We Fearless Ones

What our Cheerfulness Signifies.—The most important of more recent events—that "God is dead," that the belief in the Christian God has become unworthy of belief—already begins to cast its first shadows over Europe. To the few at least whose eye, whose suspecting glance, is strong enough and subtle enough for this drama, some sun seems to have set, some old, profound confidence seems to have changed into doubt: our old world must seem to them daily more darksome, distrustful, strange and "old." In the main, however, one may say that the event itself is far too great, too remote, too much beyond most people's power of apprehension, for one to suppose that so much as the report of it could have reached them; not to speak of many who already knew what had really taken place, and what must all collapse now that this belief had been undermined,—because so much was built upon it, so much rested on it, and had become one with it: for example, our entire European morality. This lengthy, vast and uninterrupted process of crumbling, destruction, ruin and overthrow which is now imminent: who has realised it sufficiently to-day to have to stand up as the teacher and herald of such a tremendous logic of terror, as the prophet of a period of gloom and eclipse, the like of which has probably never taken place on earth before?... Even we, the born riddle-readers, who wait as it were on the mountains posted 'twixt to-day and to-morrow, and engirt by their contradiction, we, the firstlings and premature children of the coming century, into whose sight especially the shadows which must forthwith envelop Europe should already have come—how is it that even we, without genuine sympathy for this period of gloom, contemplate its advent without any personal solicitude or fear? Are we still, perhaps, too much under the immediate effects of the event—and are these effects, especially as regards ourselves, perhaps the reverse of what was to be expected—not at all sad and depressing, but rather like a new and indescribable variety of light, happiness, relief, enlivenment, encouragement, and dawning day?... In fact, we philosophers and "free spirits" feel ourselves irradiated as by a new dawn by the report that the "old God is dead"; our hearts overflow with gratitude, astonishment, presentiment and expectation. At last the horizon seems open once more, granting even that it is not bright; our ships can at last put out to sea in face of every danger; every hazard is again permitted to the discerner; the sea, our sea, again lies open before us; perhaps never before did such an "open sea" exist.—

What Our Cheerfulness Means. The most important recent event is that "God is dead." The belief in the Christian God has become impossible to believe. This event is already beginning to cast its first shadows over Europe. A few people have eyes strong and subtle enough to sense what this drama means. To them, it seems that a sun has set and an old, deep confidence has turned to doubt. Each day, our old world must seem darker, more distrustful, stranger, and "old." For most people, however, the event itself is far too great, too remote, and too hard to grasp. We cannot even suppose that news of it has reached them. Still less can we suppose that many already know what has really happened. Nor do they know what must now collapse because this belief has been undermined. So much was built on it, rested on it, and had become one with it, including our entire European morality. A long, vast, and unbroken process of decay, destruction, ruin, and collapse is now approaching. Who today understands this well enough to teach and proclaim such a tremendous logic of terror? Who understands it well enough to prophesy an age of gloom and eclipse? Perhaps nothing like it has ever happened on earth before?... Even we, who were born to read riddles, seem to wait on mountains between today and tomorrow, surrounded by their contradictions. We are the first, premature children of the coming century. We, above all, should already see the shadows that must soon fall over Europe. Why, then, do even we feel no real sympathy for this age of gloom? Why do we watch it approach without any personal concern or fear? Are we perhaps still too much under the immediate effects of the event? And are these effects, especially on us, perhaps the reverse of what we expected? Perhaps they are not sad or depressing at all. Perhaps they are more like a new and indescribable kind of light, happiness, relief, renewed life, encouragement, and dawn?... In fact, we philosophers and "free spirits" feel lit up as if by a new dawn at the news that the "old God is dead." Our hearts overflow with gratitude, wonder, anticipation, and expectation. At last the horizon seems open again, even if it is not bright. At last our ships can sail out to face every danger. Those who seek knowledge are free to take every risk again. The sea, our sea, lies open before us once more. Perhaps there has never been such an "open sea" before.

