Translator's Introduction

Ecce Homo is the last prose work that Nietzsche wrote. It is true that the pamphlet Nietzsche contra Wagner was prepared a month later than the Autobiography; but we cannot consider this pamphlet as anything more than a compilation, seeing that it consists entirely of aphorisms drawn from such previous works as Joyful Wisdom, Beyond Good and Evil, The Genealogy of Morals, etc. Coming at the end of a year in which he had produced the Case of Wagner, The Twilight of the Idols, and The Antichrist, Ecce Homo is not only a coping-stone worthy of the wonderful creations of that year, but also a fitting conclusion to his whole life, in the form of a grand summing up of his character as a man, his purpose as a reformer, and his achievement as a thinker. As if half conscious of his approaching spiritual end, Nietzsche here bids his friends farewell, just in the manner in which, in the Twilight of the Idols (Aph. 36, Part ix.), he declares that every one should be able to take leave of his circle of relatives and intimates when his time seems to have come—that is to say, while he is still himself while he still knows what he is about, and is able to measure his own life and life in general, and speak of both in a manner which is not vouchsafed to the groaning invalid, to the man lying on his back, decrepit and exhausted, or to the moribund victim of some wasting disease. Nietzsche's spiritual death, like his whole life, was in singular harmony with his doctrine: he died suddenly and proudly,—sword in hand. War, which he—and he alone among all the philosophers of Christendom—had praised so whole-heartedly, at last struck him down in the full vigour of his manhood, and left him a victim on the battlefield—the terrible battlefield of thought, on which there is no quarter, and for which no Geneva Convention has yet been established or even thought of.

Ecce Homo is the last prose work Nietzsche wrote. The pamphlet Nietzsche contra Wagner was prepared a month after the Autobiography. But we cannot consider it more than a compilation. It consists entirely of aphorisms drawn from earlier works such as Joyful Wisdom, Beyond Good and Evil, The Genealogy of Morals, etc. Nietzsche wrote Ecce Homo at the end of a year in which he had produced The Case of Wagner, The Twilight of the Idols, and The Antichrist. It is a crowning work worthy of that year’s wonderful creations. It is also a fitting conclusion to his whole life. It offers a grand summary of his character as a man, his purpose as a reformer, and his achievement as a thinker. As if half aware of his approaching spiritual end, Nietzsche bids his friends farewell here. In The Twilight of the Idols (Aph. 36, Part ix.), he declares that everyone should be able to take leave of relatives and close friends in just this way when the time seems to have come. A person should do so while still himself, still knowing what he is doing. He should still be able to assess his own life and life in general, and to speak of both. This is beyond the reach of a groaning invalid, a person lying on his back, frail and exhausted, or a dying victim of a wasting disease. Nietzsche’s spiritual death, like his whole life, was strikingly consistent with his doctrine. He died suddenly and proudly, sword in hand. He alone among all the philosophers of Christendom had praised war so wholeheartedly. At last, war struck him down in the full vigor of his manhood. It left him a victim on the battlefield, the terrible battlefield of thought. There is no mercy on that battlefield, and no Geneva Convention has yet been established or even imagined for it.

To those who know Nietzsche's life-work, no apology will be needed for the form and content of this wonderful work. They will know, at least, that a man either is, or is not, aware of his significance and of the significance of what he has accomplished, and that if he is aware of it, then self-realisation, even of the kind which we find in these pages, is neither morbid nor suspicious, but necessary and inevitable. Such chapter headings as "Why I am so Wise," "Why I am a Fatality," "Why I write such Excellent Books,"—however much they may have disturbed the equanimity, and "objectivity" in particular, of certain Nietzsche biographers, can be regarded as pathological only in a democratic age in which people have lost all sense of graduation and rank and in which the virtues of modesty and humility have to be preached far and wide as a corrective against the vulgar pretensions of thousands of wretched nobodies. For little people can be endured only as modest citizens; or humble Christians. If, however, they demand a like modesty on the part of the truly great; if they raise their voices against Nietzsche's lack of the very virtue they so abundantly possess or pretend to possess, it is time to remind them of Goethe's famous remark: "Nur Lumpe sind bescheiden" (Only nobodies are ever modest).

