"Human, All-Too-Human"

Human all-too-Human, with its two sequels, is the memorial of a crisis. It is called a book for free spirits: almost every sentence in it is the expression of a triumph—by means of it I purged myself of everything in me which was foreign to my nature. Idealism is foreign to me: the title of the book means: "Where ye see ideal things I see—human, alas! all-too-human things!" ... I know men better. The word "free spirit" in this book must not be understood as anything else than a spirit that has become free, that has once more taken possession of itself. My tone, the pitch of my voice, has completely changed; the book will be thought clever, cool, and at times both hard and scornful. A certain spirituality, of noble taste, seems to be ever struggling to dominate a passionate torrent at its feet. In this respect there is some sense in the fact that it was the hundredth anniversary of Voltaire's death that served, so to speak, as an excuse for the publication of the book as early as 1878. For Voltaire, as the opposite of every one who wrote after him, was above all a grandee of the intellect; precisely what I am also. The name of Voltaire on one of my writings—that was verily a step forward—in my direction.... Looking into this book a little more closely, you perceive a pitiless spirit who knows all the secret hiding-places in which ideals are wont to skulk—where they find their dungeons, and, as it were, their last refuge. With a torch in my hand, the light of which is not by any means a flickering one, I illuminate this nether world with beams that cut like blades. It is war, but war without powder and smoke, without warlike attitudes, without pathos and contorted limbs—all these things would still be "idealism." One error after the other is quietly laid upon ice; the ideal is not refuted,—it freezes. Here, for instance, "genius" freezes; round the corner the "saint" freezes; under a thick icicle the "hero" freezes; and in the end "faith" itself freezes. So-called "conviction" and also "pity" are considerably cooled—and almost everywhere the "thing in itself" is freezing to death.

Human all-too-Human, with its two sequels, is a record of a crisis. It is called a book for free spirits. Almost every sentence expresses a triumph. Through the book, I purged myself of everything in me that was foreign to my nature. Idealism is foreign to me. The title means: "Where you see ideal things, I see human, alas, all-too-human things!" ... I know people better. In this book, "free spirit" means nothing other than a spirit that has become free and taken possession of itself again. My tone, the pitch of my voice, has completely changed. The book will be thought clever, cool, and at times both hard and scornful. A certain spirituality, with a noble taste, seems always to struggle to master the passionate torrent at its feet. In this respect, it makes some sense that the hundredth anniversary of Voltaire's death served, so to speak, as an excuse for publishing the book as early as 1878. For Voltaire, unlike everyone who wrote after him, was above all a grandee of the intellect. That is precisely what I am too. The name of Voltaire on one of my writings was truly a step forward, in my direction.... Look more closely at this book, and you will find a pitiless spirit. It knows all the secret hiding places where ideals tend to skulk, their dungeons and, so to speak, their last refuge. With a torch in my hand, its light anything but flickering, I illuminate this underworld with beams that cut like blades. It is war, but war without powder and smoke, without warlike poses, without pathos or contorted limbs. All those things would still be "idealism." One error after another is quietly put on ice. The ideal is not refuted, it freezes. Here, for instance, "genius" freezes. Around the corner, the "saint" freezes. Under a thick icicle, the "hero" freezes. And in the end, "faith" itself freezes. So-called "conviction" and "pity" are considerably cooled. And almost everywhere, the "thing in itself" is freezing to death.