To what Extent even We are still Pious.—It is said with good reason that convictions have no civic rights in the domain of science: it is only when a conviction voluntarily condescends to the modesty of an hypothesis, a preliminary standpoint for experiment, or a regulative fiction, that its access to the realm of knowledge, and a certain value therein, can be conceded,—always, however, with the restriction that it must remain under police supervision, under the police of our distrust.—Regarded more accurately, however, does not this imply that only when a conviction ceases to be a conviction can it obtain admission into science? Does not the discipline of the scientific spirit just commence when one no longer harbours any conviction?... It is probably so: only, it remains to be asked whether, in order that this discipline may commence, it is not necessary that there should already be a conviction, and in fact one so imperative and absolute, that it makes a sacrifice of all other convictions. One sees that science also rests on a belief: there is no science at all "without premises." The question whether truth is necessary, must not merely be affirmed beforehand, but must be affirmed to such an extent that the principle, belief, or conviction finds expression, that "there is nothing more necessary than truth, and in comparison with it everything else has only a secondary value."—This absolute will to truth: what is it? Is it the will not to allow ourselves to be deceived? Is it the will not to deceive? For the will to truth could also be interpreted in this fashion, provided one includes under the generalisation, "I will not deceive," the special case, "I will not deceive myself." But why not deceive? Why not allow oneself to be deceived?—Let it be noted that the reasons for the former eventuality belong to a category quite different from those for the latter: one does not want to be deceived oneself, under the supposition that it is injurious, dangerous, or fatal to be deceived,—in this sense science would be a prolonged process of caution, foresight and utility; against which, however, one might reasonably make objections. What? is not-wishing-to-be-deceived really less injurious, less dangerous, less fatal? What do you know of the character of existence in all its phases to be able to decide whether the greater advantage is on the side of absolute distrust, or of absolute trustfulness? In case, however, of both being necessary, much trusting and much distrusting, whence then should science derive the absolute belief, the conviction on which it rests, that truth is more important than anything else, even than every other conviction? This conviction could not have arisen if truth and untruth had both continually proved themselves to be useful: as is the case. Thus—the belief in science, which now undeniably exists, cannot have had its origin in such a utilitarian calculation, but rather in spite of the fact of the inutility and dangerousness of the "Will to truth," of "truth at all costs," being continually demonstrated. "At all costs": alas, we understand that sufficiently well, after having sacrificed and slaughtered one belief after another at this altar!—Consequently, "Will to truth" does not imply, "I will not allow myself to be deceived," but—there is no other alternative—"I will not deceive, not even myself": and thus we have reached the realm of morality. For, let one just ask oneself fairly: "Why wilt thou not deceive?" especially if it should seem—and it does seem—as if life were laid out with a view to appearance, I mean, with a view to error, deceit, dissimulation, delusion, self-delusion; and when on the other hand it is a matter of fact that the great type of life has always manifested itself on the side of the most unscrupulous πολύτροποι. Such an intention might perhaps, to express it mildly, be a piece of Quixotism, a little enthusiastic craziness; it might also, however, be something worse, namely, a destructive principle, hostile to life.... "Will to Truth,"—that might be a concealed Will to Death.—Thus the question, Why is there science? leads back to the moral problem: What in general is the purpose of morality, if life, nature, and history are "non-moral"? There is no doubt that the conscientious man in the daring and extreme sense in which he is presupposed by the belief in science, affirms thereby a world other than that of life, nature, and history; and in so far as he affirms this "other world," what? must he not just thereby—deny its counterpart, this world, our world?... But what I have in view will now be understood, namely, that it is always a metaphysical belief on which our belief in science rests,—and that even we knowing ones of to-day, the godless and anti-metaphysical, still take our fire from the conflagration kindled by a belief a millennium old, the Christian belief, which was also the belief of Plato, that God is truth, that the truth is divine.... But what if this itself always becomes more untrustworthy, what if nothing any longer proves itself divine, except it be error, blindness, and falsehood;—what if God himself turns out to be our most persistent lie?—

To What Extent We Are Still Pious. It is rightly said that convictions have no civic rights in science. A conviction can enter the realm of knowledge and have some value there only if it willingly becomes more modest. It must become a hypothesis, a starting point for experiment, or a useful fiction that guides inquiry. Even then, it must remain under police supervision, under the watchful police of our distrust. But look more closely. Doesn’t this mean that a conviction can enter science only when it ceases to be a conviction? Doesn’t the discipline of the scientific spirit begin only when we no longer hold any convictions? ... Probably so. But another question remains. For this discipline to begin, must there not already be a conviction? And must it not be so commanding and absolute that it sacrifices all other convictions? We can see that science, too, rests on a belief. There is no science at all "without premises." The question of whether truth is necessary must already have been answered with a yes. And it must have been answered so emphatically that this principle, belief, or conviction finds expression: "there is nothing more necessary than truth, and everything else has only secondary value by comparison." What is this absolute will to truth? Is it the will not to let ourselves be deceived? Or is it the will not to deceive? The will to truth could also be understood in this second way. That is, if we include the special case "I will not deceive myself" under the general rule "I will not deceive." But why not deceive? Why not let oneself be deceived? Notice that the reasons for the first choice are quite different from those for the second. We do not want to be deceived because we assume that being deceived is harmful, dangerous, or deadly. In this sense, science would be a long exercise in caution, foresight, and practical usefulness. But one could reasonably object to this. What? Is refusing to be deceived really less harmful, less dangerous, less deadly? What do you know about existence in all its forms? How can you decide whether absolute distrust or absolute trust is more advantageous? And what if both are necessary, a great deal of trust and a great deal of distrust? Where, then, could science get the absolute belief, the conviction on which it rests? The conviction is that truth matters more than anything else, even more than every other conviction. This conviction could not have arisen if truth and untruth had both continually proved useful. And that is the case. So the belief in science, which undeniably exists today, cannot have come from such a calculation of usefulness. Rather, it arose despite the constant evidence that the "will to truth," the demand for "truth at all costs," is useless and dangerous. "At all costs": alas, we understand that well enough. We have sacrificed and slaughtered one belief after another on this altar! The "will to truth" therefore does not mean "I will not let myself be deceived." There is no other alternative. It means "I will not deceive, not even myself." And so we have entered the realm of morality. Just ask yourself honestly: "Why don’t you want to deceive?" Ask this especially if life seems designed for appearance, by which I mean error, deceit, concealment, delusion, and self-delusion. And it does seem so. On the other hand, the great type of life has always, as a matter of fact, shown itself among the most unscrupulous πολύτροποι. To put it mildly, such a resolve might be a piece of Quixotism, a little enthusiastic madness. But it might also be something worse, a destructive principle hostile to life. ... The "will to truth" might be a concealed will to death. So the question "Why is there science?" leads back to the moral problem: What is the purpose of morality at all, if life, nature, and history are "non-moral"? The belief in science assumes a conscientious person, in a daring and extreme sense. There is no doubt that such a person thereby affirms a world other than the world of life, nature, and history. And insofar as he affirms this "other world," what then? Must he not thereby deny its counterpart, this world, our world? ... But now my point will be understood. Our belief in science always rests on a metaphysical belief. Even we who seek knowledge today, we godless and anti-metaphysical people, still take our fire from a blaze lit by a belief a thousand years old. That belief is the Christian belief, which was also Plato’s belief: God is truth, and truth is divine. ... But what if this belief itself becomes ever less trustworthy? What if nothing any longer proves divine, except error, blindness, and falsehood? What if God himself turns out to be our most persistent lie?

