Why I Write Such Excellent Books

I am one thing, my creations are another. Here, before I speak of the books themselves, I shall touch upon the question of the understanding and misunderstanding with which they have met. I shall proceed to do this in as perfunctory a manner as the occasion demands; for the time has by no means come for this question. My time has not yet come either; some are born posthumously. One s day institutions will be needed in which men will live and teach, as I understand living and teaching; maybe, also, that by that time, chairs will be founded and endowed for the interpretation of Zarathustra. But I should regard it as a complete contradiction of myself, if I expected to find ears and eyes for my truths to-day: the fact that no one listens to me, that no one knows how to receive at my hands to-day, is not only comprehensible, it seems to me quite the proper thing. I do not wish to be mistaken for another—and to this end I must not mistake myself. To repeat what I have already said, I can point to but few instances of ill-will in my life: and as for literary ill-will, I could mention scarcely a single example of it. On the other hand, I have met with far too much pure foolery!... It seems to me that to take up one of my books is one of the rarest honours that a man can pay himself—even supposing that he put his shoes from off his feet beforehand, not to mention boots.... When on one occasion Dr. Heinrich von Stein honestly complained that he could not understand a word of my Zarathustra, I said to him that this was just as it should be: to have understood six sentences in that book—that is to say, to have lived them—raises a man to a higher level among mortals than "modern" men can attain. With this feeling of distance how could I even wish to be read by the "moderns" whom I know! My triumph is just the opposite of what Schopenhauer's was—I say "Non legor, non legar."—Not that I should like to underestimate the pleasure I have derived from the innocence with which my works have frequently been contradicted. As late as last summer, at a time when I was attempting, perhaps by means of my weighty, all-too-weighty literature, to throw the rest of literature off its balance, a certain professor of Berlin University kindly gave me to understand that I ought really to make use of a different form: no one could read such stuff as I wrote.—Finally, it was not Germany, but Switzerland that presented me with the two most extreme cases. An essay on Beyond Good and Evil, by Dr. V. Widmann in the paper called the Bund, under the heading "Nietzsche's Dangerous Book," and a general account of all my works, from the pen of Herr Karl Spitteler, also in the Bund, constitute a maximum in my life—I shall not say of what.... The latter treated my Zarathustra, for instance as "advanced exercises in style," and expressed the wish that later on I might try and attend to the question of substance as well; Dr. Widmann assured me of his respect for the courage I showed in endeavouring to abolish all decent feeling. Thanks to a little trick of destiny, every sentence in these criticisms seemed, with a consistency that I could but admire, to be an inverted truth. In fact it was most remarkable that all one had to do was to "transvalue all values," in order to hit the nail on the head with regard to me, instead of striking my head with the nail.... I am more particularly anxious therefore to discover an explanation. After all, no one can draw more out of things, books included, than he already knows. A man has no ears for that to which experience has given him no access. To take an extreme case, suppose a book contains simply incidents which lie quite outside the range of general or even rare experience—suppose it to be the first language to express a whole series of experiences. In this case nothing it contains will really be heard at all, and, thanks to an acoustic delusion, people will believe that where nothing is heard there is nothing to hear.... This, at least, has been my usual experience, and proves, if you will, the originality of my experience. He who thought he had understood something in my work, had as a rule adjusted something in it to his own image—not infrequently the very opposite of myself, an "idealist," for instance. He who understood nothing in my work, would deny that I was worth considering at all.—The word "Superman," which designates a type of man that would be one of nature's rarest and luckiest strokes, as opposed to "modern" men, to "good" men, to Christians and other Nihilists,—a word which in the mouth of Zarathustra, the annihilator of morality, acquires a very profound meaning,—is understood almost everywhere, and with perfect innocence, in the light of those values to which a flat contradiction was made manifest in the figure of Zarathustra—that is to say, as an "ideal" type, a higher kind of man, half "saint" and half "genius." ... Other learned cattle have suspected me of Darwinism on account of this word: even the "hero cult" of that great unconscious and involuntary swindler, Carlyle,—a cult which I repudiated with such roguish malice,—was recognised in my doctrine. Once, when I whispered to a man that he would do better I to seek for the Superman in a Cæsar Borgia than in a Parsifal, he could not believe his ears. The fact that I am quite free from curiosity in regard to criticisms of my books, more particularly when they appear in newspapers, will have to be forgiven me. My friends and my publishers know this, and never speak to me of such things. In one particular case, I once saw all the sins that had been committed against a single book—it was Beyond Good and Evil; I could tell you a nice story about it. Is it possible that the National-Zeitung—a Prussian paper (this comment is for the sake of my foreign readers—for my own part, I beg to state, I read only Le Journal des Débats)—really and seriously regarded the book as a "sign of the times," or a genuine and typical example of Tory philosophy,¹ for which the Kreuz-Zeitung had not sufficient courage?...