This book was begun during the first musical festival at Bayreuth; a feeling of profound strangeness towards everything that surrounded me there, is one of its first conditions. He who has any notion of the visions which even at that time had flitted across my path, will be able to guess what I felt when one day I came to my senses in Bayreuth. It was just as if I had been dreaming. Where on earth was I? I recognised nothing that I saw; I scarcely recognised Wagner. It was in vain that I called up reminiscences. Tribschen—remote island of bliss: not the shadow of a resemblance! The incomparable days devoted to the laying of the first stone, the small group of the initiated who celebrated them, and who were far from lacking fingers for the handling of delicate things: not the shadow of a resemblance! What had happened?—Wagner had been translated into German! The Wagnerite had become master of Wagner!—German art! the German master! German beer!... We who know only too well the kind of refined artists and cosmopolitanism in taste, to which alone Wagner's art can appeal, were beside ourselves at the sight of Wagner bedecked with German virtues. I think I know the Wagnerite, I have experienced three generations of them, from Brendel of blessed memory, who confounded Wagner with Hegel, to the "idealists" of the Bayreuth Gazette, who confound Wagner with themselves,—I have been the recipient of every kind of confession about Wagner, from "beautiful souls." My kingdom for just one intelligent word I—In very truth, a blood-curdling company! Nohl, Pohl, and Kohl¹ and others of their kidney to infinity! There was not a single abortion that was lacking among them—no, not even the anti-Semite.—Poor Wagner! Into whose hands had he fallen? If only he had gone into a herd of swine! But among Germans! Some day, for the edification of posterity, one ought really to have a genuine Bayreuthian stuffed, or, better still, preserved in spirit,—for it is precisely spirit that is lacking in this quarter,—with this inscription at the foot of the jar: "A sample of the spirit whereon the 'German Empire' was founded." ... But enough! In the middle of the festivities I suddenly packed my trunk and left the place for a few weeks, despite the fact that a charming Parisian lady sought to comfort me; I excused myself to Wagner simply by means of a fatalistic telegram. In a little spot called Klingenbrunn, deeply buried in the recesses of the Bohmerwald, I carried my melancholy and my contempt of Germans about with me like an illness—and, from time to time, under the general title of "The Plough-share," I wrote a sentence or two down in my note-book, nothing but severe psychological stuff, which it is possible may have found its way into Human, all-too-Human.

I began this book during the first music festival at Bayreuth. One of its earliest sources was a deep feeling of alienation from everything around me there. Anyone who has some idea of the visions that had already crossed my path can guess how I felt. One day I came to my senses in Bayreuth. It was as if I had been dreaming. Where on earth was I? I recognized nothing I saw. I barely recognized Wagner. I tried in vain to remember. Tribschen, that distant island of bliss: not the slightest resemblance! I remembered the incomparable days when the first stone was laid. I remembered the small group of insiders who celebrated those days, and who certainly knew how to handle delicate matters. Not the slightest resemblance! What had happened? Wagner had been translated into German! The Wagnerite had become master of Wagner! German art! The German master! German beer!... We knew only too well that Wagner’s art could appeal only to refined artists and people with cosmopolitan tastes. So the sight of Wagner decked out in German virtues drove us to distraction. I think I know the Wagnerite. I have encountered three generations of them. They range from Brendel of blessed memory, who confused Wagner with Hegel, to the "idealists" of the Bayreuth Gazette, who confuse Wagner with themselves. "Beautiful souls" have made every kind of confession to me about Wagner. My kingdom for one intelligent word! Truly, a bloodcurdling crowd! Nohl, Pohl, and Kohl¹, and endless others of their kind! Not a single kind of misfit was missing, not even the anti-Semite. Poor Wagner! Into whose hands had he fallen? If only he had fallen in with a herd of swine! But among Germans! One day, for the benefit of future generations, someone really ought to stuff a genuine Bayreuthian. Better still, preserve one in spirit, for spirit is exactly what is missing here. The jar should bear this inscription: "A sample of the spirit whereon the 'German Empire' was founded." ... But enough! In the middle of the festivities, I suddenly packed my trunk and left for a few weeks. A charming Parisian lady had tried to comfort me, but I left anyway. I excused myself to Wagner with nothing more than a fatalistic telegram. I went to a little place called Klingenbrunn, deep in the Bohmerwald. There I carried my melancholy and my contempt for Germans around with me like an illness. From time to time, I wrote a sentence or two in my notebook under the general title "The Plough-share." They were nothing but severe psychological observations. Some of them may have found their way into Human, all-too-Human.