Those who know Nietzsche's life's work will need no apology for the form or content of this wonderful book. They will know, at least, that a person either is or is not aware of their own significance and achievements. If they are aware of them, such self-awareness is neither unhealthy nor suspicious. Even the kind found in these pages is necessary and inevitable. Consider chapter titles such as "Why I am so Wise," "Why I am a Fatality," and "Why I write such Excellent Books." These titles may have upset certain Nietzsche biographers, disturbing their composure and especially their "objectivity." But such titles can be regarded as pathological only in a democratic age that has lost all sense of degrees and rank. In such an age, modesty and humility must be preached far and wide to counter the vulgar pretensions of thousands of wretched nobodies. For little people can be tolerated only as modest citizens or humble Christians. But if they demand the same modesty from the truly great, it is time to remind them of Goethe's famous remark. The same applies if they speak out against Nietzsche's lack of the very virtue they have, or pretend to have, in such abundance: "Nur Lumpe sind bescheiden" (Only nobodies are ever modest).

It took Nietzsche barely three weeks to write this story of his life. Begun on the 15th of October 1888, his four-and-fourtieth birthday, it was finished on the 4th of November of the same year, and, but for a few trifling modifications and additions, is just as Nietzsche left it. It was not published in Germany until the year 1908, eight years after Nietzsche's death. In a letter dated the 27th of December 1888, addressed to the musical composer Fuchs, the author declares the object of the work to be to dispose of all discussion, doubt, and inquiry concerning his own personality, in order to leave the public mind free to consider merely "the things for the sake of which he existed" ("die Dinge, derentwegen ich da bin"). And, true to his intention, Nietzsche's honesty in these pages is certainly one of the most remarkable features about them. From the first chapter, in which he frankly acknowledges the decadent elements within him, to the last page, whereon he characterises his mission, his life-task, and his achievement, by means of the one symbol, Dionysus versus Christ,—everything comes straight from the shoulder, without hesitation, without fear of consequences, and, above all, without concealment. Only in one place does he appear to conceal something, and then he actually leads one to understand that he is doing so. It is in regard to Wagner, the greatest friend of his life. "Who doubts," he says, "that I, old artillery-man that I am, would be able if I liked to point my heavy guns at Wagner?"—But he adds: "Everything decisive in this question I kept to myself—I have loved Wagner" (p. 122).

Nietzsche took barely three weeks to write this story of his life. He began it on October 15, 1888, his forty-fourth birthday, and finished it on November 4 that year. Apart from a few minor changes and additions, it remains just as Nietzsche left it. It was not published in Germany until 1908, eight years after Nietzsche’s death. In a letter to the composer Fuchs, dated December 27, 1888, Nietzsche explained the book’s purpose. He wanted to put an end to all discussion, doubt, and inquiry about his own personality. This would leave the public mind free to consider only “the things for the sake of which he existed” (“die Dinge, derentwegen ich da bin”). True to this intention, Nietzsche’s honesty is certainly one of the book’s most remarkable features. In the first chapter, he openly acknowledges the decadent elements within him. On the last page, he describes his mission, his life’s work, and his achievement through a single symbol: Dionysus versus Christ. Throughout, he speaks directly, without hesitation, without fear of consequences, and, above all, without concealing anything. Only once does he seem to conceal something, and even then he lets the reader know he is doing so. This concerns Wagner, the greatest friend of his life. “Who doubts,” he says, “that I, old artillery-man that I am, would be able if I liked to point my heavy guns at Wagner?” But he adds: “Everything decisive in this question I kept to myself—I have loved Wagner” (p. 122).

