultures that once existed close together and layered over one another. Our instincts now reach back in every direction. We ourselves are a kind of chaos. In the end, as we have said, the mind sees its advantage in this chaos. Our semi-barbarity in body and desire gives us secret access everywhere, such as a noble age never had. Above all, we can enter the labyrinth of imperfect civilizations and every form of semi-barbarity that has ever existed. And since most human civilization so far has been semi-barbarity, the "historical sense" means having a sense and instinct for almost everything. It means having a taste and a tongue for everything. In this way, it immediately reveals itself as an IGNOBLE sense. For example, we enjoy Homer once again. Perhaps our happiest gain is that we know how to appreciate him. People of refined culture cannot, and could not, so easily make Homer their own. Think of seventeenth-century Frenchmen such as Saint-Evremond, who criticized Homer for his ESPRIT VASTE, or sweeping spirit. Even Voltaire, the last echo of that century, belongs among them. Such men scarcely allowed themselves to enjoy Homer. Their taste said Yes and No with absolute certainty. Their disgust was always ready. They approached everything foreign with hesitation and reluctance. They recoiled from the bad taste they saw even in lively curiosity. In general, every refined, self-sufficient culture resists admitting any new desire, dissatisfaction with itself, or admiration for anything foreign. All these traits turn such people against even the world's best things, unless those things belong to them or could become their spoils. And no ability is more incomprehensible to such people than this historical sense, with its servile, plebeian curiosity. The same is true of Shakespeare, that marvelous Spanish-Moorish-Saxon fusion of tastes. An ancient Athenian from the circle of AEschylus would have nearly died of laughter or irritation over him. But we accept precisely this wild variety with a secret confidence and warmth. We welcome this mixture of the most delicate, the coarsest, and the most artificial. We enjoy it as an artistic refinement reserved expressly for us. Shakespeare's art and taste live amid the English populace, surrounded by its repulsive fumes. Yet we let neither the fumes nor the nearby populace disturb us. Perhaps we behave much as we do on the Chiaja of Naples. There, with all our senses awake, we willingly walk on, enchanted, despite the sewer stench from the city's poorer districts. There is no denying that we people of the "historical sense" have our virtues. We are unpretentious, unselfish, modest, brave, and accustomed to self-control and self-denial. We are very grateful, very patient, and very accommodating. Yet for all these virtues, perhaps we are not very "tasteful." Let us finally admit what we find hardest to grasp, feel, taste, and love. As people of the "historical sense," we are deeply prejudiced and almost hostile toward perfection and full maturity in every culture and art. We struggle with what is essentially noble in works and people. We struggle with their moment of calm seas and peaceful self-sufficiency. We struggle with the golden glow and coldness of everything that has reached perfection. Perhaps our great virtue, the historical sense, necessarily conflicts with GOOD taste, or at least with the very best taste. We can only summon certain small, brief, happy blessings and celebrations of human life imperfectly, hesitantly, and by forcing ourselves. Such blessings shine out here and there. They are those moments and marvelous experiences when a great power voluntarily stops before the boundless and infinite. At such moments, an abundance of refined delight comes from suddenly halting and becoming still as stone. It comes from standing firm and planting oneself on ground that still trembles. PROPORTION is foreign to us, let us admit it. Our real craving is for the infinite, the immeasurable. Like a rider whose panting horse strains forward, we modern people, we semi-barbarians, let the reins fall before the infinite. And we reach OUR greatest bliss only when we ARE IN THE GREATEST DANGER.

225. Whether it be hedonism, pessimism, utilitarianism, or eudaemonism, all those modes of thinking which measure the worth of things according to PLEASURE and PAIN, that is, according to accompanying circumstances and secondary considerations, are plausible modes of thought and naivetes, which every one conscious of CREATIVE powers and an artist's conscience will look down upon with scorn, though not without sympathy. Sympathy for you!—to be sure, that is not sympathy as you understand it: it is not sympathy for social "distress," for "society" with its sick and misfortuned, for the hereditarily vicious and defective who lie on the ground around us; still less is it sympathy for the grumbling, vexed, revolutionary slave-classes who strive after power—they call it "freedom." OUR sympathy is a loftier and further-sighted sympathy:—we see how MAN dwarfs himself, how YOU dwarf him! and there are moments when we view YOUR sympathy with an indescribable anguish, when we resist it,—when we regard your seriousness as more dangerous than any kind of levity. You want, if possible—and there is not a more foolish "if possible"—TO DO AWAY WITH SUFFERING; and we?—it really seems that WE would rather have it increased and made worse than it has ever been! Well-being, as you understand it—is certainly not a goal; it seems to us an END; a condition which at once renders man ludicrous and contemptible—and makes his destruction DESIRABLE! The discipline of suffering, of GREAT suffering—know ye not that it is only THIS discipline that has produced all the elevations of humanity hitherto? The tension of soul in misfortune which communicates to it its energy, its shuddering in view of rack and ruin, its inventiveness and bravery in undergoing, enduring, interpreting, and exploiting misfortune, and whatever depth, mystery, disguise, spirit, artifice, or greatness has been bestowed upon the soul—has it not been bestowed through suffering, through the discipline of great suffering? In man CREATURE and CREATOR are united: in man there is not only matter, shred, excess, clay, mire, folly, chaos; but there is also the creator, the sculptor, the hardness of the hammer, the divinity of the spectator, and the seventh day—do ye understand this contrast? And that YOUR sympathy for the "creature in man" applies to that which has to be fashioned, bruised, forged, stretched, roasted, annealed, refined—to that which must necessarily SUFFER, and IS MEANT to suffer? And our sympathy—do ye not understand what our REVERSE sympathy applies to, when it resists your sympathy as the worst of all pampering and enervation?—So it is sympathy AGAINST sympathy!—But to repeat it once more, there are higher problems than the problems of pleasure and pain and sympathy; and all systems of philosophy which deal only with these are naivetes.