That which had taken place in me, then, was not only a breach with Wagner—I was suffering from a general aberration of my instincts, of which a mere isolated blunder, whether it were Wagner or my professorship at Bâle, was nothing more than a symptom. I was seized with a fit of impatience with myself; I saw that it was high time that I should turn my thoughts upon my own lot. In a trice I realised, with appalling clearness, how much time had already been squandered—how futile and how senseless my whole existence as a philologist appeared by the side of my life-task. I was ashamed of this false modesty.... Ten years were behind me, during which, to tell the truth, the nourishment of my spirit had been at a standstill, during which I had added not a single useful fragment to my knowledge, and had forgotten countless things in the pursuit of a hotch-potch of dry-as-dust scholarship. To crawl with meticulous care and short-sighted eyes through old Greek metricians—that is what I had come to!... Moved to pity I saw myself quite thin, quite emaciated: realities were only too plainly absent from my stock of knowledge, and what the "idealities" were worth the devil alone knew! A positively burning thirst overcame me: and from that time forward I have done literally nothing else than study physiology, medicine, and natural science—I even returned to the actual study of history only when my life-task compelled me to. It was at that time, too, that I first divined the relation between an instinctively repulsive occupation, a so-called vocation, which is the last thing to which one is "called" and that need of lulling a feeling of emptiness and hunger, by means of an art which is a narcotic—by means of Wagner's art, for instance. After looking carefully about me, I have discovered that a large number of young men are all in the same state of distress: one kind of unnatural practice perforce leads to another. In Germany, or rather, to avoid all ambiguity, in the Empire,² only too many are condemned to determine their choice too soon, and then to pine away beneath a burden that they can no longer throw off.... Such creatures crave for Wagner as for an opiate,—they are thus able to forget themselves, to be rid of themselves for a moment.... What am I saying!—for five or six hours.

What had happened in me, then, was more than a break with Wagner. My instincts had generally gone astray. Any single mistake, whether Wagner or my professorship at Bâle, was merely a symptom. I became impatient with myself. I saw that it was high time I thought about my own fate. In an instant, I realized with horrifying clarity how much time I had already wasted. My entire existence as a philologist seemed futile and senseless beside my life’s task. I was ashamed of this false modesty.... Ten years lay behind me. In all that time, to tell the truth, my spirit had received no nourishment. I had added not a single useful scrap to my knowledge. I had forgotten countless things while pursuing a jumble of dry scholarship. I had come to this: crawling painstakingly and shortsightedly through the works of ancient Greek writers on poetic meter!... I looked at myself with pity. I was so thin, so wasted. Realities were all too plainly missing from my store of knowledge. And the devil alone knew what the "idealities" were worth! A truly burning thirst came over me. From then on, I have literally done nothing but study physiology, medicine, and natural science. I returned to the actual study of history only when my life’s task required it. It was also then that I first sensed a connection. A person might take up an occupation that repelled their instincts, a so-called vocation that was the last thing they were "called" to do. Such a person needed an art that acted as a narcotic, like Wagner’s art, to dull their sense of emptiness and hunger. After looking carefully around me, I have discovered that a large number of young men are in the same distress. One kind of unnatural practice inevitably leads to another. In Germany, or rather, to avoid all ambiguity, in the Empire,² far too many are forced to choose too soon. They then waste away under a burden they can no longer cast off.... Such creatures crave Wagner as an opiate. Through his art, they can forget themselves and be rid of themselves for a moment.... What am I saying! For five or six hours.