To point, as many have done, to the proximity of all Nietzsche's autumn work of the year 1888 to his breakdown at the beginning of 1889, and to argue that in all its main features it foretells the catastrophe that is imminent, seems a little too plausible, a little too obvious and simple to require refutation. That Nietzsche really was in a state which in medicine is known as euphoria—that is to say, that state of highest well-being and capacity which often precedes a complete breakdown, cannot, I suppose, be questioned; for his style, his penetrating vision, and his vigour, reach their zenith in the works written in this autumn of 1888; but the contention that the matter, the substance, of these works reveals any signs whatsoever of waning mental health, or, as a certain French biographer has it, of an inability to "hold himself and his judgments in check," is best contradicted by the internal evidence itself. To take just a few examples at random, examine the cold and calculating tone of self-analysis in Chapter I. of the present work; consider the reserve and the restraint with which the idea in Aphorism 7 of that chapter is worked out,—not to speak of the restraint and self-mastery in the idea itself, namely:—

Many people have pointed out how close Nietzsche's autumn work of 1888 came to his breakdown in early 1889. They argue that all its main features foretold the coming catastrophe. This argument seems a little too plausible, a little too obvious and simple to need refuting. Nietzsche really was, I suppose, in a state known in medicine as euphoria. This state of supreme well-being and capacity often precedes a complete breakdown. That Nietzsche was in such a state can hardly be questioned. His style, penetrating vision, and vigor reach their peak in the works he wrote in autumn 1888. But the works themselves best refute the claim that their substance shows any signs of declining mental health. They also refute a certain French biographer's claim that Nietzsche could not "hold himself and his judgments in check." Take just a few examples at random. Examine the cold, calculating tone of self-analysis in Chapter I of this work. Consider the reserve and restraint with which Nietzsche develops the idea in Aphorism 7 of that chapter. Not to mention the restraint and self-mastery in the idea itself, namely:

"To be one's enemy's equal—this is the first condition of an honourable duel. Where one despises one cannot wage war. Where one commands, where one sees something beneath one, one ought not to wage war. My war tactics can be reduced to four principles: First, I attack only things that are triumphant—if necessary I wait until they become triumphant. Secondly, I attack only those things against which I find no allies, against which I stand alone—against which I compromise nobody but myself.... Thirdly, I never make personal attacks—I use a personality merely as a magnifying-glass, by means of which I render a general, but elusive and scarcely noticeable evil, more apparent.... Fourthly, I attack only those things from which all personal differences are excluded, in which any such thing as a background of disagreeable experiences is lacking."

"To be equal to one's enemy is the first condition of an honorable duel. One cannot wage war against what one despises. One should not wage war where one commands or sees something as beneath oneself. My tactics of war come down to four principles: First, I attack only things that are triumphant. If necessary, I wait until they become triumphant. Second, I attack only things against which I have no allies and stand alone. In attacking them, I compromise no one but myself.... Third, I never make personal attacks. I use a person only as a magnifying glass. Through that person, I make a general evil more visible, one that is elusive and barely noticeable.... Fourth, I attack only things that have nothing to do with personal differences. I attack only where there is no history of unpleasant experiences behind the attack."

And now notice the gentleness with which, in Chapter II., Wagner—the supposed mortal enemy, the supposed envied rival to Nietzsche—is treated. Are these the words and the thoughts of a man who Has lost, or who is losing control?

Now notice how gently Wagner is treated in Chapter II. He is supposedly Nietzsche's mortal enemy and the rival Nietzsche supposedly envies. Are these the words and thoughts of a man who has lost or is losing control?