225. Whether hedonism, pessimism, utilitarianism, or eudaemonism, all these ways of thinking measure the worth of things by PLEASURE and PAIN. They judge by accompanying circumstances and secondary considerations. These ways of thinking are plausible but naive. Anyone aware of their own CREATIVE powers, with an artist's conscience, will scorn them, though not without sympathy. Sympathy for you! Of course, this is not sympathy as you understand it. It is not sympathy for social "distress," for "society" with its sick and unfortunate. Nor is it sympathy for those with inherited vices and defects who lie on the ground around us. Still less is it sympathy for the grumbling, resentful, revolutionary slave classes who seek power. They call it "freedom." OUR sympathy is higher and more far-sighted. We see how MAN diminishes himself, how YOU diminish him! At times, YOUR sympathy fills us with indescribable anguish, and we resist it. At such moments, we see your seriousness as more dangerous than any kind of frivolity. You want, if possible, TO DO AWAY WITH SUFFERING. And there is no more foolish "if possible." And we? It really seems that WE would rather see suffering increased and made worse than ever! Well-being, as you understand it, is certainly not a goal. To us, it seems an END. It is a condition that immediately makes man ridiculous and contemptible, and makes his destruction DESIRABLE! The discipline of suffering, of GREAT suffering: don't you know that this discipline ALONE has raised humanity to greater heights? Think of the soul's tension in misfortune, which gives the soul its energy. Think of its shuddering at the prospect of ruin and destruction. Think of its inventiveness and courage in experiencing, enduring, interpreting, and making use of misfortune. Whatever depth, mystery, disguise, spirit, cunning, or greatness the soul has gained, hasn't it gained these through suffering? Through the discipline of great suffering? In man, CREATURE and CREATOR are united. Man is not only matter, scraps, excess, clay, mud, folly, and chaos. He is also the creator, the sculptor, the hammer's hardness, the spectator's divinity, and the seventh day. Do you understand this contrast? And do you understand what YOUR sympathy for the "creature in man" concerns? It concerns what must be shaped, bruised, forged, stretched, roasted, tempered, and refined. It concerns what must necessarily SUFFER, and IS MEANT to suffer. And our sympathy? Don't you understand what our OPPOSITE sympathy concerns when it resists yours as the worst form of pampering and weakening? So it is sympathy AGAINST sympathy! But let me repeat: there are higher problems than those of pleasure, pain, and sympathy. And all philosophical systems concerned only with these are naive.

226. WE IMMORALISTS.—This world with which WE are concerned, in which we have to fear and love, this almost invisible, inaudible world of delicate command and delicate obedience, a world of "almost" in every respect, captious, insidious, sharp, and tender—yes, it is well protected from clumsy spectators and familiar curiosity! We are woven into a strong net and garment of duties, and CANNOT disengage ourselves—precisely here, we are "men of duty," even we! Occasionally, it is true, we dance in our "chains" and betwixt our "swords"; it is none the less true that more often we gnash our teeth under the circumstances, and are impatient at the secret hardship of our lot. But do what we will, fools and appearances say of us: "These are men WITHOUT duty,"—we have always fools and appearances against us!

226. WE IMMORALISTS. The world WE care about, where we must fear and love, is almost invisible and inaudible. It is a world of subtle commands and subtle obedience, a world of "almost" in every respect. This world is faultfinding, treacherous, sharp, and tender. Yes, it is well protected from clumsy onlookers and overly familiar curiosity! We are woven into a strong net and garment of duties, and we CANNOT free ourselves. In this very sense, even we are "men of duty"! Sometimes, admittedly, we dance in our "chains" and among our "swords". Yet more often we grind our teeth at our situation and grow impatient with our lot's hidden hardships. But whatever we do, fools and outward appearances say of us: "These are men WITHOUT duty". We always have fools and appearances against us!

227. Honesty, granting that it is the virtue of which we cannot rid ourselves, we free spirits—well, we will labour at it with all our perversity and love, and not tire of "perfecting" ourselves in OUR virtue, which alone remains: may its glance some day overspread like a gilded, blue, mocking twilight this aging civilization with its dull gloomy seriousness! And if, nevertheless, our honesty should one day grow weary, and sigh, and stretch its limbs, and find us too hard, and would fain have it pleasanter, easier, and gentler, like an agreeable vice, let us remain HARD, we latest Stoics, and let us send to its help whatever devilry we have in us:—our disgust at the clumsy and undefined, our "NITIMUR IN VETITUM," our love of adventure, our sharpened and fastidious curiosity, our most subtle, disguised, intellectual Will to Power and universal conquest, which rambles and roves avidiously around all the realms of the future—let us go with all our "devils" to the help of our "God"! It is probable that people will misunderstand and mistake us on that account: what does it matter! They will say: "Their 'honesty'—that is their devilry, and nothing else!" What does it matter! And even if they were right—have not all Gods hitherto been such sanctified, re-baptized devils? And after all, what do we know of ourselves? And what the spirit that leads us wants TO BE CALLED? (It is a question of names.) And how many spirits we harbour? Our honesty, we free spirits—let us be careful lest it become our vanity, our ornament and ostentation, our limitation, our stupidity! Every virtue inclines to stupidity, every stupidity to virtue; "stupid to the point of sanctity," they say in Russia,—let us be careful lest out of pure honesty we eventually become saints and bores! Is not life a hundred times too short for us—to bore ourselves? One would have to believe in eternal life in order to...

227. Honesty, assuming it is the virtue we free spirits cannot shake off, deserves all our perversity and love. We will work at it with both. We will not tire of "perfecting" ourselves in OUR virtue, the only one we have left. May its gaze someday spread like a golden, blue, mocking twilight over this aging civilization and its dull, gloomy seriousness! And yet our honesty may someday grow weary, sigh, and stretch its limbs. It may find us too harsh and want things more pleasant, easier, and gentler, like an agreeable vice. If so, let us remain HARD, we latest Stoics. Let us send whatever devilry we have within us to help our honesty. Let us send our disgust at whatever is clumsy and vague, our "WE STRIVE FOR THE FORBIDDEN," our love of adventure. Let us send our sharp, demanding curiosity and our most subtle, disguised, intellectual Will to Power and universal conquest. This will eagerly wanders and roams through all the realms of the future. Let us bring all our "devils" to the aid of our "God"! People will probably misunderstand and misjudge us because of this. What does it matter! They will say: "Their 'honesty' is their devilry, and nothing else!" What does it matter! And even if they were right, haven't all Gods until now been devils made holy and baptized under new names? And after all, what do we know about ourselves? Or about what the spirit that leads us wants TO BE CALLED? (It is a question of names.) Or about how many spirits we carry within us? Our honesty, we free spirits: let us take care that it does not become our vanity, our decoration and display. Let us take care that it does not become our limitation, our stupidity! Every virtue tends toward stupidity, every stupidity toward virtue. "Stupid to the point of holiness," they say in Russia. Let us take care that sheer honesty does not eventually turn us into saints and bores! Isn't life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves? You would have to believe in eternal life to...

228. I hope to be forgiven for discovering that all moral philosophy hitherto has been tedious and has belonged to the soporific appliances—and that "virtue," in my opinion, has been MORE injured by the TEDIOUSNESS of its advocates than by anything else; at the same time, however, I would not wish to overlook their general usefulness. It is desirable that as few people as possible should reflect upon morals, and consequently it is very desirable that morals should not some day become interesting! But let us not be afraid! Things still remain today as they have always been: I see no one in Europe who has (or DISCLOSES) an idea of the fact that philosophizing concerning morals might be conducted in a dangerous, captious, and ensnaring manner—that CALAMITY might be involved therein. Observe, for example, the indefatigable, inevitable English utilitarians: how ponderously and respectably they stalk on, stalk along (a Homeric metaphor expresses it better) in the footsteps of Bentham, just as he had already stalked in the footsteps of the respectable Helvetius! (no, he was not a dangerous man, Helvetius, CE SENATEUR POCOCURANTE, to use an expression of Galiani). No new thought, nothing of the nature of a finer turning or better expression of an old thought, not even a proper history of what has been previously thought on the subject: an IMPOSSIBLE literature, taking it all in all, unless one knows how to leaven it with some mischief. In effect, the old English vice called CANT, which is MORAL TARTUFFISM, has insinuated itself also into these moralists (whom one must certainly read with an eye to their motives if one MUST read them), concealed this time under the new form of the scientific spirit; moreover, there is not absent from them a secret struggle with the pangs of conscience, from which a race of former Puritans must naturally suffer, in all their scientific tinkering with morals. (Is not a moralist the opposite of a Puritan? That is to say, as a thinker who regards morality as questionable, as worthy of interrogation, in short, as a problem? Is moralizing not-immoral?) In the end, they all want English morality to be recognized as authoritative, inasmuch as mankind, or the "general utility," or "the happiness of the greatest number,"—no! the happiness of ENGLAND, will be best served thereby. They would like, by all means, to convince themselves that the striving after English happiness, I mean after COMFORT and FASHION (and in the highest instance, a seat in Parliament), is at the same time the true path of virtue; in fact, that in so far as there has been virtue in the world hitherto, it has just consisted in such striving. Not one of those ponderous, conscience-stricken herding-animals (who undertake to advocate the cause of egoism as conducive to the general welfare) wants to have any knowledge or inkling of the facts that the "general welfare" is no ideal, no goal, no notion that can be at all grasped, but is only a nostrum,—that what is fair to one MAY NOT at all be fair to another, that the requirement of one morality for all is really a detriment to higher men, in short, that there is a DISTINCTION OF RANK between man and man, and consequently between morality and morality. They are an unassuming and fundamentally mediocre species of men, these utilitarian Englishmen, and, as already remarked, in so far as they are tedious, one cannot think highly enough of their utility. One ought even to ENCOURAGE them, as has been partially attempted in the following rhymes:—

228. I hope I may be forgiven for discovering that all moral philosophy so far has been tedious and sleep-inducing. In my opinion, nothing has harmed "virtue" MORE than the TEDIOUSNESS of its advocates. Still, I would not want to overlook their general usefulness. It is desirable that as few people as possible should think about morality. So it is very desirable that morality should never become interesting! But let us not be afraid! Things remain today as they have always been. I see no one in Europe who understands (or DISCLOSES) that thinking philosophically about morality could be dangerous, provocative, and full of traps. Such thinking might bring CALAMITY. Consider, for example, the tireless, unavoidable English utilitarians. How ponderously and respectably they plod along in Bentham’s footsteps (a Homeric metaphor would express it better)! Bentham had already plodded along in the footsteps of the respectable Helvetius! (No, Helvetius was not a dangerous man, CE SENATEUR POCOCURANTE, that unconcerned senator, to use Galiani’s expression.) Not a new thought, not a subtler twist or better expression of an old thought. Not even a proper history of earlier thinking on the subject. Taken as a whole, their writings are IMPOSSIBLE, unless one knows how to spice them up with some mischief. In fact, the old English vice called CANT has crept into these moralists too. This vice is MORAL TARTUFFISM, or moral hypocrisy, now disguised as a scientific spirit. If one MUST read these moralists, one must certainly keep their motives in mind. They also secretly struggle with pangs of conscience. A people descended from Puritans must naturally suffer these pangs in all their scientific tinkering with morality. (Isn’t a moralist the opposite of a Puritan? A moralist, that is, who thinks about morality as something questionable, worth questioning, in short, as a problem? Isn’t moralizing immoral?) Ultimately, they all want English morality accepted as authoritative. They claim it best serves humanity, or the "general utility," or "the happiness of the greatest number." No! It best serves the happiness of ENGLAND. They want, at all costs, to convince themselves that pursuing English happiness is also the true path of virtue. By English happiness, I mean COMFORT and FASHION (and, at the highest level, a seat in Parliament). Indeed, they want to believe that all virtue the world has ever known has consisted in just this pursuit. These ponderous, guilt-ridden herd animals set out to defend selfishness as a means to everyone’s welfare. Not one wants to know, or even suspect, that the "general welfare" is no ideal, no goal, no understandable concept. It is merely a supposed cure-all. What is fair to one person MAY NOT be fair to another at all. Requiring one morality for everyone actually harms higher human beings. In short, there is a DIFFERENCE IN RANK between one person and another, and therefore between one morality and another. These English utilitarians are an unassuming and fundamentally mediocre kind of person. And, as already noted, insofar as they are tedious, their usefulness cannot be praised highly enough. We should even ENCOURAGE them, as the following verses have partly attempted to do:

229. In these later ages, which may be proud of their humanity, there still remains so much fear, so much SUPERSTITION of the fear, of the "cruel wild beast," the mastering of which constitutes the very pride of these humaner ages—that even obvious truths, as if by the agreement of centuries, have long remained unuttered, because they have the appearance of helping the finally slain wild beast back to life again. I perhaps risk something when I allow such a truth to escape; let others capture it again and give it so much "milk of pious sentiment" [FOOTNOTE: An expression from Schiller's William Tell, Act IV, Scene 3.] to drink, that it will lie down quiet and forgotten, in its old corner.—One ought to learn anew about cruelty, and open one's eyes; one ought at last to learn impatience, in order that such immodest gross errors—as, for instance, have been fostered by ancient and modern philosophers with regard to tragedy—may no longer wander about virtuously and boldly. Almost everything that we call "higher culture" is based upon the spiritualising and intensifying of CRUELTY—this is my thesis; the "wild beast" has not been slain at all, it lives, it flourishes, it has only been—transfigured. That which constitutes the painful delight of tragedy is cruelty; that which operates agreeably in so-called tragic sympathy, and at the basis even of everything sublime, up to the highest and most delicate thrills of metaphysics, obtains its sweetness solely from the intermingled ingredient of cruelty. What the Roman enjoys in the arena, the Christian in the ecstasies of the cross, the Spaniard at the sight of the faggot and stake, or of the bull-fight, the present-day Japanese who presses his way to the tragedy, the workman of the Parisian suburbs who has a homesickness for bloody revolutions, the Wagnerienne who, with unhinged will, "undergoes" the performance of "Tristan and Isolde"—what all these enjoy, and strive with mysterious ardour to drink in, is the philtre of the great Circe "cruelty." Here, to be sure, we must put aside entirely the blundering psychology of former times, which could only teach with regard to cruelty that it originated at the sight of the suffering of OTHERS: there is an abundant, super-abundant enjoyment even in one's own suffering, in causing one's own suffering—and wherever man has allowed himself to be persuaded to self-denial in the RELIGIOUS sense, or to self-mutilation, as among the Phoenicians and ascetics, or in general, to desensualisation, decarnalisation, and contrition, to Puritanical repentance-spasms, to vivisection of conscience and to Pascal-like SACRIFIZIA DELL' INTELLETO, he is secretly allured and impelled forwards by his cruelty, by the dangerous thrill of cruelty TOWARDS HIMSELF.—Finally, let us consider that even the seeker of knowledge operates as an artist and glorifier of cruelty, in that he compels his spirit to perceive AGAINST its own inclination, and often enough against the wishes of his heart:—he forces it to say Nay, where he would like to affirm, love, and adore; indeed, every instance of taking a thing profoundly and fundamentally, is a violation, an intentional injuring of the fundamental will of the spirit, which instinctively aims at appearance and superficiality,—even in every desire for knowledge there is a drop of cruelty.