Morality as a Problem.—A defect in personality revenges itself everywhere: an enfeebled, lank, obliterated, self-disavowing and disowning personality is no longer fit for anything good—it is least of all fit for philosophy. "Selflessness" has no value either in heaven or on earth; the great problems all demand great love, and it is only the strong, well-rounded, secure spirits, those who have a solid basis, that are qualified for them. It makes the most material difference whether a thinker stands personally related to his problems, having his fate, his need, and even his highest happiness therein; or merely impersonally, that is to say, if he can only feel and grasp them with the tentacles of cold, prying thought. In the latter case I warrant that nothing comes of it: for the great problems, granting that they let themselves be grasped at all, do not let themselves be held by toads and weaklings: that has ever been their taste—a taste also which they share with all high-spirited women.—How is it that I have not yet met with any one, not even in books, who seems to have stood to morality in this position, as one who knew morality as a problem, and this problem as his own personal need, affliction, pleasure and passion? It is obvious that up to the present morality has not been a problem at all; it has rather been the very ground on which people have met, after all distrust, dissension, and contradiction, the hallowed place of peace, where thinkers could obtain rest even from themselves, could recover breath and revive. I see no one who has ventured to criticise the estimates of moral worth. I miss in this connection even the attempts of scientific curiosity, and the fastidious, groping imagination of psychologists and historians, which easily anticipates a problem and catches it on the wing, without rightly knowing what it catches. With difficulty I have discovered some scanty data for the purpose of furnishing a history of the origin of these feelings and estimates of value (which is something different from a criticism of them, and also something different from a history of ethical systems). In an individual case, I have done everything to encourage the inclination and talent for this kind of history—in vain, as it would seem to me at present. There is little to be learned from those historians of morality (especially Englishmen): they themselves are usually, quite unsuspiciously, under the influence of a definite morality, and act unwittingly as its armour-bearers and followers—perhaps still repeating sincerely the popular superstition of Christian Europe, that the characteristic of moral action consists in abnegation, self-denial, self-sacrifice, or in fellow-feeling and fellow-suffering. The usual error in their premises is their insistence on a certain consensus among human beings, at least among civilised human beings, with regard to certain propositions of morality, and from thence they conclude that these propositions are absolutely binding even upon you and me; or reversely, they come to the conclusion that no morality at all is binding, after the truth has dawned upon them that to different peoples moral valuations are necessarily different: both of which conclusions are equally childish follies. The error of the more subtle amongst them is that they discover and criticise the probably foolish opinions of a people about its own morality, or the opinions of mankind about human morality generally; they treat accordingly of its origin, its religious sanctions, the superstition of free will, and such matters; and they think that just by so doing they have criticised the morality itself. But the worth of a precept, "Thou shalt," is still fundamentally different from and independent of such opinions about it, and must be distinguished from the weeds of error with which it has perhaps been overgrown: just as the worth of a medicine to a sick person is altogether independent of the question whether he has a scientific opinion about medicine, or merely thinks about it as an old wife would do. A morality could even have grown out of an error: but with this knowledge the problem of its worth would not even be touched.—Thus, no one has hitherto tested the value of that most celebrated of all medicines, called morality: for which purpose it is first of all necessary for one—to call it in question. Well, that is just our work.—

Morality as a Problem. A defect in personality takes its revenge everywhere. A weakened, thin, erased, self-denying and self-rejecting personality is no longer fit for anything good. It is least of all fit for philosophy. "Selflessness" has no value in heaven or on earth. The great problems all demand great love. Only strong, well-rounded, secure spirits with a solid foundation are qualified to face them. It makes all the difference whether a thinker has a personal relationship with his problems. His fate, his need, and even his greatest happiness may be bound up with them. Or he may have an impersonal relationship with them. In that case, he can feel and grasp them only with the tentacles of cold, inquisitive thought. I guarantee that nothing comes of this. For even if the great problems allow themselves to be grasped, they do not let toads and weaklings hold them. That has always been their taste, a taste they share with all high-spirited women. Why have I never met anyone, not even in books, who has stood in this relationship to morality? I mean someone who knew morality as a problem, and this problem as his own personal need, affliction, pleasure, and passion. Clearly, until now morality has not been a problem at all. Instead, it has been the very ground on which people came together after all their distrust, disagreement, and contradiction. It has been the sacred place of peace where thinkers could rest, even from themselves, catch their breath, and revive. I see no one who has ventured to criticise moral judgments of worth. I cannot even find attempts at such criticism from scientific curiosity. Nor can I find it in the discerning, searching imagination of psychologists and historians. Their imagination readily anticipates a problem and catches it in flight, without quite knowing what it has caught. With difficulty, I have found a little material for a history of the origin of these feelings and judgments of value. That is different from criticising them, and also different from a history of ethical systems. In one case, I have done everything to encourage the inclination and talent for this kind of history. So far, it seems to me, I have done so in vain. There is little to learn from those historians of morality, especially Englishmen. They are usually under the influence of a particular morality without suspecting it. Without knowing it, they act as its followers and carry its armour. Perhaps they still sincerely repeat the popular superstition of Christian Europe. According to that superstition, what makes an action moral is self-denial, self-sacrifice, or sympathy and shared suffering. Their usual error lies in their premises. They insist that people agree on certain moral propositions, at least among civilised people. From this they conclude that these propositions are absolutely binding, even on you and me. Or they reach the opposite conclusion, that no morality is binding at all. They do this once they realise that moral judgments necessarily differ among peoples. Both conclusions are equally childish follies. The error of the more subtle historians is different. They discover and criticise a people's probably foolish opinions about its own morality. Or they criticise humanity's opinions about human morality in general. So they discuss its origin, its religious sanctions, the superstition of free will, and such matters. They think that by doing this they have criticised the morality itself. But the worth of a command, "Thou shalt," is fundamentally different from and independent of such opinions about it. Its worth must be distinguished from the weeds of error that may have overgrown it. The worth of a medicine to a sick person is just as independent of his opinion about medicine. It makes no difference whether his opinion is scientific or merely that of an old wife. A morality could even have grown out of an error. But knowing this would not even touch the question of its worth. Thus, no one has yet tested the value of that most celebrated of all medicines, called morality. To do so, one must first call it in question. Well, that is just our work.