And even if we confine ourselves simply to the substance of this work and put the question—Is it a new Nietzsche or the old Nietzsche that we find in these pages? Is it the old countenance with which we are familiar, or are the features distorted, awry, disfigured? What will the answer be? Obviously there is no new or even deformed Nietzsche here, because he is still faithful to the position which he assumed in Thus spake Zarathustra, five years previously, and is perfectly conscious of this fidelity (see p. 141); neither can he be even on the verge of any marked change, because the whole of the third chapter, in which he reviews his life-work, is simply a reiteration and a confirmation of his old points of view, which are here made all the more telling by additional arguments suggested, no doubt, by maturer thought. In fact, if anything at all is new in this work, it is its cool certainty, its severe deliberateness, and its extraordinarily incisive vision, as shown, for instance, in the summing up of the genuine import of the third and fourth essays in the Thoughts out of Season (pp. 75-76, 80, 81, 82), a summing up which a most critical analysis of the essays in question can but verify. Romanticism, idealism, Christianity, are still scorned and despised; another outlook, a nobler, braver, and more earthly outlook, is still upheld and revered; the great yea to life, including all that it contains that is terrible and questionable, is still pronounced in the teeth of pessimists, nihilists, anarchists, Christians, and other decadents; and Germany, "Europe's flatland," is still subjected to the most relentless criticism. If there are any signs of change, besides those of mere growth, in this work, they certainly succeed in eluding the most careful search, undertaken with a full knowledge of Nietzsche's former opinions, and it would be interesting to know precisely where they are found by those writers whom the titles of the chapters, alone, seem so radically to have perturbed.

Even if we look only at the substance of this work, we must ask: Do these pages reveal a new Nietzsche or the old Nietzsche? Is this the familiar face, or are its features twisted and disfigured? What is the answer? Clearly, there is no new or even disfigured Nietzsche here. He remains faithful to the position he took in Thus spake Zarathustra, five years earlier. He is also fully aware of this faithfulness (see p. 141). Nor can he be on the verge of any major change. In the entire third chapter, he reviews his life’s work and simply repeats and confirms his old views. He makes those views even more compelling with additional arguments, no doubt suggested by more mature thought. In fact, if anything is new in this work, it is the cool certainty, the careful deliberation, and the extraordinarily sharp vision. These qualities appear, for example, in his summary of the true meaning of the third and fourth essays in Thoughts out of Season (pp. 75-76, 80, 81, 82). Even the most critical analysis of those essays can only confirm his summary. Romanticism, idealism, and Christianity are still scorned and despised. He still upholds and reveres a different outlook, one that is nobler, braver, and more grounded in this world. He still declares the great yes to life, including everything terrible and questionable in it. He does so in defiance of pessimists, nihilists, anarchists, Christians, and other decadents. And Germany, "Europe’s flatland," is still subjected to the most relentless criticism. If this work shows any signs of change beyond mere growth, they certainly escape even the most careful search. That is true even when the search is made with full knowledge of Nietzsche’s earlier views. The chapter titles alone seem to have deeply disturbed some writers. It would be interesting to know exactly where they find such signs of change.

But the most striking thing of all, the miracle, so to speak, of this autobiography, is the absence from it of that loathing, that suggestion of surfeit, with which a life such as the one Nietzsche had led, would have filled any other man even of power approximate to his own. This anchorite, who, in the last years of his life as a healthy human being, suffered the experience of seeing even his oldest friends, including Rhode, show the most complete indifference to his lot, this wrestler with Fate, for whom recognition, in the persons of Brandes, Taine, and Strindberg, had come all too late, and whom even support, sympathy, and help, arriving as it did at last, through Deussen and from Madame de Salis Marschlins, could no longer cheer or comfort,—this was the man who was able notwithstanding to inscribe the device amor fati upon his shield on the very eve of his final collapse as a victim of the unspeakable suffering he had endured.

But the most striking thing of all, the miracle of this autobiography, so to speak, is its lack of disgust or weariness. A life like Nietzsche’s would have filled any other man, even one almost as strong as he was, with those feelings. This solitary man had seen even his oldest friends, including Rhode, show complete indifference to his circumstances during his last years of health. He had struggled against Fate, and recognition from Brandes, Taine, and Strindberg had come far too late. Even the support, sympathy, and help that finally came through Deussen and from Madame de Salis Marschlins could no longer cheer or comfort him. Yet this was the man who could inscribe the motto amor fati on his shield. He did so on the very eve of his final collapse, brought on by the unspeakable suffering he had endured.