229. These later ages may be proud of their humanity. Yet they still deeply fear the "cruel wild beast" whose taming is the very source of their pride. So much fear remains, so much SUPERSTITION born of fear, that even obvious truths have long gone unspoken. The silence seems agreed upon across centuries. For these truths seem to help revive the wild beast supposedly killed at last. Perhaps I risk something by letting one such truth escape. Let others catch it again and give it so much "milk of pious sentiment" [FOOTNOTE: An expression from Schiller's William Tell, Act IV, Scene 3.] that it settles down, quiet and forgotten, in its old corner. We ought to take a fresh look at cruelty and open our eyes. We ought finally to grow impatient with such shamelessly gross errors. Then those errors could no longer parade around so boldly, looking virtuous. Consider, for example, the errors about tragedy encouraged by ancient and modern philosophers. Almost everything we call "higher culture" rests on making CRUELTY more spiritual and more intense. That is my claim. The "wild beast" has not been killed at all. It lives and flourishes. It has only been transformed. Cruelty creates the painful pleasure of tragedy. Cruelty also gives so-called tragic sympathy its pleasure. Even everything sublime, including the highest and most delicate thrills of metaphysics, owes its sweetness solely to cruelty mixed in. The Roman enjoys it in the arena, the Christian in the ecstasies of the cross. The Spaniard enjoys it at the sight of burning stakes or bullfights. The present-day Japanese spectator pushes through the crowd to see a tragedy. The worker in the Parisian suburbs longs nostalgically for bloody revolutions. The Wagnerienne, her will thrown off balance, "undergoes" a performance of "Tristan and Isolde". All these people enjoy the same thing and strive with mysterious passion to drink it in. It is the potion brewed by the great Circe, "cruelty." Here, however, we must completely abandon the clumsy psychology of earlier times. It taught only that cruelty arose from seeing OTHERS suffer. Yet people find abundant, more than abundant, enjoyment even in their own suffering and in making themselves suffer. Consider wherever people have let themselves be persuaded to practice self-denial in the RELIGIOUS sense. Or consider self-mutilation, as practiced among the Phoenicians and ascetics. More generally, consider suppressing sensuality, rejecting the flesh, and feeling contrition. Consider Puritan fits of repentance, dissecting the living conscience, and Pascal-like SACRIFIZIA DELL' INTELLETO, sacrifices of the intellect. In all these cases, people are secretly attracted and driven forward by their cruelty. They feel the dangerous thrill of cruelty TOWARDS THEMSELVES. Finally, consider how even the seeker of knowledge acts as an artist of cruelty and glorifies it. Such seekers force their minds to perceive AGAINST their own inclinations, and often enough against their hearts' wishes. They force their minds to say No where they would like to affirm, love, and adore. Indeed, every attempt to understand something deeply and thoroughly is a violation. It deliberately injures the mind's fundamental will, which instinctively seeks appearances and superficiality. Even every desire for knowledge contains a drop of cruelty.

230. Perhaps what I have said here about a "fundamental will of the spirit" may not be understood without further details; I may be allowed a word of explanation.—That imperious something which is popularly called "the spirit," wishes to be master internally and externally, and to feel itself master; it has the will of a multiplicity for a simplicity, a binding, taming, imperious, and essentially ruling will. Its requirements and capacities here, are the same as those assigned by physiologists to everything that lives, grows, and multiplies. The power of the spirit to appropriate foreign elements reveals itself in a strong tendency to assimilate the new to the old, to simplify the manifold, to overlook or repudiate the absolutely contradictory; just as it arbitrarily re-underlines, makes prominent, and falsifies for itself certain traits and lines in the foreign elements, in every portion of the "outside world." Its object thereby is the incorporation of new "experiences," the assortment of new things in the old arrangements—in short, growth; or more properly, the FEELING of growth, the feeling of increased power—is its object. This same will has at its service an apparently opposed impulse of the spirit, a suddenly adopted preference of ignorance, of arbitrary shutting out, a closing of windows, an inner denial of this or that, a prohibition to approach, a sort of defensive attitude against much that is knowable, a contentment with obscurity, with the shutting-in horizon, an acceptance and approval of ignorance: as that which is all necessary according to the degree of its appropriating power, its "digestive power," to speak figuratively (and in fact "the spirit" resembles a stomach more than anything else). Here also belong an occasional propensity of the spirit to let itself be deceived (perhaps with a waggish suspicion that it is NOT so and so, but is only allowed to pass as such), a delight in uncertainty and ambiguity, an exulting enjoyment of arbitrary, out-of-the-way narrowness and mystery, of the too-near, of the foreground, of the magnified, the diminished, the misshapen, the beautified—an enjoyment of the arbitrariness of all these manifestations of power. Finally, in this connection, there is the not unscrupulous readiness of the spirit to deceive other spirits and dissemble before them—the constant pressing and straining of a creating, shaping, changeable power: the spirit enjoys therein its craftiness and its variety of disguises, it enjoys also its feeling of security therein—it is precisely by its Protean arts that it is best protected and concealed!—COUNTER TO this propensity for appearance, for simplification, for a disguise, for a cloak, in short, for an outside—for every outside is a cloak—there operates the sublime tendency of the man of knowledge, which takes, and INSISTS on taking things profoundly, variously, and thoroughly; as a kind of cruelty of the intellectual conscience and taste, which every courageous thinker will acknowledge in himself, provided, as it ought to be, that he has sharpened and hardened his eye sufficiently long for introspection, and is accustomed to severe discipline and even severe words. He will say: "There is something cruel in the tendency of my spirit": let the virtuous and amiable try to convince him that it is not so! In fact, it would sound nicer, if, instead of our cruelty, perhaps our "extravagant honesty" were talked about, whispered about, and glorified—we free, VERY free spirits—and some day perhaps SUCH will actually be our—posthumous glory! Meanwhile—for there is plenty of time until then—we should be least inclined to deck ourselves out in such florid and fringed moral verbiage; our whole former work has just made us sick of this taste and its sprightly exuberance. They are beautiful, glistening, jingling, festive words: honesty, love of truth, love of wisdom, sacrifice for knowledge, heroism of the truthful—there is something in them that makes one's heart swell with pride. But we anchorites and marmots have long ago persuaded ourselves in all the secrecy of an anchorite's conscience, that this worthy parade of verbiage also belongs to the old false adornment, frippery, and gold-dust of unconscious human vanity, and that even under such flattering colour and repainting, the terrible original text HOMO NATURA must again be recognized. In effect, to translate man back again into nature; to master the many vain and visionary interpretations and subordinate meanings which have hitherto been scratched and daubed over the eternal original text, HOMO NATURA; to bring it about that man shall henceforth stand before man as he now, hardened by the discipline of science, stands before the OTHER forms of nature, with fearless Oedipus-eyes, and stopped Ulysses-ears, deaf to the enticements of old metaphysical bird-catchers, who have piped to him far too long: "Thou art more! thou art higher! thou hast a different origin!"—this may be a strange and foolish task, but that it is a TASK, who can deny! Why did we choose it, this foolish task? Or, to put the question differently: "Why knowledge at all?" Every one will ask us about this. And thus pressed, we, who have asked ourselves the question a hundred times, have not found and cannot find any better answer....