I am one thing, and my creations are another. Before I discuss the books themselves, I will touch on how they have been understood and misunderstood. I will deal with this only as briefly as the occasion demands, because the time for the question has by no means come. My time has not yet come either. Some people are born after their deaths. One day, institutions will be needed where people will live and teach as I understand living and teaching. Perhaps, by then, professorships will also be established and funded for the interpretation of Zarathustra. But I would completely contradict myself if I expected people today to have ears and eyes for my truths. No one listens to me, and no one today knows how to receive what I offer. That is not only understandable. It seems to me quite proper. I do not want to be mistaken for someone else, and to prevent that, I must not mistake myself. To repeat what I have already said, I can point to only a few instances of ill will in my life. As for literary ill will, I can hardly name a single example. On the other hand, I have encountered far too much pure foolery!... It seems to me that picking up one of my books is one of the rarest honors a person can give himself. That is true even if he takes off his shoes beforehand, not to mention his boots.... Once, Dr. Heinrich von Stein honestly complained that he could not understand a word of my Zarathustra. I told him that was just as it should be. To have understood six sentences in that book, that is, to have lived them, raises a person above the level "modern" people can reach. Feeling such a distance, how could I even wish to be read by the "moderns" I know! My triumph is the exact opposite of Schopenhauer's. I say, "Non legor, non legar." I am not read, I shall not be read. I do not mean to underestimate the pleasure I have taken in the innocence with which my works have often been contradicted. As recently as last summer, I was trying to throw the rest of literature off balance, perhaps with my weighty, all-too-weighty literature. At that very time, a professor at Berlin University kindly let me know that I really ought to use a different form. No one could read the stuff I wrote. Finally, the two most extreme cases came not from Germany but from Switzerland. There was an essay on Beyond Good and Evil by Dr. V. Widmann, titled "Nietzsche's Dangerous Book," in the paper called the Bund. There was also an account of all my works by Herr Karl Spitteler, also in the Bund. Together, they represent a maximum in my life. I shall not say of what.... Spitteler treated my Zarathustra, for instance, as "advanced exercises in style." He expressed the hope that I might later try to attend to the question of substance as well. Dr. Widmann assured me of his respect for the courage I showed in trying to abolish all decent feeling. Thanks to a little trick of destiny, every sentence in these criticisms seemed to be the truth turned upside down. The consistency was something I could only admire. In fact, it was most remarkable. All one had to do was "transvalue all values" to hit the nail on the head about me, instead of striking my head with the nail.... I am therefore especially eager to find an explanation. After all, no one can draw more out of things, books included, than he already knows. A person has no ears for anything his experience has given him no access to. Take an extreme case. Suppose a book contains only events that lie entirely outside the range of common or even rare experience. Suppose it is the first language to express a whole series of experiences. In that case, nothing in the book will really be heard at all. An auditory illusion will make people believe that where nothing is heard, there is nothing to hear.... That, at least, has been my usual experience. If you like, it proves the originality of my experience. Anyone who thought he understood something in my work had usually reshaped it in his own image. Quite often, he was my exact opposite, an "idealist," for example. Anyone who understood nothing in my work would deny that I was worth considering at all. The word "Superman" names a type of person who would be one of nature's rarest and luckiest strokes. This type stands opposed to "modern" people, "good" people, Christians, and other Nihilists. In the mouth of Zarathustra, the destroyer of morality, the word takes on a very profound meaning. Yet almost everywhere, and with perfect innocence, people understand it through the very values the figure of Zarathustra plainly contradicts. They take it to mean an "ideal" type, a higher kind of person, half "saint" and half "genius." ... Other learned cattle have suspected me of Darwinism because of this word. They even recognized in my doctrine the "hero cult" of Carlyle, that great unconscious and involuntary swindler. I had rejected that cult with such mischievous malice. Once, I whispered to a man that he would do better to look for the Superman in a Cæsar Borgia than in a Parsifal. He could not believe his ears. People will have to forgive me for having no curiosity about criticisms of my books, especially those in newspapers. My friends and publishers know this, and they never speak to me about such things. Once, in one particular case, I saw all the sins committed against a single book. It was Beyond Good and Evil, and I could tell you a nice story about it. Is it possible that the National-Zeitung really and seriously regarded the book as a "sign of the times"? Or as a genuine and typical example of Tory philosophy,¹ for which the Kreuz-Zeitung lacked the courage? The National-Zeitung is a Prussian paper. I mention this for my foreign readers. For my part, I should state that I read only Le Journal des Débats....