Our Note of Interrogation.—But you don't understand it? As a matter of fact, an effort will be necessary in order to understand us. We seek for words; we seek perhaps also for ears. Who are we after all? If we wanted simply to call ourselves in older phraseology, atheists, unbelievers, or even immoralists, we should still be far from thinking ourselves designated thereby: we are all three in too late a phase for people generally to conceive, for you, my inquisitive friends, to be able to conceive, what is our state of mind under the circumstances. No! we have no longer the bitterness and passion of him who has broken loose, who has to make for himself a belief, a goal, and even a martyrdom out of his unbelief! We have become saturated with the conviction (and have grown cold and hard in it) that things are not at all divinely ordered in this world, nor even according to human standards do they go on rationally, mercifully, or justly: we know the fact that the world in which we live is ungodly, immoral, and "inhuman,"—we have far too long interpreted it to ourselves falsely and mendaciously, according to the wish and will of our veneration, that is to say, according to our need. For man is a venerating animal! But he is also a distrustful animal: and that the world is not worth what we have believed it to be worth is about the surest thing our distrust has at last managed to grasp. So much distrust, so much philosophy! We take good care not to say that the world is of less value: it seems to us at present absolutely ridiculous when man claims to devise values to surpass the values of the actual world,—it is precisely from that point that we have retraced our steps; as from an extravagant error of human conceit and irrationality, which for a long period has not been recognised as such. This error had its last expression in modern Pessimism; an older and stronger manifestation in the teaching of Buddha; but Christianity also contains it, more dubiously, to be sure, and more ambiguously, but none the less seductive on that account. The whole attitude of "man versus the world," man as world-denying principle, man as the standard of the value of things, as judge of the world, who in the end puts existence itself on his scales and finds it too light—the monstrous impertinence of this attitude has dawned upon us as such, and has disgusted us,—we now laugh when we find, "Man and World" placed beside one another, separated by the sublime presumption of the little word "and"! But how is it? Have we not in our very laughing just made a further step in despising mankind? And consequently also in Pessimism, in despising the existence cognisable by us? Have we not just thereby become liable to a suspicion of an opposition between the world in which we have hitherto been at home with our venerations—for the sake of which we perhaps endure life—and another world which we ourselves are: an inexorable, radical, most profound suspicion concerning ourselves, which is continually getting us Europeans more annoyingly into its power, and could easily face the coming generation with the terrible alternative: "Either do away with your venerations, or—with yourselves!" The latter would be Nihilism—but would not the former also be Nihilism? This is our note of interrogation.

Our Question Mark. But you do not understand? In fact, understanding us will take some effort. We are looking for words, and perhaps also for ears to hear them. Who are we, after all? If we simply called ourselves atheists, unbelievers, or even immoralists, using older terms, these labels would still fall far short. We are all three at a stage too late for people generally to understand our state of mind. Even you, my curious friends, cannot understand it. No! We no longer have the bitterness and passion of someone who has broken free. Such a person must make a faith, a goal, and even a martyrdom out of unbelief. We are thoroughly convinced that things in this world are not divinely ordered. Nor do they proceed rationally, mercifully, or justly, even by human standards. We have grown cold and hard in this conviction. We know that the world we live in is godless, immoral, and "inhuman." For far too long, we have given it false and dishonest interpretations. We have interpreted it according to what our reverence wished and wanted, in other words, according to our need. For man is an animal that reveres! But he is also a distrustful animal. And our distrust has finally grasped something with near certainty: the world is not worth what we believed it was. So much distrust, so much philosophy! We are careful not to say that the world is worth less. We now find it utterly ridiculous when man claims to invent values greater than those of the actual world. That is just the position we have turned back from. We see it as an extravagant error of human conceit and irrationality. For a long time, it was not recognized as an error. Its latest expression was modern Pessimism. An older and stronger expression appeared in the teaching of Buddha. Christianity also contains this error, though in a more doubtful and ambiguous form. But that makes it no less seductive. We have come to see the monstrous arrogance of the whole attitude of "man versus the world." This attitude makes man a principle that denies the world. It makes him the measure of the value of things and the judge of the world. In the end, it makes him weigh existence itself and find it too light. This arrogance has disgusted us. Now we laugh when we find "Man and World" placed side by side, separated by the lofty presumption of that little word "and"! But what does this mean? In laughing, have we not taken another step toward despising mankind? And therefore another step toward Pessimism, toward despising the existence we can know? By laughing, have we not also opened ourselves to a suspicion that two worlds stand opposed? One is the world where we have been at home until now with our acts of reverence, the world for whose sake we perhaps endure life. The other is the world that we ourselves are. This suspicion about ourselves is relentless, radical, and most profound. It is gaining an ever more troubling hold over us Europeans. It could easily confront the coming generation with a terrible choice: "Either give up your acts of reverence, or give up yourselves!" The second choice would be Nihilism. But would not the first also be Nihilism? This is our question mark.

Believers and their Need of Belief.—How much faith a person requires in order to flourish, how much "fixed opinion" he requires which he does not wish to have shaken, because he holds himself thereby—is a measure of his power (or more plainly speaking, of his weakness). Most people in old Europe, as it seems to me, still need Christianity at present, and on that account it still finds belief. For such is man: a theological dogma might be refuted to him a thousand times,—provided, however, that he had need of it, he would again and again accept it as "true,"—according to the famous "proof of power" of which the Bible speaks. Some have still need of metaphysics; but also the impatient longing for certainty which at present discharges itself in scientific, positivist fashion among large numbers of the people, the longing by all means to get at something stable (while on account of the warmth of the longing the establishing of the certainty is more leisurely and negligently undertaken): even this is still the longing for a hold, a support; in short, the instinct of weakness, which, while not actually creating religions, metaphysics, and convictions of all kinds, nevertheless—preserves them. In fact, around all these positivist systems there fume the vapours of a certain pessimistic gloom, something of weariness, fatalism, disillusionment, and fear of new disillusionment—or else manifest animosity, ill-humour, anarchic exasperation, and whatever there is of symptom or masquerade of the feeling of weakness. Even the readiness with which our cleverest contemporaries get lost in wretched corners and alleys, for example, in Vaterländerei (so I designate Jingoism, called chauvinisme in France, and "deutsch" in Germany), or in petty æsthetic creeds in the manner of Parisian naturalisme (which only brings into prominence and uncovers that aspect of nature which excites simultaneously disgust and astonishment—they like at present to call this aspect la vérité vraie), or in Nihilism in the St Petersburg style (that is to say, in the belief in unbelief, even to martyrdom for it):—this shows always and above all the need of belief, support, backbone, and buttress.... Belief is always most desired, most pressingly needed where there is a lack of will: for the will, as emotion of command, is the distinguishing characteristic of sovereignty and power. That is to say, the less a person knows how to command, the more urgent is his desire for one who commands, who commands sternly,—a God, a prince, a caste, a physician, a confessor, a dogma, a party conscience. From whence perhaps it could be inferred that the two world-religions, Buddhism and Christianity, might well have had the cause of their rise, and especially of their rapid extension, in an extraordinary malady of the will. And in truth it has been so: both religions lighted upon a longing, monstrously exaggerated by malady of the will, for an imperative, a "Thou-shalt," a longing going the length of despair; both religions were teachers of fanaticism in times of slackness of will-power, and thereby offered to innumerable persons a support, a new possibility of exercising will, an enjoyment in willing. For in fact fanaticism is the sole "volitional strength" to which the weak and irresolute can be excited, as a sort of hypnotising of the entire sensory-intellectual system, in favour of the over-abundant nutrition (hypertrophy) of a particular point of view and a particular sentiment, which then dominates—the Christian calls it his faith. When a man arrives at the fundamental conviction that he requires to be commanded, he becomes "a believer." Reversely, one could imagine a delight and a power of self-determining, and a freedom of will whereby a spirit could bid farewell to every belief, to every wish for certainty, accustomed as it would be to support itself on slender cords and possibilities, and to dance even on the verge of abysses. Such a spirit would be the free spirit par excellence.

Believers and their Need for Belief. How much faith does a person need in order to flourish? How many "fixed opinions" does he need, opinions he does not want shaken because he holds himself up by them? This measures his power, or, more plainly, his weakness. Most people in old Europe, it seems to me, still need Christianity today. That is why they still believe in it. For such is human nature: a theological dogma might be refuted to someone a thousand times. Yet, if he needed it, he would accept it as "true" again and again. This follows the famous "proof of power" of which the Bible speaks. Some people still need metaphysics. But many people today also feel an impatient longing for certainty, which expresses itself through science and positivism. They long to reach something stable by any means. Yet because their longing is so intense, they take more time and less care in establishing certainty. This too is a longing for something to hold on to, a support. In short, it is the instinct of weakness. This instinct does not actually create religions, metaphysics, and convictions of all kinds, but it does preserve them. In fact, a certain pessimistic gloom hangs around all these positivist systems. There is something of weariness, fatalism, disillusionment, and fear of new disillusionment. Or else there is open hostility, bad temper, anarchic anger, and every other symptom or disguise of the feeling of weakness. Even our cleverest contemporaries readily lose themselves in wretched corners and alleys. For example, they lose themselves in Vaterländerei. This is my name for Jingoism, called chauvinisme in France and "deutsch" in Germany. Or they lose themselves in petty aesthetic creeds like Parisian naturalisme. This brings out and exposes only that side of nature which arouses disgust and astonishment at the same time. Today they like to call this side la vérité vraie. Or they lose themselves in Nihilism in the St Petersburg style. This means belief in unbelief, even to the point of martyrdom for it. All this shows, always and above all, the need for belief, support, backbone, and reinforcement.... Belief is most desired, most urgently needed, wherever there is a lack of will. For the will, as the emotion of command, is the distinguishing mark of sovereignty and power. In other words, the less a person knows how to command, the more urgently he wants someone who commands sternly. It might be a God, a prince, a caste, a physician, a confessor, a dogma, or a party conscience. From this one might perhaps infer that the two world religions, Buddhism and Christianity, arose from an extraordinary sickness of the will. This sickness might especially explain their rapid spread. And in truth, that is what happened. Both religions encountered a longing for a command, a "Thou-shalt." A sickness of the will had magnified this longing enormously, to the point of despair. Both religions taught fanaticism in times of weak willpower. They thereby offered countless people support, a new way to exercise their will, and pleasure in willing. For fanaticism is in fact the only "strength of will" that the weak and irresolute can be stirred to. It is a kind of hypnosis of the whole system of senses and thought. This feeds one particular point of view and one particular feeling to excess (hypertrophy), until they dominate. The Christian calls this his faith. When a person becomes fundamentally convinced that he needs to be commanded, he becomes "a believer." Conversely, one could imagine a delight and a power in determining oneself. One could imagine a freedom of will that would let a spirit say farewell to every belief and every wish for certainty. Such a spirit would be used to supporting itself on slender cords and possibilities, and to dancing even at the edge of abysses. It would be the free spirit par excellence.