230. Perhaps my remarks here about a "fundamental will of the spirit" need more detail to be understood. Allow me a word of explanation. That commanding something popularly called "the spirit" wants mastery, both within itself and over the outside world. It also wants to feel itself master. It wants to turn multiplicity into simplicity. Its will binds, tames, commands, and, above all, rules. Its needs and abilities are the same as those physiologists attribute to everything that lives, grows, and reproduces. The spirit's power to absorb foreign elements shows itself in a strong tendency to fit the new into the old. It simplifies variety and overlooks or rejects outright contradictions. At the same time, it arbitrarily emphasizes, highlights, and distorts certain features of those foreign elements. It does this with every part of the "outside world." Its aim is to absorb new "experiences," fitting new things into old arrangements. In short, its aim is growth. More precisely, its aim is the FEELING of growth, the feeling of increased power. This same will uses another impulse of the spirit, one that seems to oppose it. The spirit suddenly prefers ignorance and arbitrarily shuts things out. It closes its windows, inwardly rejects this or that, and forbids any approach. It takes a defensive stance against much that could be known. It becomes content with obscurity and a restricted horizon. It accepts and approves of ignorance. All this is necessary, depending on how much the spirit can absorb, its "digestive power," to speak figuratively. (In fact, "the spirit" resembles a stomach more than anything else.) The spirit's occasional tendency to let itself be deceived also belongs here. Perhaps it has a sly suspicion that things are NOT as they appear, but are merely allowed to pass as such. It delights in uncertainty and ambiguity. It revels in arbitrary, peculiar narrowness and mystery, in what is too close, in the foreground. It enjoys what is enlarged, reduced, distorted, or beautified. It enjoys the arbitrariness of all these displays of power. Finally, this includes the spirit's readiness to deceive other spirits and hide its intentions from them, though not without scruples. A creative, shaping, changeable power constantly presses and strains toward this. The spirit enjoys its cunning and its many disguises. It also enjoys the security they give it. Its Protean arts of transformation are precisely what protect and conceal it best! COUNTER TO this drive toward appearances, simplification, disguise, and concealment, another drive operates. The first drive seeks, in short, an exterior, for every exterior is a covering. Opposing it is the knowledge-seeker's lofty drive to examine things deeply, from many sides, and thoroughly. This drive INSISTS on doing so. It is a kind of cruelty in intellectual conscience and taste. Every courageous thinker will recognize this cruelty in himself, provided he has trained himself for self-examination long enough. As he ought to, he must have sharpened and hardened his gaze. He must also be accustomed to strict discipline and even harsh words. He will say: "There is something cruel in the tendency of my spirit." Let the virtuous and kindly try to convince him otherwise! Of course, it would sound nicer if people discussed, whispered about, and glorified our "extravagant honesty" instead of our cruelty. I mean us free, VERY free spirits. And perhaps one day SUCH praise will indeed be our glory, after our deaths! Meanwhile, there is plenty of time before then. We should be the last to dress ourselves in such flowery, elaborately trimmed moral language. All our previous work has made us sick of that taste and its lively excesses. These are beautiful, glittering, jingling, festive words: honesty, love of truth, love of wisdom, sacrifice for knowledge, heroism of the truthful. Something in them makes the heart swell with pride. But we hermits and marmots have long since convinced ourselves otherwise, in the deepest privacy of a hermit's conscience. This respectable parade of words also belongs to the old false finery, frills, and gold dust of unconscious human vanity. Even beneath such flattering colors and fresh paint, we must recognize the terrible original text again: HOMO NATURA. The task, then, is to translate humanity back into nature. It is to overcome the many vain, fanciful interpretations and secondary meanings laid over the eternal original text, HOMO NATURA. Until now, these have been scratched and smeared across that text. The task is to make human beings face humanity as they now face the OTHER forms of nature. They must face humanity hardened by scientific discipline, with fearless Oedipus-eyes and stopped Ulysses-ears. They must be deaf to the lures of those old metaphysical bird-catchers. Far too long, those bird-catchers have piped to them: "You are more! You are higher! You have a different origin!" This may be a strange and foolish task. But who can deny that it is a TASK! Why did we choose this foolish task? Or, to put the question differently: "Why knowledge at all?" Everyone will ask us this. And when pressed, we who have asked ourselves this question a hundred times have found no better answer. Nor can we find one....

231. Learning alters us, it does what all nourishment does that does not merely "conserve"—as the physiologist knows. But at the bottom of our souls, quite "down below," there is certainly something unteachable, a granite of spiritual fate, of predetermined decision and answer to predetermined, chosen questions. In each cardinal problem there speaks an unchangeable "I am this"; a thinker cannot learn anew about man and woman, for instance, but can only learn fully—he can only follow to the end what is "fixed" about them in himself. Occasionally we find certain solutions of problems which make strong beliefs for us; perhaps they are henceforth called "convictions." Later on—one sees in them only footsteps to self-knowledge, guide-posts to the problem which we ourselves ARE—or more correctly to the great stupidity which we embody, our spiritual fate, the UNTEACHABLE in us, quite "down below."—In view of this liberal compliment which I have just paid myself, permission will perhaps be more readily allowed me to utter some truths about "woman as she is," provided that it is known at the outset how literally they are merely—MY truths.

231. Learning changes us, as all nourishment does when it does not merely "preserve" us. Physiologists know this. But deep in our souls, quite "down below," there is certainly something that cannot be taught. It is a granite core of spiritual fate, of predetermined decisions and answers to predetermined, chosen questions. In every fundamental problem, an unchanging voice says, "I am this". A thinker cannot learn anything new about man and woman, for instance. He can only fully understand what is already "fixed" about them within himself, following it through to the end. Sometimes we find solutions to problems that become strong beliefs for us. Perhaps from then on we call these beliefs "convictions." Later, we see these convictions only as steps toward self-knowledge. They are signposts pointing toward the problem we ourselves ARE. Or, more precisely, toward the great stupidity we embody, our spiritual fate, the UNTEACHABLE within us, quite "down below." Given this generous compliment I have just paid myself, perhaps I will more readily be allowed to speak. I want to offer some truths about "woman as she is," with one condition understood from the start. These truths are, quite literally, merely MY truths.