This was said for the benefit of Germans: for everywhere else I have my readers—all of them exceptionally intelligent men, characters that have won their spurs and that have been reared in high offices and superior duties; I have even real geniuses among my readers. In Vienna, in St Petersburg, in Stockholm, in Copenhagen, in Paris, and New York—I have been discovered everywhere: I have not yet been discovered in Europe's flatland—Germany.... And, to make a confession, I rejoice much more heartily over those who do not read me, over those who have neither heard of my name nor of the word philosophy. But whithersoever I go, here in Turin, for instance, every face brightens and softens at the sight of me. A thing that has flattered me more than anything else hitherto, is the fact that old market-women cannot rest until they have picked out the sweetest of their grapes for me. To this extent must a man be a philosopher.... It is not in vain that the Poles are considered as the French among the Slavs. A charming Russian lady will not be mistaken for a single moment concerning my origin. I am not successful at being pompous, the most I can do is to appear embarrassed.... I can think in German, I can feel in German—I can do most things; but this is beyond my powers.... My old master Ritschl went so far as to declare that I planned even my philological treatises after the manner of a Parisian novelist—that I made them absurdly thrilling. In Paris itself people are surprised at "toutes mes audaces et finesses";—the words are Monsieur Taine's;—I fear that even in the highest forms of the dithyramb, that salt will be found pervading my work which never becomes insipid, which never becomes "German"—and that is, wit.... I can do nought else. God help me! Amen.—We all know, some of us even from experience, what a "long-ears" is. Well then, I venture to assert that I have the smallest ears that have ever been seen. This fact is not without interest to women—it seems to me they feel that I understand them better!... I am essentially the anti-ass, and on this account alone a monster in the world's history—in Greek, and not only in Greek, I am the Antichrist.