And this final collapse might easily have been foreseen. Nietzsche's sensorium, as his autobiography proves, was probably the most delicate instrument ever possessed by a human being; and with this fragile structure—the prerequisite, by the bye, of all genius,—his terrible will compelled him to confront the most profound and most recondite problems. We happen to know from another artist and profound thinker, Benjamin Disraeli, who himself had experienced a dangerous breakdown, what the consequences precisely are of indulging in excessive activity in the sphere of the spirit, more particularly when that spirit is highly organised. Disraeli says in Contarini Fleming (Part iv. chap. v.):—

And this final collapse could easily have been foreseen. As his autobiography shows, Nietzsche’s sensory system was probably the most delicate instrument any human being has ever possessed. Such a fragile structure is, by the way, a prerequisite for all genius. Yet his tremendous will compelled him to confront the deepest and most obscure problems with this fragile instrument. We know from another artist and profound thinker, Benjamin Disraeli, exactly what excessive mental activity can lead to. Disraeli himself had experienced a dangerous breakdown. Such activity is especially dangerous when the mind is highly developed. Disraeli says in Contarini Fleming (Part iv. chap. v.):

And artists are the proper judges of artists,—not Oxford Dons, like Dr. Schiller, who, in his imprudent attempt at dealing with something for which his pragmatic hands are not sufficiently delicate, eagerly av-ails himself of popular help in his article on Nietzsche in the eleventh edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, and implies the hackneyed and wholly exploded belief that Nietzsche's philosophy is madness in the making. As German philosophies, however, are said to go to Oxford only when they die, we may, perhaps, conclude from this want of appreciation in that quarter, how very much alive Nietzsche's doctrine still is.

Artists are the proper judges of artists, not Oxford academics like Dr. Schiller. In his article on Nietzsche in the eleventh edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, Schiller unwisely tries to handle a subject too delicate for his pragmatic hands. He eagerly appeals to popular opinion and suggests the stale and thoroughly discredited idea that Nietzsche's philosophy is madness in the making. But German philosophies are said to go to Oxford only when they die. So perhaps Oxford's lack of appreciation shows just how much alive Nietzsche's doctrine still is.

Not that Nietzsche went mad so soon, but that he went mad so late is the wonder of wonders. Considering the extraordinary amount of work he did, the great task of the transvaluation of all values, which he actually accomplished, and the fact that he endured such long years of solitude, which to him, the sensitive artist to whom friends were everything, must have been a terrible hardship, we can only wonder at his great health, and can well believe his sister's account of the phenomenal longevity and bodily vigour of his ancestors.

The greatest wonder is not that Nietzsche went mad so soon, but that he went mad so late. He did an extraordinary amount of work and accomplished the great task of the transvaluation of all values. He also endured long years of solitude. For a sensitive artist like Nietzsche, to whom friends were everything, those years must have been terribly hard. Considering all this, we can only marvel at his great health. We can also readily believe his sister’s account of his ancestors’ remarkable longevity and physical vigor.

No one, however, who is initiated, no one who reads this work with understanding, will be in need of this introductory note of mine; for, to all who know, these pages must speak for themselves. We are no longer in the nineteenth century. We have learned many things since then, and if caution is only one of these things, at least it will prevent us from judging a book such as this one, with all its apparent pontifical pride and surging self-reliance, with undue haste, or with that arrogant assurance with which the ignorance of "the humble" and "the modest" has always confronted everything truly great.

But no one who is initiated, no one who reads this work with understanding, will need this introduction. For everyone who knows, these pages must speak for themselves. We are no longer in the nineteenth century. We have learned many things since then. Even if caution is only one of them, it will at least keep us from judging a book like this too hastily, despite its apparent lofty pride and surging self-confidence. It will also keep us from judging it with the arrogant certainty that the ignorance of "the humble" and "the modest" has always shown toward everything truly great.

ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI.

ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI.