Why I Am So Clever

Why do I know more things than other people? Why, in fact, am I so clever? I have never pondered over questions that are not questions. I have never squandered my strength. Of actual religious difficulties, for instance, I have no experience. I have never known what it is to feel "sinful." In the same way I completely lack any reliable criterion for ascertaining what constitutes a prick of conscience: from all accounts a prick of conscience does not seem to be a very estimable thing.... Once it was done I should hate to leave an action of mine in the lurch; I should prefer completely to omit the evil outcome, the consequences, from the problem concerning the value of an action. In the face of evil consequences one is too ready to lose the proper standpoint from which one's deed ought to be considered. A prick of conscience strikes me as a sort of "evil eye." Something that has failed should be honoured all the more jealously, precisely because it has failed—this is much more in keeping with my morality.—"God," "the immortality of the soul," "salvation," a "beyond"—to all these notions, even as a child, I never paid any attention whatsoever, nor did I waste any time upon them,—maybe I was never naif enough for that?—I am quite unacquainted with atheism as a result, and still less as an event in my life: in me it is inborn, instinctive. I am too inquisitive, too incredulous, too high spirited, to be satisfied with such a palpably clumsy solution of things. God is a too palpably clumsy solution of things; a solution which shows a lack of delicacy towards us thinkers—at bottom He is really no more than a coarse and rude prohibition of us: ye shall not think!... I am much more interested in another question,—a question upon which the "salvation of humanity" depends to a far greater degree than it does upon any piece of theological curiosity: I refer to nutrition. For ordinary purposes, it may be formulated as follows: "How precisely must thou feed thyself in order to attain to thy maximum of power, or virtù in the Renaissance style,—of virtue free from moralic acid?" My experiences in regard to this matter have been as bad as they possibly could be; I am surprised that I set myself this question so late in life, and that it took me so long to draw "rational" conclusions from my experiences. Only the absolute worth-1 lessness of German culture—its "idealism"—can to some extent explain how it was that precisely in this matter I was so backward that my ignorance was almost saintly. This "culture," which from first to last teaches one to lose sight of actual things and to hunt after thoroughly problematic and so-called ideal aims, as, for instance, "classical culture"—as if it were not hopeless from the start to try to unite "classical" and "German" in one concept. It is even a little comical—try and imagine a "classically cultured" citizen of Leipzig!—Indeed, I can say, that up to a very mature age, my food was entirely bad—expressed morally, it was "impersonal," "selfless," "altruistic," to the glory of cooks and all other fellow-Christians. It was through the cooking in vogue at Leipzig, for instance, together with my first study of Schopenhauer (1865), that I earnestly renounced my "Will to Live." To spoil one's stomach by absorbing insufficient nourishment—this problem seemed to my mind solved with admirable felicity by the above-mentioned cookery. (It is said that in the year 1866 changes were introduced into this department.) But as to German cookery in general—what has it not got on its conscience! Soup before the meal (still called alla tedesca in the Venetian cookery books of the sixteenth century); meat boiled to shreds, vegetables cooked with fat and flour; the degeneration of pastries into paper-weights! And, if you add thereto the absolutely bestial post-prandial drinking habits of the ancients, and not alone of the ancient Germans, you will understand where German intellect took its origin—that is to say, in sadly disordered intestines.... German intellect is indigestion; it can assimilate nothing. But even English diet, which in comparison with German, and indeed with French alimentation, seems to me to constitute a "return to Nature,"—that is to say, to cannibalism,—is profoundly opposed to my own instincts. It seems to me to give the intellect heavy feet, in fact, Englishwomen's feet.... The best cooking is that of Piedmont. Alcoholic drinks do not agree with me; a single glass of wine or beer a day is amply sufficient to turn life into a valley of tears for me;—in Munich live my antipodes. Although I admit that this knowledge came to me somewhat late, it already formed part of my experience even as a child. As a boy I believed that the drinking of wine and the smoking of tobacco were at first but the vanities of youths, and later merely bad habits. Maybe the poor wine of Naumburg was partly responsible for this poor opinion of wine in general. In order to believe that wine was exhilarating, I should have had to be a Christian—in other words, I should have had to believe in what, to my mind, is an absurdity. Strange to say, whereas small quantities of alcohol, taken with plenty of water, succeed in making me feel out of sorts, large quantities turn me almost into a rollicking tar. Even as a boy I showed my bravado in this respect. To compose a long Latin essay in one night, to revise and recopy it, to aspire with my pen to emulating the exactitude and the terseness of my model, Sallust, and to pour a few very strong grogs over it all—this mode of procedure, while I was a pupil at the venerable old school of Pforta, was not in the least out of keeping with my physiology, nor perhaps with that of Sallust, however much it may have been alien to dignified Pforta. Later on, towards the middle of my life, I grew more and more opposed to alcoholic drinks: I, an opponent of vegetarianism, who have experienced what vegetarianism is,—just as Wagner, who converted me back to meat, experienced it,—cannot with sufficient earnestness advise all more spiritual natures to abstain absolutely from alcohol. Water answers the purpose.... I have a predilection in favour of those places where in all directions one has opportunities of drinking from running brooks (Nice, Turin, Sils). In vino Veritas: it seems that here once more I am at variance with the rest of the world about the concept "Truth"—with me spirit moves on the face of the waters.... Here are a few more indications as to my morality. A heavy meal is digested more easily than an inadequate one. The first principle of a good digestion is that the stomach should become active as a whole. A man ought, therefore, to know the size of his stomach. For the same reasons all those interminable meals, which I call interrupted sacrificial feasts, and which are to be had at any table d'hôte, are strongly to be deprecated. Nothing should be eaten between meals, coffee should be given up—coffee makes one gloomy. Tea is beneficial only in the morning. It should be taken in small quantities, but very strong. It may be very harmful, and indispose you for the whole day, if it be taken the least bit too weak. Everybody has his own standard in this matter, often between the narrowest and most delicate limits. In an enervating climate tea is not a good beverage with which to start the day: an hour before taking it an excellent thing is to drink a cup of thick cocoa, feed from oil. Remain seated as little as possible, put no trust in any thought that is not born in the open, to the accompaniment of free bodily motion—nor in one in which even the muscles do not celebrate a feast. All prejudices take their origin in the intestines. A sedentary life, as I have already said elsewhere, is the real sin against the Holy Spirit.

Why do I know more than other people? Why, in fact, am I so clever? I have never wasted thought on questions that are not really questions. I have never squandered my strength. For example, I have no experience of real religious difficulties. I have never known what it feels like to be "sinful." Likewise, I have no reliable way to judge what a pang of conscience is. From everything I hear, a pang of conscience does not seem like a very admirable thing.... Once I have done something, I would hate to abandon it. I would rather leave its bad results, its consequences, entirely out of the question of an action's value. When faced with bad consequences, people are too quick to lose the proper perspective for judging what they did. A pang of conscience strikes me as a kind of "evil eye." Something that has failed should be honored all the more fiercely, precisely because it has failed. That is much more in keeping with my morality. "God," "the immortality of the soul," "salvation," a "beyond." Even as a child, I paid no attention to any of these notions. I wasted no time on them. Perhaps I was never naive enough for that? I do not know atheism as a conclusion I reached, still less as an event in my life. In me, atheism is inborn, instinctive. I am too curious, too skeptical, too high-spirited to be satisfied with such an obviously clumsy explanation of things. God is an obviously clumsy explanation of things. It shows a lack of delicacy toward us thinkers. At bottom, god is really nothing more than a crude and rude prohibition aimed at us: you shall not think!... I am much more interested in another question. The "salvation of humanity" depends on it far more than on any theological curiosity. I mean nutrition. For ordinary purposes, the question can be put this way: "Exactly how must you eat to reach your maximum power, or virtù in the Renaissance sense, virtue free from moralistic acid?" My experiences in this matter have been as bad as possible. I am surprised that I asked myself this question so late in life. I am also surprised that it took me so long to draw "rational" conclusions from my experiences. Only the absolute worth_1_lessness of German culture, its "idealism," can partly explain my backwardness in this matter. My ignorance was almost saintly. From beginning to end, this "culture" teaches people to lose sight of real things. It teaches them to chase thoroughly questionable, supposedly ideal goals, such as "classical culture." As if it were not hopeless from the start to try to unite "classical" and "German" in one concept. It is even a little comical. Try to imagine a "classically cultured" citizen of Leipzig! Indeed, I can say that until I was well into adulthood, my food was entirely bad. In moral terms, it was "impersonal," "selfless," "altruistic," to the glory of cooks and all other fellow Christians. For example, the cooking fashionable in Leipzig led me to renounce my "Will to Live" in earnest. So did my first study of Schopenhauer (1865). How can you ruin your stomach by eating inadequate food? Leipzig cooking seemed to me to solve this problem with admirable success. (It is said that changes were made in this department in 1866.) But German cooking in general, what does it not have on its conscience! Soup before the meal (still called alla tedesca in sixteenth-century Venetian cookbooks). Meat boiled to shreds, vegetables cooked with fat and flour, pastries reduced to paperweights! Add to this the utterly bestial after-dinner drinking habits of the ancients, and not just the ancient Germans. Then you will understand where German intellect originated: in sadly disordered intestines.... German intellect is indigestion. It can digest nothing. But even the English diet is profoundly opposed to my instincts. Compared with German and indeed French food, it seems to me a "return to Nature," that is, to cannibalism. It seems to give the intellect heavy feet, in fact, Englishwomen's feet.... The best cooking is that of Piedmont. Alcoholic drinks do not agree with me. A single glass of wine or beer a day is more than enough to turn life into a valley of tears for me. My opposites live in Munich. Although I admit that I realized this somewhat late, it was already part of my experience as a child. As a boy, I believed that drinking wine and smoking tobacco were first youthful vanities and later merely bad habits. Perhaps the poor wine of Naumburg was partly responsible for my poor opinion of wine in general. To believe that wine was exhilarating, I would have had to be a Christian. In other words, I would have had to believe what seems to me an absurdity. Strangely, small amounts of alcohol with plenty of water make me feel unwell. Large amounts, however, turn me almost into a rollicking sailor. Even as a boy, I showed my bravado in this respect. I would write a long Latin essay in one night, then revise and recopy it. With my pen, I would try to match the precision and concision of my model, Sallust. And I would pour a few very strong grogs over the whole enterprise. When I was a pupil at the venerable old school of Pforta, this routine suited my physiology perfectly. Perhaps it suited Sallust's as well, however foreign it may have been to dignified Pforta. Later, toward the middle of my life, I became more and more opposed to alcoholic drinks. I am an opponent of vegetarianism who has experienced it, just as Wagner did, who converted me back to meat. I cannot urge all more spiritual natures strongly enough to abstain completely from alcohol. Water does the job.... I favor places where there are opportunities to drink from running brooks in every direction (Nice, Turin, Sils). In vino Veritas: once again, it seems I disagree with the rest of the world about the meaning of "Truth." With me, spirit moves on the face of the waters.... Here are a few more indications of my morality. A heavy meal is easier to digest than an inadequate one. The first principle of good digestion is that the whole stomach should become active. A person should therefore know the size of his stomach. For the same reasons, all those endless meals I call interrupted sacrificial feasts should be strongly discouraged. You can find them at any table d'hôte. Nothing should be eaten between meals. Coffee should be given up because it makes one gloomy. Tea is beneficial only in the morning. It should be taken in small quantities, but very strong. If it is even slightly too weak, it can be very harmful and leave you feeling unwell all day. Everyone has a personal standard in this matter, often within the narrowest and most delicate limits. In a draining climate, tea is not a good way to start the day. An hour before drinking tea, it is excellent to have a cup of thick cocoa, free from oil. Sit as little as possible. Trust no thought that is not born outdoors, accompanied by free bodily movement. Trust none in which even the muscles do not celebrate a feast. All prejudices originate in the intestines. As I have said elsewhere, a sedentary life is the real sin against the Holy Spirit.

To the question of nutrition, that of locality and climate is next of kin. Nobody is so constituted as to be able to live everywhere and anywhere; and he who has great duties to perform, which lay claim to all his strength, has, in this respect, a very limited choice. The influence of climate upon the bodily functions, affecting their acceleration or retardation, extends so far, that a blunder in the choice of locality and climate is able not only to alienate a man from his actual duty, but also to withhold it from him altogether, so that he never even comes face to face with it. Animal vigour never acquires enough strength in him in order to reach that pitch of artistic freedom which makes his own soul whisper to him: I, alone, can do that.... Ever so slight a tendency to laziness in the intestines, once it has become a habit, is quite sufficient to make something mediocre, something "German" out of a genius; the climate of Germany, alone, is enough to discourage the strongest and most heroically disposed intestines. The tempo of the body's functions is closely bound up with the agility or the clumsiness of the spirit's feet; spirit itself is indeed only a form of these organic functions. Let anybody make a list of the places in which men of great intellect have been found, and are still found; where wit, subtlety, and malice constitute happiness; where genius is almost necessarily at home: all of them rejoice in exceptionally dry air. Paris, Provence, Florence, Jerusalem, Athens—these names prove something, namely: that genius is conditioned by dry air, by a pure sky—that is to say, by rapid organic functions, by the constant and ever-present possibility of procuring for one's self great and even enormous quantities of strength. I have a certain case in mind in which a man of remarkable intellect and independent spirit became a narrow, craven specialist and a grumpy old crank, simply owing to a lack of subtlety in his instinct for climate. And I myself might have been an example of the same thing, if illness had not compelled me to reason, and to reflect upon reason realistically. Now that I have learnt through long practice to read the effects of climatic and meteorological influences, from my own body, as though from a very delicate and reliable instrument, and that I am able to calculate the change in degrees of atmospheric moisture by means of physiological observations upon myself, even on so short a journey as that from Turin to Milan; I think with horror of the ghastly fact that my whole life, until the last ten years,—the most perilous years,—has always been spent in the wrong, and what to me ought to have been the most forbidden, places. Naumburg, Pforta, Thuringia in general, Leipzig, Bâle, Venice—so many ill-starred places for a constitution like mine. If I cannot recall one single happy reminiscence of my childhood and youth, it is nonsense to suppose that so-called "moral" causes could account for this—as, for instance, the incontestable fact that I lacked companions that could have satisfied me; for this fact is the same to-day as it ever was, and it does not prevent me from being cheerful and brave. But it was ignorance in physiological matters—that confounded "Idealism"—that was the real curse of my life. This was the superfluous and foolish element in my existence; something from which nothing could spring, and for which there can be no settlement and no compensation. As the outcome of this "Idealism" I regard all the blunders, the great aberrations of instinct, and the "modest specialisations" which drew me aside from the task of my life; as, for instance, the fact that I became a philologist—why not at least a medical man or anything else which might have opened my eyes? My days at Bâle, the whole of my intellectual routine, including my daily time-table, was an absolutely senseless abuse of extraordinary powers, without the slightest compensation for the strength that I spent, without even a thought of what I was squandering and how its place might be filled. I lacked all subtlety in egoism, all the fostering care of an imperative instinct; I was in a state in which one is ready to regard one's self as anybody's equal, a state of "disinterestedness," a forgetting of one's distance from others—something, in short, for which I can never forgive myself. When I had well-nigh reached the end of my tether, simply because I had almost reached my end, I began to reflect upon the fundamental absurdity of my life—"Idealism." It was illness that first brought me to reason.

The question of where to live and what climate to choose is closely related to nutrition. No one is built to live just anywhere. And anyone with great duties that demand all his strength has very limited choices in this respect. Climate can speed up or slow down bodily functions, and its influence is so great that choosing the wrong place and climate can lead a man away from his real duty. It can even keep that duty from him altogether, so that he never encounters it. His animal energy never grows strong enough to reach that level of artistic freedom at which his own soul whispers to him: I alone can do that.... Even a slight tendency toward sluggish bowels, once it becomes a habit, is enough to make a genius mediocre, something "German." The German climate alone is enough to discourage even the strongest and most heroic bowels. The pace of the body's functions is closely tied to the agility or clumsiness of the spirit's feet. Indeed, the spirit itself is only a form of these organic functions. Make a list of the places where people of great intellect have been found, and are still found. These are places where wit, subtlety, and malice make people happy, and where genius is almost bound to feel at home. All of them enjoy exceptionally dry air. Paris, Provence, Florence, Jerusalem, Athens. These names prove something: genius depends on dry air and clear skies. In other words, it depends on rapid organic functions and the constant, ever-present ability to draw on great, even enormous, amounts of strength. I have a particular case in mind. A man of remarkable intellect and independent spirit became a narrow, cowardly specialist and a grumpy old crank. This happened simply because his instinct for climate was not subtle enough. I myself might have been another example, if illness had not forced me to reason and to think realistically about reason. Through long practice, I have now learned to read the effects of climate and weather in my own body, as if it were a very sensitive and reliable instrument. By observing my own bodily responses, I can calculate changes in atmospheric humidity, even on a journey as short as the one from Turin to Milan. So I think with horror of a ghastly fact. Until the last ten years, the most dangerous years, I had spent my whole life in the wrong places. For me, those places should have been the most forbidden of all. Naumburg, Pforta, Thuringia in general, Leipzig, Bâle, Venice: so many ill-starred places for a constitution like mine. I cannot recall a single happy memory of my childhood and youth. But it is nonsense to suppose that so-called "moral" causes could explain this. For example, it is undeniable that I lacked companions who could satisfy me. But that is still as true today as it ever was, and it does not prevent me from being cheerful and brave. No, ignorance of bodily matters, that confounded "Idealism," was the real curse of my life. It was the needless and foolish element in my existence. Nothing could come of it, and nothing can make up or compensate for it. I consider all my blunders to be the result of this "Idealism." So were the great errors of instinct and the "modest specialisations" that drew me away from my life's task. One example is that I became a philologist. Why not at least a doctor, or anything else that might have opened my eyes? My days at Bâle and my entire intellectual routine, including my daily schedule, were an utterly senseless misuse of extraordinary powers. I got nothing in return for the strength I spent. I did not even think about what I was squandering or how it might be replaced. I lacked any subtle sense of self-interest and any nurturing care from an instinct that knew what I needed. I was in a state where I was ready to regard myself as anyone's equal. It was a state of "disinterestedness," a forgetting of the distance between myself and others. In short, it is something I can never forgive myself for. When I had almost reached the end of my strength, I began to reflect on the fundamental absurdity of my life, "Idealism." I did so simply because I had nearly come to my end. It was illness that first brought me to reason.

After the choice of nutrition, the choice of climate and locality, the third matter concerning which one must not on any account make a blunder, is the choice of the manner in which one recuperates one's strength. Here, again, according to the extent to which a spirit is sui generis, the limits of that which he can allow himself—in other words, the limits of that which is beneficial to him—become more and more confined. As far as I in particular am concerned, reading in general belongs to my means of recuperation; consequently it belongs to that which rids me of myself, to that which enables me to wander in strange sciences and strange souls—to that, in fact, about which I am no longer in earnest. Indeed, it is while reading that I recover from my earnestness. During the time that I am deeply absorbed in my work, no books are found within my reach; it would never occur to me to allow any one to speak or even to think in my presence. For that is what reading would mean.... Has any one ever actually noticed, that, during the period of profound tension to which the state of pregnancy condemns not only the mind, but also, at bottom, the whole organism, accident and every kind of external stimulus acts too acutely and strikes too deep? Accident and external stimuli must, as far as possible, be avoided: a sort of walling-of-one's-self-in is one of the primary instinctive precautions of spiritual pregnancy. Shall I allow a strange thought to steal secretly over the wall? For that is what reading would mean.... The periods of work and fruit-fulness are followed by periods of recuperation: come hither, ye delightful, intellectual, intelligent books! Shall I read German books?... I must go back six months to catch myself with a book in my hand. What was it? An excellent study by Victor Brochard upon the Greek sceptics, in which my Laertiana¹ was used to advantage. The sceptics!—the only honourable types among that double-faced and sometimes quintuple-faced throng, the philosophers!.... Otherwise I almost always take refuge in the same books: altogether their number is small; they are books which are precisely my proper fare. It is not perhaps in my nature to read much, and of all sorts: a library makes me ill. Neither is it my nature to love much or many kinds of things. Suspicion or even hostility towards new books is much more akin to my instinctive feeling than "toleration," largeur de cœur, and other forms of "neighbour-love." ... It is to a small number of old French authors, that I always return again and again; I believe only in French culture, and regard everything else in Europe which calls itself "culture" as a misunderstanding. I do not even take the German kind into consideration.... The few instances of higher culture with which I have met in Germany were all French in their origin. The most striking example of this was Madame Cosima Wagner, by far the most decisive voice in matters of taste that I have ever heard. If I do not read, but literally love Pascal? as the most instinctive sacrifice to Christianity, killing himself inch by inch, first bodily, then spiritually, according to the terrible consistency of this most appalling form of inhuman cruelty; if I have something of Montaigne's mischievousness in my soul, and—who knows?—perhaps also in my body; if my artist's taste endeavours to defend the names of Molière, Corneille, and Racine, and not without bitterness, against such a wild genius as Shakespeare—all this does not prevent me from regarding even the latter-day Frenchmen also as charming companions. I can think of absolutely no century in history, in which a netful of more inquisitive and at the same time more subtle psychologists could be drawn up together than in the Paris of the present day. Let me mention a few at random—for their number is by no means small—Paul Bourget, Pierre Loti, Gyp, Meilhac, Anatole France, Jules Lemaitre; or, to point to one of strong race, a genuine Latin, of whom I am particularly fond, Guy de Maupassant. Between ourselves, I prefer this generation even to its masters, all of whom were corrupted by German philosophy (Taine, for instance, by Hegel, whom he has to thank for his misunderstanding of great men and great periods). Wherever Germany extends her sway, she ruins culture. It was the war which first saved the spirit of France.... Stendhal is one of the happiest accidents of my life—for everything that marks an epoch in it has been brought to me by accident and never by means of a recommendation. He is quite priceless, with his psychologist's eye, quick at forestalling and anticipating; with his grasp of facts, which is reminiscent of the same art in the greatest of all masters of facts (ex ungue Napoleonem); and, last but not least, as an honest atheist—a specimen which is both rare and difficult to discover in France—all honour to Prosper Mérimée!... Maybe that I am even envious of Stendhal? He robbed me of the best atheistic joke, which I of all people could have perpetrated: "God's only excuse is that He does not exist" ... I myself have said somewhere—What has been the greatest objection to Life hitherto?—God....

After choosing one’s food, climate, and place to live, the third matter in which one must never make a mistake is choosing how to recover one’s strength. Here again, the more sui generis a spirit is, the narrower the limits of what he can allow himself become. In other words, fewer and fewer things are good for him. For me in particular, reading is generally a way to recover my strength. It takes me away from myself and lets me wander among unfamiliar sciences and unfamiliar souls. These are things I no longer take seriously. Indeed, reading helps me recover from my seriousness. When I am deeply absorbed in my work, I keep no books within reach. It would never occur to me to let anyone speak or even think in my presence. For that is what reading would mean.... Has anyone noticed how sharply chance and every kind of outside stimulus affect a person during pregnancy? They strike too deep during that period of profound strain, which affects not only the mind but, fundamentally, the whole body. Chance and outside stimuli must be avoided as far as possible. A kind of self-enclosure is one of the primary instinctive precautions of spiritual pregnancy. Should I let a strange thought slip secretly over the wall? For that is what reading would mean.... Periods of work and productivity are followed by periods of recovery. Come here, you delightful, intellectual, intelligent books! Shall I read German books?... I have to go back six months to find myself with a book in my hand. What was it? An excellent study of the Greek sceptics by Victor Brochard, in which he made good use of my Laertiana¹. The sceptics! The only honourable types among that two-faced and sometimes five-faced crowd of philosophers!.... Otherwise, I almost always return to the same books. There are few of them, and they are exactly the right fare for me. Perhaps it is not in my nature to read a great deal or to read all kinds of books. A library makes me ill. Nor is it in my nature to love many things or many kinds of things. Suspicion or even hostility toward new books comes much more naturally to me than “tolerance,” largeur de cœur, and other forms of “love of one’s neighbour.” ... I return again and again to a small number of old French authors. I believe only in French culture. Everything else in Europe that calls itself “culture” seems to me a misunderstanding. I do not even consider the German kind.... The few examples of higher culture I have encountered in Germany were all French in origin. The most striking example was Madame Cosima Wagner. Hers was by far the most decisive voice in matters of taste I have ever heard. Do I not merely read but literally love Pascal? I see him as the most instinctive sacrifice to Christianity. He killed himself inch by inch, first in body and then in spirit. In doing so, he followed the terrible logic of this most appalling form of inhuman cruelty. Do I have something of Montaigne’s mischievousness in my soul and, who knows, perhaps in my body too? Does my artist’s taste try to defend the names of Molière, Corneille, and Racine against a wild genius like Shakespeare, and not without bitterness? Even so, I also find the more recent French writers charming companions. I can think of no century in history when one could cast a net and draw up so many inquisitive and subtle psychologists together as in present-day Paris. Let me name a few at random, for there are by no means few of them: Paul Bourget, Pierre Loti, Gyp, Meilhac, Anatole France, Jules Lemaitre. Or, to name someone of strong stock, a genuine Latin of whom I am particularly fond, Guy de Maupassant. Between ourselves, I prefer this generation even to its masters. All of those masters were corrupted by German philosophy. Taine, for instance, was corrupted by Hegel, whom he has to thank for his misunderstanding of great men and great periods. Wherever Germany extends her influence, she ruins culture. It was the war that first saved the spirit of France.... Stendhal is one of the happiest accidents of my life. Everything that marks an epoch in my life has come to me by accident, never through a recommendation. He is quite priceless, with his psychologist’s eye, quick to foresee and anticipate. He is priceless, too, for his grasp of facts, which recalls the same art in the greatest of all masters of facts (ex ungue Napoleonem). Last but not least, he is priceless as an honest atheist. Such a specimen is both rare and hard to find in France. All honour to Prosper Mérimée!... Perhaps I even envy Stendhal? He robbed me of the best atheistic joke, one that I of all people could have made: “God’s only excuse is that He does not exist” ... I myself have said somewhere: What has been the greatest objection to Life so far? God....

It was Heinrich Heine who gave me the most perfect idea of what a lyrical poet could be. In vain do I search through all the kingdoms of antiquity or of modern times for anything to resemble his sweet and passionate music. He possessed that divine wickedness, without which perfection itself becomes unthinkable to me,—I estimate the value of men, of races, according to the extent to which they are unable to conceive of a god who has not a dash of the satyr in him. And with what mastery he wields his native tongue! One day it will be said of Heine and me that we were by far the greatest artists of the German language that have ever existed, and that we left all the efforts that mere Germans made in this language an incalculable distance behind us. I must be profoundly related to Byron's Manfred: of all the dark abysses in this work I found the counterparts in my own soul—at the age of thirteen I was ripe for this book. Words fail me, I have only a look, for those who dare to utter the name of Faust in the presence of Manfred. The Germans are incapable of conceiving anything sublime: for a proof of this, look at Schumann! Out of anger for this mawkish Saxon, I once deliberately composed a counter-overture to Manfred, of which Hans von Bülow declared he had never seen the like before on paper: such compositions amounted to a violation of Euterpe. When I cast about me for my highest formula of Shakespeare, I find invariably but this one: that he conceived the type of Cæsar. Such things a man cannot guess—he either is the thing, or he is not. The great poet draws his creations only from out of his own reality. This is so to such an extent, that often after a lapse of time he can no longer endure his own work.... After casting a glance between the pages of my Zarathustra, I pace my room to and fro for half an hour at a time, unable to overcome an insufferable fit of tears. I know of no more heartrending reading than Shakespeare: how a man must have suffered to be so much in need of playing the clown! Is Hamlet understood? It is not doubt, but certitude that drives one mad.... But in order to feel this, one must be profound, one must be an abyss, a philosopher.... We all fear the truth.... And, to make a confession; I feel instinctively certain and convinced that Lord Bacon is the originator, the self-torturer, of this most sinister kind of literature: what do I care about the miserable gabble of American muddlers and blockheads? But the power for the greatest realism in vision is not only compatible with the greatest realism in deeds, with the monstrous in deeds, with crime—it actually presupposes the latter. ... We do not know half enough about Lord Bacon—the first realist in all the highest acceptation of this word—to be sure of everything he did, everything he willed, and everything he experienced in his inmost soul.... Let the critics go to hell! Suppose I had christened my Zarathustra with a name not my own,—let us say with Richard Wagner's name,—the acumen of two thousand years would not have sufficed to guess that the author of Human, all-too-Human was the visionary of Zarathustra.

Heinrich Heine gave me the most perfect idea of what a lyric poet could be. I search in vain through all the worlds of ancient and modern times for anything like his sweet, passionate music. He possessed that divine wickedness without which I cannot imagine perfection itself. I judge the value of men and races by how unable they are to imagine a god without a touch of the satyr in him. And how masterfully he uses his native language! One day people will say that Heine and I were by far the greatest artists the German language has ever known. They will say that we left all the efforts of mere Germans in this language an immeasurable distance behind us. I must be deeply related to Byron's Manfred: I found a counterpart in my own soul for every dark abyss in that work. At thirteen, I was ready for this book. I have no words for those who dare mention Faust in the presence of Manfred. I can only give them a look. The Germans are incapable of imagining anything sublime. For proof, look at Schumann! In anger at this sentimental Saxon, I once deliberately composed a counter-overture to Manfred. Hans von Bülow said he had never seen anything like it on paper before. Such compositions, he said, amounted to a violation of Euterpe. When I look for my highest expression of what Shakespeare was, I always find only this: he conceived the character of Cæsar. A man cannot guess at such things. He either is the thing, or he is not. The great poet draws his creations only from his own reality. This is so true that, after some time, he often can no longer bear his own work.... After a glance at the pages of my Zarathustra, I pace my room for half an hour at a time, unable to stop an unbearable fit of tears. I know of no more heartbreaking reading than Shakespeare. How much a man must have suffered to need so badly to play the clown! Is Hamlet understood? It is not doubt but certainty that drives a person mad.... But to feel this, one must be profound, one must be an abyss, a philosopher.... We all fear the truth.... And, to make a confession, I am instinctively sure and convinced that Lord Bacon created this most sinister kind of literature and tortured himself in doing so. What do I care about the miserable chatter of American muddleheads and fools? But the power for the greatest realism in vision is compatible with the greatest realism in action, with monstrous deeds, with crime. More than that, it actually presupposes the latter. ... Lord Bacon was the first realist in the fullest sense of the word. Yet we do not know nearly enough about him to be sure of everything he did, everything he wanted, and everything he experienced in his innermost soul.... Let the critics go to hell! Suppose I had published my Zarathustra under a name other than my own, say, Richard Wagner's. Even two thousand years of critical insight would not have been enough to guess that the author of Human, all-too-Human was the visionary behind Zarathustra.

As I am speaking here of the recreations of my life, I feel I must express a word or two of gratitude for that which has refreshed me by far the most heartily and most profoundly. This, without the slightest doubt, was my intimate relationship with Richard Wagner. All my other relationships with men I treat quite lightly; but I would not have the days I spent at Tribschen—those days of confidence, of cheerfulness, of sublime flashes, and of profound moments—blotted from my life at any price. I know not what Wagner may have been for others; but no cloud ever darkened our sky. And this brings me back again to France,—I have no arguments against Wagnerites, and hoc genus omne who believe that they do honour to Wagner by believing him to be like themselves; for such people I have only a contemptuous curl of my lip. With a nature like mine, which is so strange to everything Teutonic, that even the presence of a German retards my digestion, my first meeting with Wagner was the first moment in my life in which I breathed freely: I felt him, I honoured him, as a foreigner, as the opposite and the incarnate contradiction of all "German virtues." We who as children breathed the marshy atmosphere of the fifties, are necessarily pessimists in regard to the concept "German"; we cannot be anything else than revolutionaries—we can assent to no state of affairs which allows the canting bigot to be at the top. I care not a jot whether this canting bigot acts in different colours to-day, whether he dresses in scarlet or dons the uniform of a hussar.² Very well, then! Wagner was a revolutionary—he fled from the Germans.... As an artist, a man has no home in Europe save in Paris; that subtlety of all the five senses which Wagner's art presupposes, those fingers that can detect slight gradations, psychological morbidity—all these things can be found only in Paris. Nowhere else can you meet with this passion for questions of form, this earnestness in matters of mise-en-scène, which is the Parisian earnestness par excellence. In Germany no one has any idea of the tremendous ambition that fills the heart of a Parisian artist. The German is a good fellow. Wagner was by no means a good fellow.... But I have already said quite enough on the subject of Wagner's real nature (see Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 269), and about those to whom he is most closely related. He is one of the late French romanticists, that high-soaring and heaven-aspiring band of artists, like Delacroix and Berlioz, who in their inmost nacres are sick and incurable, and who are all fanatics of expression, and virtuosos through and through.... Who, in sooth, was the first intelligent follower of Wagner? Charles Baudelaire, the very man who first understood Delacroix—that typical decadent, in whom a whole generation of artists saw their reflection; he was perhaps the last of them too.... What is it that I have never forgiven Wagner? The fact that he condescended to the Germans—that he became a German Imperialist.... Wherever Germany spreads, she ruins culture.

As I speak of the pleasures of my life, I must express some gratitude for what refreshed me most deeply and fully. Without the slightest doubt, it was my close relationship with Richard Wagner. I regard all my other relationships with men quite lightly. But I would not have the days I spent at Tribschen erased from my life at any price. Those were days of trust, cheerfulness, sublime flashes, and profound moments. I do not know what Wagner may have been to others, but no cloud ever darkened our sky. This brings me back to France. I have no arguments for Wagnerites and hoc genus omne, who think they honor Wagner by believing he was like them. For such people, I have only a contemptuous curl of my lip. My nature is so alien to everything Teutonic that even the presence of a German slows my digestion. My first meeting with Wagner was the first moment in my life when I breathed freely. I felt him to be a foreigner, and honored him as one. He was the opposite and the living contradiction of all "German virtues." Those of us who breathed the swampy atmosphere of the fifties as children are necessarily pessimistic about the idea of "German." We cannot be anything but revolutionaries. We cannot accept any state of affairs that puts the sanctimonious bigot on top. I do not care in the least whether this bigot appears in different colors today, dressed in scarlet or wearing a hussar's uniform.² Well then, Wagner was a revolutionary. He fled from the Germans.... For an artist, there is no home in Europe except Paris. Wagner's art demands a refinement of all five senses, fingers sensitive to the slightest gradations, and psychological morbidity. All these can be found only in Paris. Nowhere else can you find such passion for questions of form, or such seriousness about mise-en-scène. This seriousness is Parisian par excellence. In Germany, no one has any idea of the tremendous ambition in a Parisian artist's heart. The German is a good fellow. Wagner was by no means a good fellow.... But I have already said quite enough about Wagner's true nature (see Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 269). I have also said enough about those most closely related to him. He is one of the late French romanticists, that group of high-soaring artists who aspired to heaven. Like Delacroix and Berlioz, they are sick and incurable at their innermost core. They are all fanatics of expression and virtuosos through and through.... Who, in fact, was Wagner's first intelligent follower? Charles Baudelaire, the very man who first understood Delacroix. He was that typical decadent in whom a whole generation of artists saw their reflection. Perhaps he was the last of them too.... What have I never forgiven Wagner? That he condescended to the Germans, that he became a German Imperialist.... Wherever Germany spreads, she ruins culture.

Taking everything into consideration, I could never have survived my youth without Wagnerian music. For I was condemned to the society of Germans. If a man wish to get rid of a feeling of insufferable oppression, he has to take to hashish. Well, I had to take to Wagner. Wagner is the counter-poison to everything essentially German—the fact that he is a poison too, I do not deny. From the moment that Tristan was arranged for the piano—all honour to you, Herr von Bülow!—I was a Wagnerite. Wagner's previous works seemed beneath me—they were too commonplace, too "German." ... But to this day I am still seeking for a work which would be a match to Tristan in dangerous fascination, and possess the same gruesome and dulcet quality of infinity; I seek among all the arts in vain. All the quaint features of Leonardo da Vinci's work lose their charm at the sound of the first bar in Tristan. This work is without question Wagner's non plus ultra; after its creation, the composition of the Mastersingers and of the Ring was a relaxation to him. To become more healthy—this in a nature like Wagner's amounts to going backwards. The curiosity of the psychologist is so great in me, that I regard it as quite a special privilege to have lived at the right time, and to have lived precisely among Germans, in order to be ripe for this work. The world must indeed be empty for him who has never been unhealthy enough for this "infernal voluptuousness": it is allowable, it is even imperative, to employ a mystic formula for this purpose. I suppose I know better than any one the prodigious feats of which Wagner was capable, the fifty worlds of strange ecstasies to which no one else had wings to soar; and as I am alive to-day and strong enough to turn even the most suspicious and most dangerous things to my own advantage, and thus to grow stronger, I declare Wagner to have been the greatest benefactor of my life. The bond which unites us is the fact that we have suffered greater agony, even at each other's hands, than most men are able to bear nowadays, and this will always keep our names associated in the minds of men. For, just as Wagner is merely a misunderstanding among Germans, so, in truth, am I, and ever will be. Ye lack two centuries of psychological and artistic discipline, my dear countrymen!... But ye can never recover the time lost.

All things considered, I could never have survived my youth without Wagner’s music. After all, I was condemned to live among Germans. If a man wants to escape an unbearable sense of oppression, he has to turn to hashish. Well, I had to turn to Wagner. Wagner is the antidote to everything essentially German. I do not deny that he is also a poison. From the moment Tristan was arranged for piano, I was a Wagnerite. All honor to you, Herr von Bülow! Wagner’s earlier works seemed beneath me. They were too ordinary, too "German." ... But to this day, I am still looking for a work to match Tristan in dangerous fascination. It would also have to share its eerie, sweet sense of infinity. I search among all the arts in vain. All the peculiar charms of Leonardo da Vinci’s work fade at the sound of the first bar of Tristan. This work is unquestionably Wagner’s non plus ultra. After creating it, composing the Mastersingers and the Ring was a relaxation for him. For a nature like Wagner’s, becoming healthier means going backward. My curiosity as a psychologist is so great that I consider myself especially privileged. I lived at the right time and among Germans of all people, so that I was ready for this work. The world must indeed be empty for anyone who has never been unhealthy enough for this "infernal voluptuousness." It is permissible, even necessary, to use a mystical formula here. I suppose I know better than anyone the prodigious feats Wagner was capable of. I know the fifty worlds of strange ecstasy that no one else had wings to reach. I am alive today and strong enough to turn even the most suspect and dangerous things to my advantage. I can grow stronger through them. So I declare Wagner the greatest benefactor of my life. What binds us is that we have suffered greater agony, even at each other’s hands, than most people today can bear. This will always link our names in people’s minds. For just as Wagner is merely a misunderstanding among Germans, so in truth am I, and always will be. You lack two centuries of psychological and artistic discipline, my dear countrymen!... But you can never make up for the time lost.

To the most exceptional of my readers I should like to say just one word about what I really exact from music. It must be cheerful and yet profound, like an October afternoon. It must be original, exuberant, and tender, and like a dainty, soft woman in roguishness and grace ... I shall never admit that a German can understand what music is. Those musicians who are called German, the greatest and most famous foremost, are all foreigners, either Slavs, Croats, Italians, Dutchmen—or Jews; or else, like Heinrich Schütz, Bach, and Händel, they are Germans of a strong race which is now extinct. For my own part, I have still enough of the Pole left in me to let all other music go, if only I can keep Chopin. For three reasons I would except Wagner's Siegfried Idyll, and perhaps also one or two things of Liszt, who excelled all other musicians in the noble tone of his orchestration; and finally everything that has been produced beyond the Alps—this side of the Alps.³ I could not possibly dispense with Rossini, and still less with my Southern soul in music, the work of my Venetian maestro, Pietro Gasti. And when I say beyond the Alps, all I really mean is Venice. If I try to find a new word for music, I can never find any other than Venice. I know not how to draw any distinction between tears and music. I do not know how to think either of joy, or of the south, without a shudder of fear.

I want to say just one thing to my most exceptional readers about what I really demand from music. It must be cheerful yet profound, like an October afternoon. It must be original, exuberant, and tender. In its playfulness and grace, it must be like a delicate, gentle woman ... I will never admit that a German can understand what music is. The musicians called German are all foreigners, especially the greatest and most famous among them. They are Slavs, Croats, Italians, Dutchmen, or Jews. Or else, like Heinrich Schütz, Bach, and Händel, they are Germans from a strong race that is now extinct. As for me, enough of the Pole remains in me that I could give up all other music, as long as I could keep Chopin. For three reasons, I would make exceptions for Wagner's Siegfried Idyll, and perhaps also one or two pieces by Liszt. In the noble tone of his orchestration, Liszt surpassed all other musicians. Finally, I would make exceptions for everything produced beyond the Alps, this side of the Alps.³ I could not possibly do without Rossini. Still less could I do without my Southern soul in music, the work of my Venetian maestro, Pietro Gasti. And when I say beyond the Alps, all I really mean is Venice. If I try to find another word for music, I can never find any other than Venice. I cannot distinguish between tears and music. I cannot think of joy or of the south without a shudder of fear.

In all these things—in the choice of food, place, climate, and recreation—the instinct of self-preservation is dominant, and this instinct manifests itself with least ambiguity when it acts as an instinct of defence. To close one's eyes to much, to seal one's ears to much, to keep certain things at a distance—this is the first principle of prudence, the first proof of the fact that a man is not an accident but a necessity. The popular word for this instinct of defence is taste. A man's imperative command is not only to say "no" in cases where "yes" would be a sign of "disinterestedness," but also to say "no" as seldom as possible. One must part with all that which compels one to repeat "no," with ever greater frequency. The rationale of this principle is that all discharges of defensive forces, however slight they may be, involve enormous and absolutely superfluous losses when they become regular and habitual. Our greatest expenditure of strength is made up of those small and most frequent discharges of it. The act of keeping things off, of holding them at a distance, amounts to a discharge of strength,—do not deceive yourselves on this point!—and an expenditure of energy directed at purely negative ends. Simply by being compelled to keep constantly on his guard, a man may grow so weak as to be unable any longer to defend himself. Suppose I were to step out of my house, and, instead of the quiet and aristocratic city of Turin, I were to find a German provincial town, my instinct would have to brace itself together in order to repel all that which would pour in upon it from this crushed-down and cowardly world. Or suppose I were to find a large German city—that structure of vice in which nothing grows, but where every single thing, whether good or bad, is squeezed in from outside. In such circumstances should I not be compelled to become a hedgehog? But to have prickles amounts to a squandering of strength; they even constitute a twofold luxury, when, if we only chose to do so, we could dispense with them and open our hands instead....

In all these matters, the instinct for self-preservation dominates: the choice of food, place, climate, and recreation. This instinct shows itself most clearly when it acts in self-defense. Close your eyes and ears to much. Keep certain things at a distance. This is the first rule of prudence. It is the first proof that a man is not an accident but a necessity. The common word for this defensive instinct is taste. A man must say "no" when saying "yes" would show "disinterestedness." But he must also say "no" as seldom as possible. He must get rid of everything that forces him to say "no" more and more often. The reason is simple. Whenever we use our defensive powers, however slightly, we lose strength. When such defenses become regular and habitual, those losses become enormous and completely unnecessary. Our greatest expenditure of strength consists of these small, frequent uses of it. Keeping things out and holding them at a distance uses strength. Do not deceive yourselves on this point! It is energy spent on purely negative ends. Simply having to stay constantly on guard can make a man too weak to defend himself. Suppose I stepped out of my house and found a German provincial town instead of the quiet, aristocratic city of Turin. My instinct would have to brace itself to repel everything that would pour in from this crushed and cowardly world. Or suppose I found a large German city, that monument to vice where nothing grows. There, every single thing, good or bad, is crammed in from outside. In such circumstances, would I not have to become a hedgehog? But having prickles is a waste of strength. They are doubly extravagant when, if we chose, we could do without them and open our hands instead....

Another form of prudence and self-defence consists in trying to react as seldom as possible, and to keep one's self aloof from those circumstances and conditions wherein one would be condemned, as it were, to suspend one's "liberty" and one's initiative, and become a mere reacting medium. As an example of this I point to the intercourse with books. The scholar who, in sooth, does little else than handle books—with the philologist of average attainments their number may amount to two hundred a day—ultimately forgets entirely and completely the capacity of thinking for himself. When he has not a book between his fingers he cannot think. When he thinks, he responds to a stimulus (a thought he has read),—finally all he does is to react. The scholar exhausts his whole strength in saying either "yes" or "no" to matter which has already been thought out, or in criticising it—he is no longer capable of thought on his own account.... In him the instinct of self-defence has decayed, otherwise he would defend himself against books. The scholar is a decadent. With my own eyes I have seen gifted, richly endowed, and free-spirited natures already "read to ruins" at thirty, and mere wax vestas that have to be rubbed before they can give off any sparks—or "thoughts." To set to early in the morning, at the break of day, in all the fulness and dawn of one's strength, and to read a book—this I call positively vicious!

Another form of prudence and self-defense is to react as rarely as possible. One should avoid situations and conditions that would force one, so to speak, to suspend one's "liberty" and initiative and become a mere medium for reactions. Take, for example, one's dealings with books. The scholar, in fact, does little besides handle books. An average philologist may handle as many as two hundred a day. Eventually, the scholar completely forgets how to think for himself. Without a book in his hands, he cannot think. When he thinks, he responds to a stimulus (a thought he has read). In the end, all he does is react. The scholar uses all his strength saying "yes" or "no" to thoughts already worked out, or criticizing them. He is no longer capable of thinking for himself.... His instinct for self-defense has decayed. Otherwise, he would defend himself against books. The scholar is a decadent. With my own eyes, I have seen gifted, richly endowed, free-spirited people already "read to ruins" at thirty. They were reduced to mere wax matches that must be struck before they give off sparks, or "thoughts." To start reading a book early in the morning, at daybreak, when one's strength is fresh and at its fullest, is, I say, positively vicious!

At this point I can no longer evade a direct answer to the question, how one becomes what one is. And in giving it, I shall have to touch upon that masterpiece in the art of self-preservation, which is selfishness. ... Granting that one's life-task—the determination and the fate of one's life-task—greatly exceeds the average measure of such things, nothing more dangerous could be conceived than to come face to face with one's self by the side of this life-task. The fact that one becomes what one is, presupposes that one has not the remotest suspicion of what one is. From this standpoint even the blunders of one's life have their own meaning and value, the temporary deviations and aberrations, the moments of hesitation and of modesty, the earnestness wasted upon duties which lie outside the actual life-task. In these matters great wisdom, perhaps even the highest wisdom, comes into activity: in these circumstances, in which nosce teipsum would be the sure road to ruin, forgetting one's self, misunderstanding one's self, belittling one's self, narrowing one's self, and making one's self mediocre, amount to reason itself. Expressed morally, to love one's neighbour and to live for others and for other things may be the means of protection employed to maintain the hardest kind of egoism. This is the exceptional case in which I, contrary to my principle and conviction, take the side of the altruistic instincts; for here they are concerned in subserving selfishness and self-discipline. The whole surface of consciousness—for consciousness is a surface—must be kept free from any one of the great imperatives. Beware even of every striking word, of every striking attitude! They are all so many risks which the instinct runs of "understanding itself" too soon. Meanwhile the organising "idea," which is destined to become master, grows and continues to grow into the depths,—it begins to command, it leads you slowly back from your deviations and aberrations, it prepares individual qualities and capacities, which one day will make themselves felt as indispensable to the whole of your task,—step by step it cultivates all the serviceable faculties, before it ever whispers a word concerning the dominant task, the "goal," the "object," and the "meaning" of it all. Looked at from this standpoint my life is simply amazing. For the task of transvaluing values, more capacities were needful perhaps than could well be found side by side in one individual; and above all, antagonistic capacities which had to be free from the mutual strife and destruction which they involve. An order of rank among capacities; distance; the art of separating without creating hostility; to refrain from confounding things; to keep from reconciling things; to possess enormous multifariousness and yet to be the reverse of chaos—all this was the first condition, the long secret work, and the artistic mastery of my instinct. Its superior guardianship manifested itself with such exceeding strength, that not once did I ever dream of what was growing within me—until suddenly all my capacities were ripe, and one day burst forth in all the perfection of their highest bloom. I cannot remember ever having exerted myself, I can point to no trace of struggle in my life; I am the reverse of a heroic nature. To "will" something, to "strive" after something, to have an "aim" or a "desire" in my mind—I know none of these things from experience. Even at this moment I look out upon my future—a broad future!—as upon a calm sea: no sigh of longing makes a ripple on its surface. I have not the slightest wish that anything should be otherwise than it is: I myself would not be otherwise.... But in this matter I have always been the same. I have never had a desire. A man who, after his four-and-fortieth year, can say that he has never bothered himself about honours, women, or money!—not that they did not come his way.... It was thus that I became one day a University Professor—I had never had the remotest idea of such a thing; for I was scarcely four-and-twenty years of age. In the same way, two years previously, I had one day become a philologist, in the sense that my first philological work, my start in every way, was expressly obtained by my master Ritschl for publication in his Rheinisches Museum.⁴ (Ritschl—and I say it in all reverence—was the only genial scholar that I have ever met. He possessed that pleasant kind of depravity which distinguishes us Thuringians, and which makes even a German sympathetic—even in the pursuit of truth we prefer to avail ourselves of roundabout ways. In saying this I do not mean to underestimate in any way my Thuringian brother, the intelligent Leopold von Ranke....)

At this point, I can no longer avoid answering the question directly: how one becomes what one is. To answer it, I must touch on that masterpiece of self-preservation, selfishness. ... Suppose that one's life's task, its calling and its destiny, is far greater than average. Then nothing could be more dangerous than to confront oneself alongside that task. Becoming what one is assumes that one has not the slightest suspicion of what one is. From this point of view, even life's mistakes have their own meaning and value. So do temporary detours and wrong turns, moments of hesitation and modesty, and effort wasted on duties outside one's real task. Great wisdom, perhaps even the highest wisdom, is at work in these things. In such circumstances, nosce teipsum, or "know yourself," would be the sure road to ruin. Instead, forgetting, misunderstanding, belittling, limiting, and making oneself mediocre are reason itself. In moral terms, loving one's neighbor and living for others and other things may protect the hardest kind of egoism. This is the exceptional case in which I side with altruistic instincts, contrary to my principle and conviction. For here they serve selfishness and self-discipline. The whole surface of consciousness must be kept free of any great command. For consciousness is a surface. Beware even of striking words and striking attitudes! Each risks letting the instinct "understand itself" too soon. Meanwhile, the organizing "idea," destined to become master, grows ever deeper. It begins to command. It slowly leads you back from your detours and wrong turns. It prepares individual qualities and abilities that will one day prove indispensable to your whole task. Step by step, it cultivates all useful abilities. Only then does it whisper a word about the main task, the "goal," the "object," and the "meaning" of it all. Seen in this light, my life is simply amazing. The task of transvaluing values perhaps required more abilities than one person could easily possess. Above all, it required opposing abilities, free from the conflict and destruction they bring upon each other. The first condition was to rank these abilities and keep them at a distance from one another. It required the art of separating them without creating hostility, without confusing them or forcing them into agreement. It required enormous variety without the slightest chaos. All this was the long, secret work and artistic mastery of my instinct. Its superior protection was so powerful that I never once dreamed of what was growing inside me. Then suddenly all my abilities were ripe. One day they burst forth in the full perfection of their highest bloom. I cannot remember ever exerting myself. I can find no trace of struggle in my life. I am the opposite of a heroic nature. To "will" something, to "strive" for something, to have an "aim" or a "desire" in mind: I know none of these from experience. Even now I look out on my future, a broad future!, as on a calm sea. No sigh of longing ripples its surface. I have not the slightest wish for anything to be different from what it is. I myself would not be different.... But I have always been this way. I have never had a desire. Here is a man who, after his forty-fourth year, can say he has never concerned himself with honors, women, or money! It is not that they did not come his way.... That is how I became a University Professor one day. I had never had the slightest idea of such a thing, for I was barely twenty-four. In the same way, two years earlier, I had become a philologist one day. My teacher Ritschl had specifically sought out my first work in philology for publication in his Rheinisches Museum.⁴ That was how I began in every way. (Ritschl, and I say this with all reverence, was the only scholar of genius I have ever met. He had that pleasant kind of depravity that distinguishes us Thuringians and makes even a German likable. Even in pursuing truth, we prefer to take indirect routes. I do not mean to underestimate my fellow Thuringian, the intelligent Leopold von Ranke, in any way....)

You may be wondering why I should actually have related all these trivial and, according to traditional accounts, insignificant details to you; such action can but tell against me, more particularly if I am fated to figure in great causes. To this I reply that these trivial matters—diet, locality, climate, and one's mode of recreation, the whole casuistry of; self-love—are inconceivably more important than, all that which has hitherto been held in high esteem! It is precisely in this quarter that we must begin to learn afresh. All those things which mankind has valued with such earnestness heretofore are not even real; they are mere creations of fancy, or, more strictly speaking, lies born of the evil instincts of diseased and, in the deepest sense, noxious natures—all the concepts, "God," "soul," "virtue," "sin," "Beyond," "truth," "eternal life." ... But the greatness of human nature, its "divinity," was sought for in them.... All questions of politics, of social order, of education, have been falsified, root and branch, owing to the fact that the most noxious men have been taken for great men, and that people were taught to despise the small things, or rather the fundamental things, of life. If I now choose to compare myself with those creatures who have hitherto been honoured as the first among men, the difference becomes obvious. I do not reckon the so-called "first" men even as human beings—for me they are the excrements of mankind, the products of disease and of the instinct of revenge: they are so many monsters laden with rottenness, so many hopeless incurables, who avenge themselves on life.... I wish to be the opposite of these people: it is my privilege to have the very sharpest discernment for every sign of healthy instincts. There is no such thing as a morbid trait in me; even in times of serious illness I have never grown morbid, and you might seek in vain for a trace of fanaticism in my nature. No one can point to any moment of my life in which I have assumed either an arrogant or a pathetic attitude. Pathetic attitudes are not in keeping with greatness; he who needs attitudes is false.... Beware of all picturesque men! Life was easy—in fact easiest—to me, in those periods when it exacted the heaviest duties from me. Whoever could have seen me during the seventy days of this autumn, when, without interruption, I did a host of things of the highest rank—things that no man can do nowadays—with a sense of responsibility for all the ages yet to come, would have noticed no sign of tension in my condition, but rather a state of overflowing freshness and good cheer. Never have I eaten with more pleasant sensations, never has my sleep been better. I know of no other manner of dealing with great tasks, than as play: this, as a sign of greatness, is an essential prerequisite. The slightest constraint, a sombre mien, any hard accent in the voice—all these things are objections to a man, but how much more to his work!... One must not have nerves.... Even to suffer from solitude is an objection—the only thing I have always suffered from is "multitude."⁵ At an absurdly tender age, in fact when I was seven years old, I already knew that no human speech would ever reach me: did any one ever see me sad on that account? At present I still possess the same affability towards everybody, I am even full of consideration for the lowest: in all this there is not an atom of haughtiness or of secret contempt. He whom I despise soon guesses that he is despised by me: the very fact of my existence is enough to rouse indignation in all those who have polluted blood in their veins. My formula for greatness in man is! amor fati: the fact that a man wishes nothing to be different, either in front of him or behind him, or for all eternity. Not only must the necessary be borne, and on no account concealed,—all idealism is falsehood in the face of necessity,—but it must also be loved....

You may wonder why I have told you all these trivial details, which people have traditionally considered insignificant. Telling you about them can only count against me, especially if I am destined to play a part in great causes. My answer is that these trivial matters are unimaginably more important than everything people have valued so highly until now! I mean diet, location, climate, how we relax, and the whole question of how to care for ourselves. These are precisely the matters we must start learning about anew. Everything humanity has valued so earnestly until now is not even real. These things are mere inventions of the imagination. More precisely, they are lies born of the evil instincts of diseased and, in the deepest sense, harmful natures. I mean all the concepts: "God," "soul," "virtue," "sin," "Beyond," "truth," "eternal life." ... Yet people looked for the greatness of human nature, its "divinity," in these concepts.... Every question of politics, social order, and education has been distorted from the ground up. That is because the most harmful people have been taken for great people. And people have been taught to despise the small things in life, or rather, the fundamental things. If I compare myself with those creatures honored until now as the greatest among men, the difference is obvious. I do not even count these so-called "first" men as human beings. To me, they are humanity's excrement, products of disease and the instinct for revenge. They are monsters full of decay, hopeless cases who take revenge on life.... I want to be the opposite of these people. My privilege is to recognize every sign of healthy instincts with the greatest sharpness. There is nothing morbid in me. Even when seriously ill, I have never become morbid. You would search my nature in vain for any trace of fanaticism. No one can point to a moment in my life when I struck an arrogant or a self-pitying pose. Such poses do not go with greatness. Anyone who needs them is false.... Beware of all picturesque men! Life was easy for me, in fact easiest, when it demanded the heaviest duties from me. Anyone who could have seen me during the seventy days of this autumn would have noticed no sign of strain. Instead, they would have seen overflowing freshness and good cheer. During that time, I worked without interruption on many things of the highest rank, things no one can do nowadays. And I did so with a sense of responsibility for all the ages to come. Never have I enjoyed eating more, and never have I slept better. I know no way to deal with great tasks except as play. The ability to do so is a sign of greatness and an essential requirement for it. The slightest strain, a gloomy expression, any harshness in the voice, all count against a person. How much more, then, do they count against that person's work!... One must not have nerves.... Even to suffer from solitude counts against a person. The only thing I have always suffered from is "multitude."⁵ At an absurdly young age, when I was seven, I already knew that no human speech would ever reach me. Did anyone ever see me sad about that? Even now, I am as friendly as ever toward everyone. I am even full of consideration for the lowest. There is not an atom of arrogance or secret contempt in any of this. Anyone I despise soon realizes it. My very existence is enough to arouse indignation in everyone with polluted blood in their veins. My formula for greatness in a human being is amor fati: to want nothing to be different, either in the future or the past, or for all eternity. We must not only bear what is necessary, and never conceal it. All idealism is a lie in the face of necessity. We must also love what is necessary....