232. Woman wishes to be independent, and therefore she begins to enlighten men about "woman as she is"—THIS is one of the worst developments of the general UGLIFYING of Europe. For what must these clumsy attempts of feminine scientificality and self-exposure bring to light! Woman has so much cause for shame; in woman there is so much pedantry, superficiality, schoolmasterliness, petty presumption, unbridledness, and indiscretion concealed—study only woman's behaviour towards children!—which has really been best restrained and dominated hitherto by the FEAR of man. Alas, if ever the "eternally tedious in woman"—she has plenty of it!—is allowed to venture forth! if she begins radically and on principle to unlearn her wisdom and art-of charming, of playing, of frightening away sorrow, of alleviating and taking easily; if she forgets her delicate aptitude for agreeable desires! Female voices are already raised, which, by Saint Aristophanes! make one afraid:—with medical explicitness it is stated in a threatening manner what woman first and last REQUIRES from man. Is it not in the very worst taste that woman thus sets herself up to be scientific? Enlightenment hitherto has fortunately been men's affair, men's gift—we remained therewith "among ourselves"; and in the end, in view of all that women write about "woman," we may well have considerable doubt as to whether woman really DESIRES enlightenment about herself—and CAN desire it. If woman does not thereby seek a new ORNAMENT for herself—I believe ornamentation belongs to the eternally feminine?—why, then, she wishes to make herself feared: perhaps she thereby wishes to get the mastery. But she does not want truth—what does woman care for truth? From the very first, nothing is more foreign, more repugnant, or more hostile to woman than truth—her great art is falsehood, her chief concern is appearance and beauty. Let us confess it, we men: we honour and love this very art and this very instinct in woman: we who have the hard task, and for our recreation gladly seek the company of beings under whose hands, glances, and delicate follies, our seriousness, our gravity, and profundity appear almost like follies to us. Finally, I ask the question: Did a woman herself ever acknowledge profundity in a woman's mind, or justice in a woman's heart? And is it not true that on the whole "woman" has hitherto been most despised by woman herself, and not at all by us?—We men desire that woman should not continue to compromise herself by enlightening us; just as it was man's care and the consideration for woman, when the church decreed: mulier taceat in ecclesia. It was to the benefit of woman when Napoleon gave the too eloquent Madame de Stael to understand: mulier taceat in politicis!—and in my opinion, he is a true friend of woman who calls out to women today: mulier taceat de mulierel.

232. Woman wants independence, so she begins to enlighten men about "woman as she is." THIS is one of the worst developments in the general UGLIFYING of Europe. What must these clumsy attempts by women at scientific thinking and self-exposure reveal! Woman has so much to be ashamed of. So much pedantry, shallowness, schoolteacher-like lecturing, petty arrogance, lack of restraint, and indiscretion lie hidden in woman. Just study woman's behavior toward children! Until now, these qualities have really been best restrained and controlled by the FEAR of man. Alas, what if the "eternally tedious in woman" is ever allowed to come out! She has plenty of it! What if she begins, thoroughly and on principle, to unlearn her wisdom and skill? Her skill in charming, playing, driving away sorrow, bringing relief, and taking things lightly! What if she forgets her delicate gift for pleasant desires! Women's voices are already being raised that, by Saint Aristophanes!, make one afraid. With medical explicitness, they threateningly declare what woman first and last REQUIRES from man. Is it not the very worst taste for woman to present herself as scientific in this way? Until now, enlightenment has fortunately been men's business, men's gift. In pursuing it, we remained "among ourselves." And after all, considering everything women write about "woman," we may well have serious doubts. Does woman really DESIRE enlightenment about herself, and CAN she desire it? Unless she seeks a new ORNAMENT for herself through such enlightenment, she wants to make herself feared. I believe ornamentation belongs to the eternally feminine, doesn't it? Perhaps she wants to gain control through fear. But she does not want truth. What does woman care about truth? From the very beginning, nothing is more foreign, more repulsive, or more hostile to woman than truth. Her great art is falsehood, her chief concern appearance and beauty. Let us men admit it: we honor and love this very art and this very instinct in woman. We have the hard task, and for relaxation we gladly seek the company of such beings. Under their hands, glances, and delicate follies, our seriousness, solemnity, and depth seem almost like follies to us. Finally, I ask: Has a woman herself ever acknowledged depth in a woman's mind, or justice in a woman's heart? And isn't it true that, overall, "woman" has until now been most despised by woman herself, not by us at all? We men want woman to stop undermining herself by enlightening us. Likewise, men's care and consideration for woman lay behind the church's decree: let woman be silent in church. It benefited woman when Napoleon told the all-too-eloquent Madame de Stael: let woman be silent in politics! And in my opinion, a true friend of woman calls out to women today: let woman be silent about woman!

233. It betrays corruption of the instincts—apart from the fact that it betrays bad taste—when a woman refers to Madame Roland, or Madame de Stael, or Monsieur George Sand, as though something were proved thereby in favour of "woman as she is." Among men, these are the three comical women as they are—nothing more!—and just the best involuntary counter-arguments against feminine emancipation and autonomy.

233. A woman reveals corrupt instincts when she cites Madame Roland, Madame de Stael, or Monsieur George Sand as though those names proved something in favour of "woman as she is." She also reveals bad taste. Among men, these three are simply the comical women they are, nothing more! And they are the very best unintentional arguments against women’s emancipation and independence.

234. Stupidity in the kitchen; woman as cook; the terrible thoughtlessness with which the feeding of the family and the master of the house is managed! Woman does not understand what food means, and she insists on being cook! If woman had been a thinking creature, she should certainly, as cook for thousands of years, have discovered the most important physiological facts, and should likewise have got possession of the healing art! Through bad female cooks—through the entire lack of reason in the kitchen—the development of mankind has been longest retarded and most interfered with: even today matters are very little better. A word to High School girls.

234. Stupidity in the kitchen. Woman as cook. How terribly thoughtlessly the family and the master of the house are fed! Woman does not understand what food means, yet she insists on being the cook! If women had been thinking creatures, thousands of years as cooks would certainly have taught them the most important facts about physiology. They would also have mastered the art of healing! Bad female cooks, and the complete lack of reason in the kitchen, have held back human development the longest. They have also interfered with human development the most. Even today, things are hardly any better. A word to high school girls.

235. There are turns and casts of fancy, there are sentences, little handfuls of words, in which a whole culture, a whole society suddenly crystallises itself. Among these is the incidental remark of Madame de Lambert to her son: "MON AMI, NE VOUS PERMETTEZ JAMAIS QUE DES FOLIES, QUI VOUS FERONT GRAND PLAISIR"—the motherliest and wisest remark, by the way, that was ever addressed to a son.

235. Some imaginative twists, some sentences, some little handfuls of words suddenly capture an entire culture, an entire society. One example is Madame de Lambert’s passing remark to her son: "My friend, allow yourself only those follies that will give you great pleasure." By the way, no remark ever addressed to a son was more motherly or wiser.

236. I have no doubt that every noble woman will oppose what Dante and Goethe believed about woman—the former when he sang, "ELLA GUARDAVA SUSO, ED IO IN LEI," and the latter when he interpreted it, "the eternally feminine draws us ALOFT"; for THIS is just what she believes of the eternally masculine.

236. I have no doubt that every noble woman will reject what Dante and Goethe believed about women. Dante sang, "She looked upward, and I looked at her." Goethe interpreted Dante's words as "the eternally feminine draws us UPWARD". For THIS is exactly what every noble woman believes about the eternally masculine.

237. SEVEN APOPHTHEGMS FOR WOMEN

237. SEVEN SAYINGS FOR WOMEN

How the longest ennui flees, When a man comes to our knees!

How the longest spell of boredom vanishes when a man comes to our knees!

Age, alas! and science staid, Furnish even weak virtue aid.

Sadly, age and sober science help even weak virtue.

Sombre garb and silence meet: Dress for every dame—discreet.

Dark clothes and silence go together: discreet dress for every woman.

Whom I thank when in my bliss? God!—and my good tailoress!

Who do I thank when I’m blissfully happy? God! And my good seamstress!

Young, a flower-decked cavern home; Old, a dragon thence doth roam.

In youth, a cave adorned with flowers is home. In old age, a dragon roams out of the cave.

Noble title, leg that's fine, Man as well: Oh, were HE mine!

A noble title, a fine leg, and a fine man too. Oh, if only HE were mine!

Speech in brief and sense in mass—Slippery for the jenny-ass!

Few words, lots of meaning. Slippery ground for the female donkey!

237A. Woman has hitherto been treated by men like birds, which, losing their way, have come down among them from an elevation: as something delicate, fragile, wild, strange, sweet, and animating—but as something also which must be cooped up to prevent it flying away.

237A. Until now, men have treated women like birds that have lost their way and landed among them from above. Men have seen women as delicate, fragile, wild, strange, sweet, and full of life. But men have also seen women as creatures that must be caged to keep them from flying away.

238. To be mistaken in the fundamental problem of "man and woman," to deny here the profoundest antagonism and the necessity for an eternally hostile tension, to dream here perhaps of equal rights, equal training, equal claims and obligations: that is a TYPICAL sign of shallow-mindedness; and a thinker who has proved himself shallow at this dangerous spot—shallow in instinct!—may generally be regarded as suspicious, nay more, as betrayed, as discovered; he will probably prove too "short" for all fundamental questions of life, future as well as present, and will be unable to descend into ANY of the depths. On the other hand, a man who has depth of spirit as well as of desires, and has also the depth of benevolence which is capable of severity and harshness, and easily confounded with them, can only think of woman as ORIENTALS do: he must conceive of her as a possession, as confinable property, as a being predestined for service and accomplishing her mission therein—he must take his stand in this matter upon the immense rationality of Asia, upon the superiority of the instinct of Asia, as the Greeks did formerly; those best heirs and scholars of Asia—who, as is well known, with their INCREASING culture and amplitude of power, from Homer to the time of Pericles, became gradually STRICTER towards woman, in short, more Oriental. HOW necessary, HOW logical, even HOW humanely desirable this was, let us consider for ourselves!

238. Getting the basic problem of "man and woman" wrong is a TYPICAL sign of shallow thinking. So is denying the deepest antagonism between them and the need for an eternally hostile tension. So is dreaming, perhaps, of equal rights, equal education, equal claims and obligations. A thinker who has shown himself shallow at this dangerous point has revealed shallow instincts! Such a thinker can generally be viewed with suspicion. More than that, he has given himself away and been exposed. He will probably prove too "short" for all the basic questions of life, both future and present. He will be unable to reach ANY of the depths. By contrast, consider a man whose mind and desires are deep, and whose goodwill is deep as well. His goodwill can be severe and harsh, and can easily be mistaken for severity and harshness. Such a man can only think of woman as ORIENTALS do. He must see her as a possession, as property that can be confined. He must see her as destined to serve and as fulfilling her purpose through service. On this question, he must base his position on Asia's immense rationality and superior instincts, just as the Greeks once did. The Greeks were Asia's finest heirs and pupils. As everyone knows, their culture and power INCREASED from Homer to the time of Pericles. As their culture and power grew, they gradually became STRICTER toward woman. In short, they became more Oriental. Let us consider for ourselves HOW necessary, HOW logical, even HOW desirable from a humane standpoint this development was!

239. The weaker sex has in no previous age been treated with so much respect by men as at present—this belongs to the tendency and fundamental taste of democracy, in the same way as disrespectfulness to old age—what wonder is it that abuse should be immediately made of this respect? They want more, they learn to make claims, the tribute of respect is at last felt to be well-nigh galling; rivalry for rights, indeed actual strife itself, would be preferred: in a word, woman is losing modesty. And let us immediately add that she is also losing taste. She is unlearning to FEAR man: but the woman who "unlearns to fear" sacrifices her most womanly instincts. That woman should venture forward when the fear-inspiring quality in man—or more definitely, the MAN in man—is no longer either desired or fully developed, is reasonable enough and also intelligible enough; what is more difficult to understand is that precisely thereby—woman deteriorates. This is what is happening nowadays: let us not deceive ourselves about it! Wherever the industrial spirit has triumphed over the military and aristocratic spirit, woman strives for the economic and legal independence of a clerk: "woman as clerkess" is inscribed on the portal of the modern society which is in course of formation. While she thus appropriates new rights, aspires to be "master," and inscribes "progress" of woman on her flags and banners, the very opposite realises itself with terrible obviousness: WOMAN RETROGRADES. Since the French Revolution the influence of woman in Europe has DECLINED in proportion as she has increased her rights and claims; and the "emancipation of woman," insofar as it is desired and demanded by women themselves (and not only by masculine shallow-pates), thus proves to be a remarkable symptom of the increased weakening and deadening of the most womanly instincts. There is STUPIDITY in this movement, an almost masculine stupidity, of which a well-reared woman—who is always a sensible woman—might be heartily ashamed. To lose the intuition as to the ground upon which she can most surely achieve victory; to neglect exercise in the use of her proper weapons; to let-herself-go before man, perhaps even "to the book," where formerly she kept herself in control and in refined, artful humility; to neutralize with her virtuous audacity man's faith in a VEILED, fundamentally different ideal in woman, something eternally, necessarily feminine; to emphatically and loquaciously dissuade man from the idea that woman must be preserved, cared for, protected, and indulged, like some delicate, strangely wild, and often pleasant domestic animal; the clumsy and indignant collection of everything of the nature of servitude and bondage which the position of woman in the hitherto existing order of society has entailed and still entails (as though slavery were a counter-argument, and not rather a condition of every higher culture, of every elevation of culture):—what does all this betoken, if not a disintegration of womanly instincts, a defeminising? Certainly, there are enough of idiotic friends and corrupters of woman among the learned asses of the masculine sex, who advise woman to defeminize herself in this manner, and to imitate all the stupidities from which "man" in Europe, European "manliness," suffers,—who would like to lower woman to "general culture," indeed even to newspaper reading and meddling with politics. Here and there they wish even to make women into free spirits and literary workers: as though a woman without piety would not be something perfectly obnoxious or ludicrous to a profound and godless man;—almost everywhere her nerves are being ruined by the most morbid and dangerous kind of music (our latest German music), and she is daily being made more hysterical and more incapable of fulfilling her first and last function, that of bearing robust children. They wish to "cultivate" her in general still more, and intend, as they say, to make the "weaker sex" STRONG by culture: as if history did not teach in the most emphatic manner that the "cultivating" of mankind and his weakening—that is to say, the weakening, dissipating, and languishing of his FORCE OF WILL—have always kept pace with one another, and that the most powerful and influential women in the world (and lastly, the mother of Napoleon) had just to thank their force of will—and not their schoolmasters—for their power and ascendancy over men. That which inspires respect in woman, and often enough fear also, is her NATURE, which is more "natural" than that of man, her genuine, carnivora-like, cunning flexibility, her tiger-claws beneath the glove, her NAIVETE in egoism, her untrainableness and innate wildness, the incomprehensibleness, extent, and deviation of her desires and virtues. That which, in spite of fear, excites one's sympathy for the dangerous and beautiful cat, "woman," is that she seems more afflicted, more vulnerable, more necessitous of love, and more condemned to disillusionment than any other creature. Fear and sympathy it is with these feelings that man has hitherto stood in the presence of woman, always with one foot already in tragedy, which rends while it delights—What? And all that is now to be at an end? And the DISENCHANTMENT of woman is in progress? The tediousness of woman is slowly evolving? Oh Europe! Europe! We know the horned animal which was always most attractive to thee, from which danger is ever again threatening thee! Thy old fable might once more become "history"—an immense stupidity might once again overmaster thee and carry thee away! And no God concealed beneath it—no! only an "idea," a "modern idea"!

239. Never before has the weaker sex been treated with so much respect by men as today. This reflects democracy’s basic tendency and taste, just as disrespect for old age does. Is it any wonder that women immediately abuse this respect? They want more and learn to make demands. Eventually, the tribute of respect feels almost insulting. They would prefer competition over rights, even open conflict. In short, woman is losing her modesty. And let us add at once that she is also losing her taste. She is unlearning her FEAR of man. But the woman who "unlearns to fear" sacrifices her most womanly instincts. Men’s power to inspire fear is no longer desired or fully developed. More precisely, the MAN in man is no longer desired or fully developed. Under these conditions, it is reasonable and understandable that woman should step forward. What is harder to understand is that, precisely by doing so, woman deteriorates. This is happening today. Let us not deceive ourselves about it! Wherever the industrial spirit has defeated the military and aristocratic spirit, woman seeks a clerk’s economic and legal independence. "Woman as clerkess" is written above the entrance to the modern society now taking shape. Woman claims new rights, aspires to be "master," and writes woman’s "progress" on her flags and banners. Yet the exact opposite happens with terrible clarity: WOMAN GOES BACKWARD. Since the French Revolution, woman’s influence in Europe has DECLINED in proportion to the increase in her rights and demands. Thus, the "emancipation of woman" proves a striking symptom of the growing weakness and numbness of her most womanly instincts. This applies insofar as women themselves desire and demand emancipation, rather than only shallow-minded men. There is STUPIDITY in this movement, an almost masculine stupidity. A well-brought-up woman, who is always a sensible woman, might feel deeply ashamed of it. She loses her instinct for the ground on which she can most surely win. She neglects practice with her own weapons. She lets herself go before man, perhaps even "in print." Formerly, she controlled herself and showed a refined, artful humility. With her bold displays of virtue, she destroys man’s faith in a VEILED ideal of woman, fundamentally different from himself. That ideal embodies something eternally, necessarily feminine. She loudly and insistently argues men out of believing that woman must be preserved, cared for, protected, and indulged. In that belief, woman resembles a delicate, strangely wild, and often delightful domestic animal. She clumsily and indignantly catalogs every form of servitude and bondage that woman’s position in society has involved and still involves. She acts as though slavery were an argument against that social order. As though slavery were not instead a condition of every higher culture, of every advance in culture! What does all this show, if not the breakdown of womanly instincts, a loss of femininity? Certainly, among the learned asses of the male sex, woman has enough idiotic friends and corrupters. They advise her to strip herself of femininity in this way. They urge her to imitate every stupidity afflicting European "man" and European "manliness." They would lower woman to "general culture," even to reading newspapers and meddling in politics. Here and there, they even want to turn women into free spirits and literary workers. As though a woman without religious devotion would not seem utterly repellent or ridiculous to a profound, godless man! Almost everywhere, the sickliest and most dangerous kind of music, our latest German music, is ruining her nerves. Every day, she is made more hysterical and less capable of fulfilling her first and last function: bearing robust children. They want to "cultivate" her still further in general. Through culture, they intend, as they say, to make the "weaker sex" STRONG. As if history did not teach the opposite in the clearest possible terms! The "cultivation" of humanity and its weakening have always advanced together. That weakening means the weakening, scattering, and decline of humanity’s FORCE OF WILL. And the world’s most powerful and influential women, including, most recently, Napoleon’s mother, owed their power over men to their will. They owed their influence to that strength, not to their schoolmasters. What inspires respect for woman, and often fear too, is her NATURE, which is more "natural" than man’s. It is her genuine, predator-like cunning and flexibility, her tiger claws beneath the glove, her NAIVETE in selfishness. It is her resistance to training and her inborn wildness. It is the incomprehensible nature, range, and waywardness of her desires and virtues. Despite our fear, we feel sympathy for the dangerous and beautiful cat, "woman." She seems more afflicted, more vulnerable, more in need of love, and more condemned to disillusionment than any other creature. Fear and sympathy: with these feelings, man has until now stood before woman. He has always had one foot already in tragedy, which tears us apart even as it delights us. What? Is all that now to end? Is woman’s DISENCHANTMENT underway? Is woman slowly becoming tedious? Oh Europe! Europe! We know the horned animal that has always attracted you most, the animal that threatens you with danger again and again! Your old fable might once more become "history." An immense stupidity might once again overpower you and carry you away! And no God hidden beneath it, no! Only an "idea," a "modern idea"!