The Origin of the Learned.—The learned man in Europe grows out of all the different ranks and social conditions, like a plant requiring no specific soil: on that account he belongs essentially and involuntarily to the partisans of democratic thought. But this origin betrays itself. If one has trained one's glance to some extent to recognise in a learned book or scientific treatise the intellectual idiosyncrasy of the learned man—all of them have such idiosyncrasy,—and if we take it by surprise, we shall almost always get a glimpse behind it of the "antecedent history" of the learned man and his family, especially of the nature of their callings and occupations. Where the feeling finds expression, "That is at last proved, I am now done with it," it is commonly the ancestor in the blood and instincts of the learned man that approves of the "accomplished work" in the nook from which he sees things;—the belief in the proof is only an indication of what has been looked upon for ages by a laborious family as "good work." Take an example: the sons of registrars and office-clerks of every kind, whose main task has always been to arrange a variety of material, distribute it in drawers, and systematise it generally, evince, when they become learned men, an inclination to regard a problem as almost solved when they have systematised it. There are philosophers who are at bottom nothing but systematising brains—the formal part of the paternal occupation has become its essence to them. The talent for classifications, for tables of categories, betrays something; it is not for nothing that a person is the child of his parents. The son of an advocate will also have to be an advocate as investigator: he seeks as a first consideration, to carry the point in his case, as a second consideration, he perhaps seeks to be in the right. One recognises the sons of Protestant clergymen and schoolmasters by the naïve assurance with which as learned men they already assume their case to be proved, when it has but been presented by them staunchly and warmly: they are thoroughly accustomed to people believing in them,—it belonged to their fathers' "trade"! A Jew, contrariwise, in accordance with his business surroundings and the past of his race, is least of all accustomed—to people believing him. Observe Jewish scholars with regard to this matter,—they all lay great stress on logic, that is to say, on compelling assent by means of reasons; they know that they must conquer thereby, even when race and class antipathy is against them, even where people are unwilling to believe them. For in fact, nothing is more democratic than logic: it knows no respect of persons, and takes even the crooked nose as straight. (In passing we may remark that in respect to logical thinking, in respect to cleaner intellectual habits, Europe is not a little indebted to the Jews; above all the Germans, as being a lamentably déraisonnable race, who, even at the present day, must always have their "heads washed"¹¹ in the first place. Wherever the Jews have attained to influence, they have taught to analyse more subtly, to argue more acutely, to write more clearly and purely: it has always been their problem to bring a people "to raison.")

The Origin of the Learned. The learned man in Europe comes from every rank and social condition. He is like a plant that requires no particular soil. For that reason, he is naturally and involuntarily a supporter of democratic thought. But his origins show themselves. With practice, one can learn to recognize a scholar’s intellectual idiosyncrasy in a learned book or scientific paper. All scholars have such an idiosyncrasy. If we catch it unawares, we will almost always glimpse the “earlier history” of the scholar and his family behind it. We will see, above all, the nature of their trades and occupations. Sometimes a scholar expresses the feeling, “That is finally proved. I am done with it now.” Usually, it is an ancestor in the scholar’s blood and instincts who approves of the “finished work” from his own narrow point of view. The scholar’s belief in the proof merely shows what a hardworking family has regarded as “good work” for ages. Take one example. The sons of registrars and office clerks of all kinds become scholars. Their fathers’ main task has always been to sort various materials, put them in drawers, and generally organize them. As scholars, the sons tend to regard a problem as almost solved once they have organized it. Some philosophers are, at bottom, nothing but organizing minds. For them, the formal part of their fathers’ occupation has become its essence. A talent for classification and tables of categories reveals something. It is not for nothing that a person is the child of his parents. The son of a lawyer will also have to be a lawyer as a researcher. His first concern is to win his case. His second concern, perhaps, is to be right. One recognizes the sons of Protestant clergymen and schoolmasters by their naive confidence. As scholars, they assume that their case is already proved when they have merely presented it firmly and passionately. They are quite used to people believing them. It was part of their fathers’ “trade”! A Jew, by contrast, is least of all used to people believing him. His business surroundings and the past of his race have taught him otherwise. Observe Jewish scholars in this regard. They all place great emphasis on logic, that is, on compelling agreement through reasons. They know that they must win by this means, even when racial and class hostility are against them. They must do so even when people are unwilling to believe them. For nothing is more democratic than logic. It shows no respect for persons and treats even the crooked nose as straight. (In passing, we may note that Europe owes a great deal to the Jews for logical thinking and cleaner intellectual habits. This is especially true of the Germans, a regrettably déraisonnable race. Even today, they must always have their “heads washed”¹¹ first. Wherever the Jews have gained influence, they have taught people to analyze more subtly, argue more sharply, and write more clearly and cleanly. Their task has always been to bring a people “to raison.”)

The Origin of the Learned once more.—To seek self-preservation merely, is the expression of a state of distress, or of limitation of the true, fundamental instinct of life, which aims at the extension of power, and with this in view often enough calls in question self-preservation and sacrifices it. It should be taken as symptomatic when individual philosophers, as for example, the consumptive Spinoza, have seen and have been obliged to see the principal feature of life precisely in the so-called self-preservative instinct:—they have just been men in states of distress. That our modern natural sciences have entangled themselves so much with Spinoza's dogma (finally and most grossly in Darwinism, with its inconceivably one-sided doctrine of the "struggle for existence"—), is probably owing to the origin of most of the inquirers into nature: they belong in this respect to the people, their forefathers have been poor and humble persons, who knew too well by immediate experience the difficulty of making a living. Over the whole of English Darwinism there hovers something of the suffocating air of over-crowded England, something of the odour of humble people in need and in straits. But as an investigator of nature, a person ought to emerge from his paltry human nook: and in nature the state of distress does not prevail, but superfluity, even prodigality to the extent of folly. The struggle for existence is only an exception, a temporary restriction of the will to live; the struggle, be it great or small, turns everywhere on predominance, on increase and expansion, on power, in conformity to the will to power, which is just the will to live.

