"Twilight of the Idols: How to Think with a Hammer"

This work—which covers scarcely one hundred and fifty pages, with its cheerful and fateful tone, like a laughing demon, and the production of which occupied so few days that I hesitate to give their number—is altogether an exception among books: there is no work more rich in substance, more independent, more upsetting—more wicked. If any one should desire to obtain a rapid sketch of how everything, before my time, was standing on its head, he should begin reading me in this book. That which is called "Idols" on the title page is simply the old truth that has been believed in hitherto. In plain English, The Twilight of the Idols means that the old truth is on its last legs.

This work is barely 150 pages long. Its tone is cheerful and fateful, like a laughing demon. It took me so few days to write that I hesitate to say how many. It is altogether unlike other books: no book is richer in substance, more independent, more upsetting, or more wicked. If you want a quick picture of how everything stood on its head before my time, start with this book. What the title page calls "Idols" is simply the old truth that people have believed in until now. In plain English, The Twilight of the Idols means that the old truth is on its last legs.

There is no reality, no "ideality," which has not been touched in this book (touched! what a cautious euphemism!). Not only the eternal idols, but also the youngest—that is to say, the most senile: modern ideas, for instance. A strong wind blows between the trees and in all directions fall the fruit—the truths. There is the waste of an all-too-rich autumn in this book: you trip over truths. You even crush some to death, there are too many of them. Those things that you can grasp, however, are quite unquestionable; they are irrevocable decrees. I alone have the criterion of "truths" in my possession. I alone can decide. It would seem as if a second consciousness had grown up in me, as if the "life-will" in me had thrown a light upon the downward path along which it has been running throughout the ages. The downward path—hitherto this had been called the road to "Truth." All obscure impulse—"darkness and dismay"—is at an end, the "good man" was precisely he who was least aware of the proper way.¹ And, speaking in all earnestness, no one before me knew the proper way, the way upwards: only after my time could men once more find hope, life-tasks, and roads mapped out that lead to culture—I am the joyful harbinger of this culture. ... On this account alone I am also a fatality.

There is no reality, no "ideality," that this book has not touched (touched! What a cautious euphemism!). It touches not only the eternal idols, but also the youngest, which is to say, the most senile: modern ideas, for instance. A strong wind blows through the trees, and fruit, the truths, falls in every direction. This book has the waste of an overly abundant autumn: you trip over truths. You even crush some to death. There are too many of them. But the truths you can grasp are beyond question. They are irrevocable decrees. I alone possess the criterion for "truths." I alone can decide. It seems as if a second consciousness had grown in me. It is as if the "life-will" in me had illuminated the downward path it has followed through the ages. Until now, this downward path had been called the road to "Truth." All obscure impulse, all "darkness and dismay," is at an end. The "good man" was precisely the one who had the least awareness of the right way.¹ And, in all seriousness, no one before me knew the right way, the way upwards. Only after my time could people once more find hope, tasks for their lives, and mapped-out roads leading to culture. I am the joyful harbinger of this culture. ... For this reason alone, I am also a fatality.

Immediately after the completion of the above-named work, and without letting even one day go by, I tackled the formidable task of the Transvaluation with a supreme feeling of pride which nothing could equal; and, certain at each moment of my immortality, I cut sign after sign upon tablets of brass with the sureness of Fate. The Preface came into being on 3rd September 1888. When, after having written it down, I went out into the open that morning, I was greeted by the most beautiful day I had ever seen in the Upper Engadine—clear, glowing with colour, and presenting all the contrasts and all the intermediary gradations between ice and the south. I left Sils-Maria only on the 20th of September. I had been forced to delay my departure owing to floods, and I was very soon, and for some days, the only visitor in this wonderful spot, on which my gratitude bestows the gift of an immortal name. After a journey that was full of incidents, and not without danger to life,—as for instance at Como, which was flooded when I reached it in the dead of night,—I got to Turin on the afternoon of the 21 st. Turin is the only suitable place for me, and it shall be my home henceforward. I took the same lodgings as I had occupied in the spring, 6111 Via Carlo Alberto, opposite the mighty Palazzo Carignano, in which Vittorio Emanuele was born; and I had a view of the Piazza Carlo Alberto and above it across to the hills. Without hesitating, or allowing myself to be disturbed for a single moment, I returned to my work, only the last quarter of which had still to be written. On the 30th September, tremendous triumph; the seventh day; the leisure of a god on the banks of the Po.² On the same day, I wrote the Preface to The Twilight of the Idols, the correction of the proofs of which provided me with recreation during the month of September. Never in my life have I experienced such an autumn; nor had I ever imagined that such things were possible on earth—a Claude Lorrain extended to infinity, each day equal to the last in its wild perfection.

Immediately after finishing the work named above, I tackled the formidable task of the Transvaluation without letting a single day pass. I felt a supreme pride that nothing could equal. Certain of my immortality at every moment, I carved sign after sign into tablets of brass with the certainty of Fate. I wrote the Preface on 3rd September 1888. When I went outside that morning, I was greeted by the most beautiful day I had ever seen in the Upper Engadine. It was clear and glowing with color. It showed all the contrasts and all the shades between ice and the south. I did not leave Sils-Maria until 20th September. Floods had forced me to delay my departure, and soon I was the only visitor in this wonderful place for several days. In gratitude, I give it an immortal name. My journey was eventful and sometimes dangerous. Como, for instance, was flooded when I arrived in the dead of night. I reached Turin on the afternoon of the 21st. Turin is the only place that suits me, and it will be my home from now on. I took the same lodgings I had occupied in the spring, at 6111 Via Carlo Alberto. They were opposite the mighty Palazzo Carignano, where Vittorio Emanuele was born. I had a view of the Piazza Carlo Alberto and, beyond it, the hills. Without hesitating or allowing myself to be distracted for a moment, I returned to my work. Only the last quarter remained to be written. On 30th September came a tremendous triumph: the seventh day, the leisure of a god on the banks of the Po.² That same day, I wrote the Preface to The Twilight of the Idols. Correcting its proofs had given me recreation during September. Never in my life had I experienced such an autumn. I had never imagined that such things were possible on earth. It was a Claude Lorrain extended to infinity, each day equal to the last in its wild perfection.