At this time my instincts turned resolutely against any further yielding or following on my part, and any further misunderstanding of myself. Every kind of life, the most unfavourable circumstances, illness, poverty—anything seemed to me preferable to that undignified "selfishness" into which I had fallen; in the first place, thanks to my ignorance and youth, and in which I had afterwards remained owing to laziness—the so-called "sense of duty." At this juncture there came to my help, in a way that I cannot sufficiently admire, and precisely at the right time, that evil heritage which I derive from my father's side of the family, and which, at bottom, is no more than a predisposition to die young. Illness slowly liberated me from the toils, it spared me any sort of sudden breach, any sort of violent and offensive step. At that time I lost not a particle of the good will of others, but rather added to my store. Illness likewise gave me the right completely to reverse my mode of life; it not only allowed, it actually commanded, me to forget; it bestowed upon me the necessity of lying still, of having leisure, of waiting, and of exercising patience.... But all this means thinking!... The state of my eyes alone put an end to all book-wormishness, or, in plain English—philology: I was thus delivered from books; for years I ceased from reading, and this was the greatest boon I ever conferred upon myself! That nethermost self, which was, as it were, entombed, and which had grown dumb because it had been forced to listen perpetually to other selves (for that is what reading means!), slowly awakened; at first it was shy and doubtful, but at last it spoke again Never have I rejoiced more over my condition than during the sickest and most painful moments of my life. You have only to examine The Dawn of Day, or, perhaps, The Wanderer and his Shadow,³ in order to understand what this "return to myself" actually meant: in itself it was the highest kind of recovery!... My cure was simply the result of it.

At this time, my instincts turned firmly against any further yielding or following, and against any further misunderstanding of myself. Any kind of life seemed preferable to the undignified "selfishness" into which I had fallen. Even the worst circumstances, illness, or poverty seemed better. I had fallen into that "selfishness" through ignorance and youth. Afterwards I had stayed there through laziness, the so-called "sense of duty." At this point, my evil inheritance from my father's family came to my aid at just the right time. I cannot admire this enough. At bottom, that inheritance is nothing more than a tendency to die young. Illness slowly freed me from the trap. It spared me any sudden break or any violent and offensive step. At that time, I lost none of the goodwill of others. Instead, I gained more. Illness also gave me the right to change my way of life completely. It not only allowed me to forget, it actually ordered me to. It made it necessary for me to lie still, have leisure, wait, and be patient.... But all this means thinking!... The condition of my eyes alone put an end to all my bookishness, or, in plain English, philology. I was thus freed from books. For years I stopped reading, and this was the greatest gift I ever gave myself! My deepest self had been buried, so to speak. It had grown silent because it had been forced to listen constantly to other selves (for that is what reading means!). Slowly it awakened. At first it was shy and doubtful, but at last it spoke again Never have I felt more joy in my condition than during the sickest and most painful moments of my life. You only have to look at The Dawn of Day, or perhaps The Wanderer and his Shadow,³ to understand what this "return to myself" really meant. In itself, it was the highest kind of recovery!... My cure was simply its result.

Human, all-too-Human, this monument of a course of vigorous self-discipline, by means of which I put an abrupt end to all the "Superior Bunkum," "Idealism," "Beautiful Feelings," and other effeminacies that had percolated into my being, was written principally in Sorrento; it was finished and given definite shape during a winter at Bâle, under conditions far less favourable than those in Sorrento. Truth to tell, it was Peter Gast, at that time a student at the University of Bâle, and a devoted friend of mine, who was responsible for the book. With my head wrapped in bandages, and extremely painful, I dictated while he wrote and corrected as he went along—to be accurate, he was the real composer, whereas I was only the author. When the completed book ultimately reached me,—to the great surprise of the serious invalid I then was,—I sent, among others, two copies to Bayreuth. Thanks to a miraculous flash of intelligence on the part of chance, there reached me precisely at the same time a splendid copy of the Parsifal text, with the following inscription from Wagner's pen: "To his dear friend Friedrich Nietzsche, from Richard Wagner, Ecclesiastical Councillor." At this crossing of the two books I seemed to hear an ominous note. Did it not sound as if two swords had crossed? At all events we both felt this was so, for each of us remained silent. At about this time the first Bayreuth Pamphlets appeared: and I then understood the move on my part for which it was high time. Incredible! Wagner had become pious.