The Origin of the Learned, Once More. To seek only self-preservation expresses a state of distress. It also expresses a limitation of life’s true, fundamental instinct, which aims at the extension of power. In pursuit of power, life often enough puts self-preservation in question and sacrifices it. We should take it as a symptom when individual philosophers see the so-called instinct of self-preservation as life’s principal feature. The consumptive Spinoza, for example, saw it this way and had to see it this way. Such philosophers were simply men in distress. Modern natural science has become deeply entangled in Spinoza’s dogma. Its final and crudest expression is Darwinism, with its inconceivably one-sided doctrine of the "struggle for existence." This is probably due to the origins of most investigators of nature. In this respect, they belong to the people. Their ancestors were poor and humble people who knew the difficulty of making a living all too well from direct experience. Over all of English Darwinism hangs something of the suffocating air of overcrowded England. It carries something of the odor of humble people in need and in straits. But an investigator of nature ought to step out of his petty human corner. In nature, distress does not prevail. Instead, there is abundance, even wastefulness to the point of folly. The struggle for existence is only an exception, a temporary restriction of the will to live. Everywhere, whether great or small, the struggle is for dominance, for increase and expansion, for power. This is in keeping with the will to power, which is simply the will to live.

In Honour of Homines Religiosi.—The struggle against the church is most certainly (among other things—for it has a manifold significance) the struggle of the more ordinary, cheerful, confiding, superficial natures against the rule of the graver, profounder, more contemplative natures, that is to say, the more malign and suspicious men, who with long continued distrust in the worth of life, brood also over their own worth:—the ordinary instinct of the people, its sensual gaiety, its "good heart," revolts against them. The entire Roman Church rests on a Southern suspicion of the nature of man (always misunderstood in the North), a suspicion whereby the European South has succeeded to the inheritance of the profound Orient—the mysterious, venerable Asia—and its contemplative spirit. Protestantism was a popular insurrection in favour of the simple, the respectable, the superficial (the North has always been more good-natured and more shallow than the South), but it was the French Revolution that first gave the sceptre wholly and solemnly into the hands of the "good man" (the sheep, the ass, the goose, and everything incurably shallow, bawling, and fit for the Bedlam of "modern ideas").

In Honour of Homines Religiosi. The struggle against the church has many meanings. Among other things, it is certainly a struggle against the rule of more serious, deep, and contemplative natures. More ordinary, cheerful, trusting, and superficial natures struggle against their rule. The serious natures are more malicious and suspicious people. They have long distrusted the value of life, and they also brood over their own worth. The ordinary instincts of the people, their sensual gaiety and their "good heart," revolt against them. The entire Roman Church rests on a Southern suspicion of human nature. This suspicion is always misunderstood in the North. Through it, the European South inherited the contemplative spirit of the profound Orient, the mysterious, venerable Asia. Protestantism was a popular revolt in favour of the simple, the respectable, and the superficial. The North has always been more good-natured and shallower than the South. But it was the French Revolution that first placed the sceptre entirely and solemnly in the hands of the "good man." This means the sheep, the donkey, the goose, and everything incurably shallow, noisy, and fit for the madhouse of "modern ideas."

In Honour of Priestly Natures.—I think that philosophers have always felt themselves furthest removed from that which the people (in all classes of society nowadays) take for wisdom: the prudent, bovine placidity, piety, and country-parson meekness, which lies in the meadow and gazes at life seriously and ruminatingly:—this is probably because philosophers have not had sufficiently the taste of the "people," or of the country-parson for that kind of wisdom. Philosophers will also perhaps be the latest to acknowledge that the people should understand something of that which lies furthest from them, something of the great passion of the thinker, who lives and must live continually in the storm-cloud of the highest problems and the heaviest responsibilities (consequently, not gazing at all, to say nothing of doing so indifferently, securely, objectively). The people venerate an entirely different type of man when on their part they form the ideal of a "sage," and they are a thousand times justified in rendering homage with the highest eulogies and honours to precisely that type of men—namely, the gentle, serious, simple, chaste, priestly natures and those related to them,—it is to them that the praise falls due in the popular veneration of wisdom. And to whom should the people ever have more reason to be grateful than to these men who pertain to its class and rise from its ranks, but are persons consecrated, chosen, and sacrificed for its good—they themselves believe themselves sacrificed to God,—before whom the people can pour forth its heart with impunity, by whom it can get rid of its secrets, cares, and worse things (for the man who "communicates himself" gets rid of himself, and he who has "confessed" forgets). Here there exists a great need: for sewers and pure cleansing waters are required also for spiritual filth, and rapid currents of love are needed, and strong, lowly, pure hearts, who qualify and sacrifice themselves for such service of the non-public health department—for it is a sacrificing, the priest is, and continues to be, a human sacrifice.... The people regard such sacrificed, silent, serious men of "faith" as "wise," that is to say, as men who have become sages, as "reliable" in relation to their own unreliability. Who would desire to deprive the people of that expression and that veneration?—But as is fair on the other side, among philosophers the priest also is still held to belong to the "people," and is not regarded as a sage, because, above all, they themselves do not believe in "sages," and they already scent "the people" in this very belief and superstition. It was modesty which invented in Greece the word "philosopher," and left to the play-actors of the spirit the superb arrogance of assuming the name "wise"—the modesty of such monsters of pride and self-glorification as Pythagoras and Plato.—