I said this for the benefit of Germans. Everywhere else, I have readers, and all of them are exceptionally intelligent men. They have proved themselves and been trained in high offices and demanding duties. I even have genuine geniuses among my readers. In Vienna, St Petersburg, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Paris, and New York, I have been discovered everywhere. I have not yet been discovered in Europe’s flatland, Germany.... And, to make a confession, I rejoice much more heartily over those who do not read me. They have heard neither my name nor the word philosophy. But wherever I go, here in Turin, for instance, every face brightens and softens at the sight of me. Nothing has flattered me more than the old market women’s insistence on choosing their sweetest grapes for me. A man must be a philosopher to that extent.... It is not for nothing that Poles are considered the French among the Slavs. A charming Russian lady will never mistake my origins, not even for a moment. I cannot manage to be pompous. At most, I can look embarrassed.... I can think in German, I can feel in German, and I can do most things. But being pompous is beyond me.... My old teacher Ritschl even said that I planned my scholarly treatises on language like a Parisian novelist. He said I made them absurdly thrilling. In Paris itself, people are surprised by "toutes mes audaces et finesses". Those are Monsieur Taine’s words. I fear that even the highest forms of the dithyramb reveal the salt that runs through my work. That salt never loses its flavor, never becomes "German". It is wit.... I cannot do otherwise. God help me! Amen. We all know what a "long-ears" is, some of us even from experience. Well, I venture to say that I have the smallest ears ever seen. This is not without interest to women. It seems to me that they feel I understand them better!... I am essentially the opposite of an ass, and for this reason alone a monster in world history. In Greek, and not only in Greek, I am the Antichrist.

I am to a great extent aware of my privileges as a writer: in one or two cases it has even been brought home to me how very much the habitual > reading of my works "spoils" a man's taste. Other books simply cannot be endured after mine, and least of all philosophical ones. It is an incomparable distinction to cross the threshold of this noble and subtle world—in order to do so one must certainly not be a German; it is, in short, a distinction which one must have deserved. He, however, who is related to me through loftiness of will, experiences genuine raptures of understanding in my books: for I swoop down from heights into which no bird has ever soared; I know abysses into which no foot has ever slipped. People have told me that it is impossible to lay down a book of mine—that I disturb even the night's rest.... There is no prouder or at the same time more subtle kind of books: they sometimes attain to the highest pinnacle of earthly endeavour, cynicism; to capture their thoughts a man must have the tenderest fingers as well as the most intrepid fists. Any kind of spiritual decrepitude utterly excludes all intercourse with them—even any kind of dyspepsia: a man must have no nerves, but he must have a cheerful belly. Not only the poverty of a man's soul and its stuffy air excludes all intercourse with them, but also, and to a much greater degree, cowardice, uncleanliness, and secret intestinal revengefulness; a word from my lips suffices to make the colour of all evil instincts rush into a face. Among my acquaintances I have a number of experimental subjects, in whom I see depicted all the different, and instructively different, reactions which follow upon a perusal of my works. Those who will have nothing to do with the contents of my books, as for instance my so-called friends, assume an "impersonal" tone concerning them: they wish me luck, and congratulate me for having produced another work; they also declare that my writings show progress, because they exhale a more cheerful spirit.... The thoroughly vicious people, the "beautiful souls," the false from top to toe, do not know in the least what to do with my books—consequently, with the beautiful consistency of all beautiful souls, they regard my work as beneath them. The cattle among my acquaintances, the mere Germans, leave me to understand, if you please, that they are not always of my opinion, though here and there they agree with me.... I have heard this said even about Zarathustra. "Feminism," whether in mankind or in man, is likewise a barrier to my writings; with it, no one could ever enter into this labyrinth of fearless knowledge. To this end, a man must never have spared himself, he must have been hard in his habits, in order to be good-humoured and merry among a host of inexorable truths. When I try to picture the character of a perfect reader, I always imagine a monster of courage and curiosity, as well as of suppleness, cunning, and prudence—in short, a born adventurer and explorer. After all, I could not describe better than Zarathustra has done unto whom I really address myself: unto whom alone would he reveal his riddle?