Human, all-too-Human is a monument to a period of vigorous self-discipline. Through it, I abruptly put an end to all the "Superior Bunkum," "Idealism," "Beautiful Feelings," and other effeminacies that had seeped into my being. I wrote most of the book in Sorrento. I finished it and gave it its final form during a winter in Bâle, under far less favorable conditions. In truth, Peter Gast was responsible for the book. He was then a student at the University of Bâle and a devoted friend of mine. My head was wrapped in bandages and hurt terribly. I dictated while he wrote and made corrections as he went. To be precise, he was the real composer, while I was only the author. When the finished book finally reached me, much to my surprise as the serious invalid I then was, I sent copies to several people. Two went to Bayreuth. By a miraculous flash of intelligence on the part of chance, a splendid copy of the Parsifal text reached me at exactly the same time. Wagner had written this inscription in it: "To his dear friend Friedrich Nietzsche, from Richard Wagner, Ecclesiastical Councillor." As the two books crossed paths, I seemed to hear an ominous sound. Did it not sound as if two swords had crossed? In any case, we both felt that it did, for each of us remained silent. Around this time, the first Bayreuth Pamphlets appeared. I then understood what move it was high time for me to make. Incredible! Wagner had become pious.

My attitude to myself at that time (1876), and the unearthly certitude with which I grasped my life-task and all its world-historic consequences, is well revealed throughout the book, but more particularly in one very significant passage, despite the fact that, with my instinctive cunning, I once more circumvented the use of the little word "I,"—not however, this time, in order to shed world-historic glory on the names of Schopenhauer and Wagner, but on that of another of my friends, the excellent Dr. Paul Rée—fortunately much too acute a creature to be deceived—others were less subtle. Among my readers I have a number of hopeless people, the typical German professor for instance, who can always be recognised from the fact that, judging from the passage in question, he feels compelled to regard the whole book as a sort of superior Realism. As a matter of fact it contradicts five or six of my friend's utterances: only read the introduction to The Genealogy of Morals on this question.—The passage above referred to reads: "What, after all, is the principal axiom to which the boldest and coldest thinker, the author of the book "On the Origin of Moral Sensations" (read Nietzsche, the first Immoralist), "has attained by means of his incisive and decisive analysis of human actions? 'The moral man,' he says is no nearer to the intelligible (metaphysical) world than is the physical man, for there is no intelligible world.' This theory, hardened and sharpened under the hammer-blow of historical knowledge" (read The Transvaluation of all Values), "may some time or other, perhaps in some future period,—1890!—serve as the axe which is applied to the root of the 'metaphysical need' of man,—whether more as a blessing than a curse to the general welfare it is not easy to say; but in any case as a theory with the most important consequences, at once fruitful and terrible, and looking into the world with that Janus-face which all great knowledge possesses."⁴

The book clearly reveals my attitude toward myself at the time, in 1876. It also reveals the otherworldly certainty with which I grasped my life’s task and all its world-historic consequences. One particularly significant passage makes this clear, even though, with my instinctive cunning, I once again avoided the little word "I." This time, however, I did not do so to cast world-historic glory on the names of Schopenhauer and Wagner. I cast it on the name of another friend, the excellent Dr. Paul Rée. Fortunately, he was much too sharp to be deceived. Others were less subtle. Among my readers are a number of hopeless people, such as the typical German professor. You can always recognize him by his reaction to the passage in question. He feels compelled to regard the whole book as a kind of superior Realism. In fact, the book contradicts five or six of my friend’s statements. Just read the introduction to The Genealogy of Morals on this question. The passage I mean reads: "What, after all, is the main principle reached by the boldest and coldest thinker, the author of "On the Origin of Moral Sensations" (read Nietzsche, the first Immoralist), "through his incisive and decisive analysis of human actions? 'The moral man,' he says, 'is no closer to the intelligible (metaphysical) world than the physical man is, for there is no intelligible world.' This theory has been hardened and sharpened by the hammer blows of historical knowledge" (read The Transvaluation of all Values). "It may someday, perhaps in a future period, 1890!, serve as the axe laid to the root of humanity’s 'metaphysical need.' Whether that would be more a blessing than a curse for the general welfare is not easy to say. But in any case, this theory has the most important consequences, both fruitful and terrible. It looks out at the world with the Janus-face that all great knowledge possesses."⁴