I am largely aware of my advantages as a writer. In one or two cases, I have even seen how much regularly reading my work "spoils" a person's taste. After reading me, people simply cannot stand other books, especially philosophical ones. Entering this noble and subtle world is an incomparable distinction. To do so, one must certainly not be a German. In short, one must have earned the distinction. But anyone who shares my lofty will experiences genuine raptures of understanding in my books. For I swoop down from heights no bird has ever reached. I know depths into which no foot has ever slipped. People have told me they cannot put down a book of mine, and that I even disturb their sleep.... No books are prouder or more subtle. At times they reach the highest peak of human striving, cynicism. To grasp their thoughts, one needs the gentlest fingers as well as the boldest fists. Any kind of spiritual decay makes it utterly impossible to engage with them. So does any kind of indigestion. One must have no nerves, but a cheerful belly. A poor soul and its stuffy air make it impossible to engage with my books. But cowardice, uncleanness, and secret, gut-deep vindictiveness are even greater barriers. A single word from my lips is enough to bring the color of every evil instinct to a person's face. Among my acquaintances, I have several experimental subjects. In them, I see all the different and instructively different reactions to reading my work. Those who want nothing to do with what my books say, like my so-called friends, discuss them in an "impersonal" tone. They wish me luck and congratulate me on producing another work. They also say my writing shows progress because it gives off a more cheerful spirit.... The thoroughly vicious people, the "beautiful souls," who are false from top to toe, have no idea what to make of my books. So, with the admirable consistency of all beautiful souls, they consider my work beneath them. The cattle among my acquaintances, the mere Germans, let me know, if you please, that they do not always agree with me, though here and there they do.... I have even heard this said about Zarathustra. "Feminism," whether in humanity or in an individual man, is another barrier to my writings. No one with it could ever enter this labyrinth of fearless knowledge. To do so, one must never have spared oneself and must have lived by hard habits. Only then can one be cheerful and merry among so many relentless truths. When I picture a perfect reader, I always imagine a monster of courage and curiosity. This reader is also a monster of flexibility, cunning, and prudence. In short, a born adventurer and explorer. After all, I could not describe those I truly address better than Zarathustra has: to whom alone would he reveal his riddle?

"Unto you, daring explorers and experimenters, and unto all who have ever embarked beneath cunning sails upon terrible seas;

"To you, daring explorers and experimenters, and to all who have ever sailed terrible seas under cunning sails.

"Unto you who revel in riddles and in twilight, whose souls are lured by flutes unto every treacherous abyss:

"To you who delight in riddles and twilight, whose souls are drawn by flutes to every treacherous abyss:

"For ye care not to grope your way along a thread with craven fingers; and where ye are able to guess, ye hate to argue?"

"For you do not care to feel your way along a thread with cowardly fingers. And where you can guess, do you hate to argue?"

I will now pass just one or two general remarks about my art of style. To communicate a state an inner tension of pathos by means of signs, including the tempo of these signs,—that is the meaning of every style; and in view of the fact that the multiplicity of inner states in me is enormous, I am capable of many kinds of style—in short, the most multifarious art of style that any man has ever had at his disposal. Any style is good which genuinely communicates an inner condition, which does not blunder over the signs, over the tempo of the signs, or over moods—all the laws of phrasing are the outcome of representing moods artistically. Good style, in itself, is a piece of sheer foolery, mere idealism, like "beauty in itself," for instance, or "goodness in itself," or "the thing-in-itself." All this takes for granted, of course, that there exist ears that can hear, and such men as are capable and worthy of a like pathos, that those are not wanting unto whom one may communicate one's self. Meanwhile my Zarathustra, for instance, is still in quest of such people—alas! he will have to seek a long while yet! A man must be worthy of listening to him.... And, until that time, there will be no one who will understand the art that has been squandered in this book. No one has ever existed who has had more novel, more strange, and purposely created art forms to fling to the winds. The fact that such things were possible in the German language still awaited proof; formerly, I myself would have denied most emphatically that it was possible. Before my time people did not know what could be done with the German language—what could be done with language in general. The art of grand rhythm, of grand style in periods, for expressing the tremendous fluctuations of sublime and superhuman passion, was first discovered by me: with the dithyramb entitled "The Seven Seals," which constitutes the last discourse of the third part of Zarathustra, I soared miles above all that which heretofore has been called poetry.

I will now make one or two general remarks about my art of style. Every style aims to communicate an inner state, a tension of feeling, through signs, including their tempo. The range of my inner states is enormous, so I can use many kinds of style. In short, I command the most varied art of style anyone has ever possessed. Any style is good if it genuinely communicates an inner condition. It must not mishandle the signs, their tempo, or the moods they convey. All the laws of phrasing arise from the artistic representation of moods. Good style in itself is sheer nonsense, mere idealism, like "beauty in itself," "goodness in itself," or "the thing-in-itself." All this assumes, of course, that there are ears capable of hearing. It assumes there are people capable and worthy of a similar depth of feeling, people to whom one can communicate oneself. Meanwhile, my Zarathustra, for instance, is still searching for such people. Alas! He will have to search a long time yet! A person must be worthy of listening to him.... Until then, no one will understand the art that has been squandered in this book. No one has ever had more new, strange, and deliberately created art forms to throw to the winds. It still remained to be proved that such things were possible in German. Previously, I myself would have denied most emphatically that they were possible. Before my time, people did not know what could be done with German, or with language in general. I was the first to discover the art of grand rhythm, of grand style in long sentences. I discovered how to use it to express the immense fluctuations of sublime and superhuman passion. With the dithyramb entitled "The Seven Seals," the final discourse of the third part of Zarathustra, I soared miles above everything that had previously been called poetry.

The fact that the voice which speaks in my works is that of a psychologist who has not his peer, is perhaps the first conclusion at which a good reader will arrive—a reader such as I deserve, and one who reads me just as the good old philologists used to read their Horace. Those propositions about which all the world is fundamentally agreed—not to speak of fashionable philosophy, of moralists and other empty-headed and cabbage-brained people—are to me but ingenuous blunders: for instance, the belief that "altruistic" and "egoistic"; are opposites, while all the time the "ego" itself is merely a "supreme swindle," an "ideal." ... There are no such things as egoistic or altruistic actions: both concepts are psychological nonsense. Or the proposition that "man pursues happiness"; or the proposition that "happiness is the reward of virtue." ... Or the proposition that "pleasure and pain are opposites." ... Morality, the Circe of mankind, has falsified everything psychological, root and branch—it has demoralised everything, even to the terribly nonsensical point of calling love "unselfish." A man must first be firmly poised, he must stand securely on his two legs, otherwise he cannot love at all. This indeed the girls know only too well: they don't care two pins about unselfish and merely objective men.... May I venture to suggest, incidentally, that I know women? This knowledge is part of my Dionysian patrimony. Who knows? maybe I am the first psychologist of the eternally feminine. Women all like me.... But that's an old story: save, of course, the abortions among them, the emancipated ones, those who lack the where-withal to have children. Thank goodness I am not willing to let myself be torn to pieces! the perfect woman tears you to pieces when she loves you: I know these amiable Mænads.... Oh! what a dangerous, creeping, subterranean little beast of prey she is! And so agreeable withal! ... A little woman, pursuing her vengeance, would force open even the iron gates of Fate itself. Woman is incalculably more wicked than man, she is also cleverer. Goodness in a woman is already a sign of degeneration. All cases of "beautiful souls" in women may be traced to a faulty physiological condition—but I go no further, lest I should become medicynical. The struggle for equal rights is even a symptom of disease; every doctor knows this. The more womanly a woman is, the more she fights tooth and nail against rights in general: the natural order of things, the eternal war between the sexes, assigns to her by far the foremost rank. Have people had ears to hear my definition of love? It is the only definition worthy of a philosopher. Love, in its means, is war; in its foundation, it is the mortal hatred of the sexes. Have you heard my reply to the question how a woman can be cured, "saved" in fact?—Give her a child! A woman needs children, man is always only a means, thus spake Zarathustra. "The emancipation of women,"—this is the instinctive hatred of physiologically botched—that is to say, barren—women for those of their sisters who are well constituted: the fight against "man" is always only a means, a pretext, a piece of strategy. By trying to rise to "Woman per se," to "Higher Woman," to the "Ideal Woman," all they wish to do is to lower the general level of women's rank: and there are no more certain means to this end than university education, trousers, and the rights of voting cattle. Truth to tell, the emancipated are the anarchists in the "eternally feminine" world, the physiological mishaps, the most deep-rooted instinct of whom is revenge. A whole species of the most malicious "idealism"—which, by the bye, also manifests itself in men, in Henrik Ibsen for instance, that typical old maid—whose object is to poison the clean conscience, the natural spirit, of sexual love.... And in order to leave no doubt in your minds in regard to my opinion, which, on this matter, is as honest as it is severe, I will reveal to you one more clause out of my moral code against vice—with the word "vice" I combat every kind of! opposition to Nature, or, if you prefer fine words, idealism. The clause reads: "Preaching of chastity is a public incitement to unnatural practices. All depreciation of the sexual life, all the sullying of it by means of the concept 'impure,' is the essential crime against Life—is the essential crime against the Holy Spirit of Life."

Perhaps the first conclusion a good reader will reach is that the voice speaking in my works is that of a psychologist without equal. I mean a reader such as I deserve, one who reads me just as the good old philologists used to read their Horace. The propositions on which the whole world basically agrees are to me nothing but naive blunders. (I won't even mention fashionable philosophy, moralists, and other empty-headed, cabbage-brained people.) One example is the belief that "altruistic" and "egoistic" are opposites, while all along the "ego" itself is merely a "supreme swindle," an "ideal." ... There are no such things as egoistic or altruistic actions. Both concepts are psychological nonsense. Or take the proposition that "man pursues happiness," or that "happiness is the reward of virtue." ... Or the proposition that "pleasure and pain are opposites." ... Morality, the Circe of mankind, has falsified everything psychological, root and branch. It has demoralized everything, even to the terribly absurd point of calling love "unselfish." A man must first be firmly poised and stand securely on his two legs. Otherwise he cannot love at all. Girls know this only too well. They couldn't care less about unselfish and merely objective men.... May I venture to suggest, by the way, that I know women? This knowledge is part of my Dionysian inheritance. Who knows? Maybe I am the first psychologist of the eternally feminine. Women all like me.... But that's an old story. The exceptions, of course, are the misbegotten ones among them, the emancipated ones, those who lack what it takes to have children. Thank goodness I am not willing to let myself be torn to pieces! The perfect woman tears you to pieces when she loves you. I know these charming Maenads.... Oh, what a dangerous, creeping, underground little beast of prey she is! And so agreeable with it all! ... A little woman pursuing her revenge would force open even the iron gates of Fate itself. Woman is incalculably more wicked than man. She is also cleverer. Goodness in a woman is already a sign of degeneration. All cases of "beautiful souls" in women can be traced to a faulty physiological condition. But I will go no further, or I might become medicynical. The struggle for equal rights is even a symptom of disease. Every doctor knows this. The more womanly a woman is, the more she fights tooth and nail against rights in general. The natural order of things, the eternal war between the sexes, gives her by far the foremost rank. Have people had ears to hear my definition of love? It is the only definition worthy of a philosopher. Love, in its means, is war. At its foundation, it is the deadly hatred of the sexes. Have you heard my answer to the question of how a woman can be cured, "saved" in fact? Give her a child! A woman needs children. Man is always only a means. Thus spoke Zarathustra. "The emancipation of women" is the instinctive hatred that physiologically botched women (that is, barren ones) feel for their well-constituted sisters. The fight against "man" is always only a means, a pretext, a piece of strategy. By trying to rise to "Woman per se," to "Higher Woman," to the "Ideal Woman," all they want is to lower the general level of women's rank. And there are no surer means to this end than university education, trousers, and the rights of voting cattle. To tell the truth, the emancipated are the anarchists in the world of the "eternally feminine." They are its physiological mishaps, and their most deep-rooted instinct is revenge. There is a whole species of the most malicious "idealism," which, by the way, also shows up in men, in Henrik Ibsen for instance, that typical old maid. Its object is to poison the clean conscience, the natural spirit, of sexual love.... And to leave you no doubt about my opinion on this matter, which is as honest as it is severe, I will reveal one more clause from my moral code against vice. With the word "vice" I fight every kind of opposition to Nature, or, if you prefer fine words, idealism. The clause reads: "Preaching chastity is a public incitement to unnatural practices. All contempt for the sexual life, all soiling of it with the concept 'impure,' is the essential crime against Life. It is the essential crime against the Holy Spirit of Life."

In order to give you some idea of myself as a psychologist, let me take this curious piece of psychological analysis out of the book Beyond Good and Evil, in which it appears. I forbid, by the bye, any guessing as to whom I am describing in this passage. "The genius of the heart, as that great anchorite possesses it, the divine tempter and born Pied Piper of consciences, whose voice knows how to sink into the inmost depths of every soul, who neither utters a word nor casts a glance, in which some seductive motive or trick does not lie: a part of whose masterliness is that he understands the art of seeming—not what he is, but that which will place a fresh constraint upon his followers to press ever more closely upon him, to follow him ever more enthusiastically and whole-heartedly.... The genius of the heart, which makes all loud and self-conceited things hold their tongues and lend their ears, which polishes all rough souls and makes them taste a new longing—to lie placid as a mirror, that the deep heavens may be reflected in them.... The genius of the heart which teaches the clumsy and too hasty hand to hesitate and grasp more tenderly; which scents the hidden and forgotten treasure, the pearl of goodness and sweet spirituality, beneath thick black ice, and is a divining rod for every grain of gold, long buried and imprisoned in heaps of mud and sand.... The genius of the heart, from contact with which every man goes away richer, not 'blessed' and overcome, not as though favoured and crushed by the good things of others; but richer in himself, fresher to himself than before, opened up, breathed upon and sounded by a thawing wind; more uncertain, perhaps, more delicate, more fragile, more bruised; but full of hopes which as yet lack names, full of a new will and striving, full of a new unwillingness and counter-striving." ...

To give you some idea of myself as a psychologist, let me take a curious piece of psychological analysis from Beyond Good and Evil. By the way, I forbid any guessing about whom I describe in this passage. "The genius of the heart, as possessed by that great hermit, the divine tempter and born Pied Piper of consciences. His voice can reach the innermost depths of every soul. He never says a word or casts a glance without some seductive motive or trick behind it. Part of his mastery is knowing how to appear, not as he is, but as his followers need him to appear. He makes them feel compelled to draw ever closer and follow him ever more enthusiastically and wholeheartedly.... The genius of the heart, which silences all that is loud and self-important and makes it listen. It smooths all rough souls and gives them a new longing. They want to lie still as a mirror, so that the deep heavens may be reflected in them.... The genius of the heart, which teaches the clumsy, hasty hand to pause and grasp more gently. It senses hidden and forgotten treasure beneath thick black ice, the pearl of goodness and sweet spirituality. It is a divining rod for every grain of gold, long buried and trapped in heaps of mud and sand.... The genius of the heart, which leaves every person it touches richer. Not 'blessed' and overwhelmed, or favored and crushed by the good things of others. Instead, each person is richer in himself and feels fresher to himself than before. He has been opened up, breathed on and stirred by a thawing wind. Perhaps he is more uncertain, more delicate, more fragile, more bruised. But he is full of hopes that have no names yet, full of new will and striving. He is also full of a new unwillingness and a striving against." ...