In Honour of Priestly Natures. I think philosophers have always felt furthest removed from what people nowadays take for wisdom, in every class of society. This wisdom is prudent, cowlike calm, piety, and the meekness of a country parson. It lies in a meadow and gazes at life seriously, chewing it over. This is probably because philosophers have not shared the taste of the "people," or of the country parson, for that kind of wisdom. Perhaps philosophers will also be the last to acknowledge that the people should understand something so far removed from them. They should understand something of the thinker's great passion. The thinker lives, and must live, continually in the storm clouds of the highest problems and the heaviest responsibilities. As a result, the thinker does not gaze at all, much less do so indifferently, securely, or objectively. When the people form their ideal of a "sage," they honor an entirely different type of person. They are a thousand times justified in giving that type their highest praise and honors. These are gentle, serious, simple, chaste, priestly natures, and others like them. They are the ones who deserve the praise given in the popular veneration of wisdom. And whom have the people ever had more reason to thank than these men? They belong to the people's class and rise from its ranks. Yet they are consecrated, chosen, and sacrificed for the people's good. They themselves believe they are sacrificed to God. The people can pour out their hearts before them without fear of consequences. Through them, people can get rid of their secrets, worries, and worse things. For someone who "communicates himself" gets rid of himself, and someone who has "confessed" forgets. There is a great need here. Spiritual filth, too, requires sewers and pure cleansing water. It also needs swift currents of love, and strong, humble, pure hearts. These people prepare and sacrifice themselves for this private kind of public health service. For it is a sacrifice. The priest is, and remains, a human sacrifice.... The people regard these sacrificed, silent, serious men of "faith" as "wise." That is, they see them as men who have become sages, as "reliable" compared with their own unreliability. Who would want to deprive the people of that word and that veneration? But, to be fair to the other side, philosophers still count the priest among the "people." They do not regard him as a sage. Above all, this is because they themselves do not believe in "sages." In that belief and superstition, they already detect "the people." It was modesty that gave rise to the word "philosopher" in Greece. It left the magnificent arrogance of claiming the name "wise" to the play-actors of the spirit. This was the modesty of such monsters of pride and self-glorification as Pythagoras and Plato.

Why we can hardly Dispense with Morality.—The naked man is generally an ignominious spectacle—I speak of us European males (and by no means of European females!). If the most joyous company at table suddenly found themselves stripped and divested of their garments through the trick of an enchanter, I believe that not only would the joyousness be gone and the strongest appetite lost;—it seems that we Europeans cannot at all dispense with the masquerade that is called clothing. But should not the disguise of "moral men," the screening under moral formulæ and notions of decency, the whole kindly concealment of our conduct under conceptions of duty, virtue, public sentiment, honourableness, and disinterestedness, have just as good reasons in support of it? Not that I mean hereby that human wickedness and baseness, in short, the evil wild beast in us, should be disguised; on the contrary, my idea is that it is precisely as tame animals that we are an ignominious spectacle and require moral disguising,—that the "inner man" in Europe is far from having enough of intrinsic evil "to let himself be seen" with it (to be beautiful with it). The European disguises himself in morality because he has become a sick, sickly, crippled animal, who has good reasons for being "tame," because he is almost an abortion, an imperfect, weak and clumsy thing.... It is not the fierceness of the beast of prey that finds moral disguise necessary, but the gregarious animal, with its profound mediocrity, anxiety and ennui. Morality dresses up the European—let us acknowledge it!—in more distinguished, more important, more conspicuous guise—in "divine" guise—

Why We Can Hardly Do Without Morality. A naked man is generally a shameful sight. I am speaking of us European males, and by no means of European females! Suppose an enchanter played a trick on a cheerful company at dinner, suddenly stripping everyone of their clothes. I believe their cheerfulness would vanish, and even the heartiest appetite would be lost. It seems that we Europeans cannot do without the masquerade called clothing. But might there be equally good reasons for the disguise of "moral men"? We hide behind moral formulas and notions of decency. We kindly cover up our conduct with ideas of duty, virtue, public opinion, honor, and selflessness. Might these disguises have equally good reasons behind them? I do not mean that human wickedness and baseness, in short, the evil wild beast in us, should be disguised. On the contrary, I think it is precisely as tame animals that we are a shameful sight and need moral disguises. The "inner man" in Europe is far from having enough evil of his own to "let himself be seen" with it, to be beautiful with it. The European disguises himself in morality because he has become a sick, sickly, crippled animal. He has good reasons to be "tame" because he is almost a miscarriage, an imperfect, weak, and clumsy thing.... It is not the fierceness of the beast of prey that needs a moral disguise. Rather, it is the herd animal, with its profound mediocrity, anxiety, and boredom. Morality dresses up the European, let us admit it! It makes him look more distinguished, more important, more striking, even "divine".

The Origin of Religions.—The real inventions of founders of religions are, on the one hand, to establish a definite mode of life and everyday custom, which operates as disciplina voluntatis, and at the same time does away with ennui; and on the other hand, to give to that very mode of life an interpretation, by virtue of which it appears illumined with the highest value; so that it henceforth becomes a good for which people struggle, and under certain circumstances lay down their lives. In truth, the second of these inventions is the more essential: the first, the mode of life, has usually been there already, side by side, however, with other modes of life, and still unconscious of the value which it embodies. The import, the originality of the founder of a religion, discloses itself usually in the fact that he sees the mode of life, selects it, and divines for the first time the purpose for which it can be used, how it can be interpreted. Jesus (or Paul), for example, found around him the life of the common people in the Roman province, a modest, virtuous, oppressed life: he interpreted it, he put the highest significance and value into it—and thereby the courage to despise every other mode of life, the calm fanaticism of the Moravians, the secret, subterranean self-confidence which goes on increasing, and is at last ready "to overcome the world" (that is to say, Rome, and the upper classes throughout the empire). Buddha, in like manner, found the same type of man,—he found it in fact dispersed among all the classes and social ranks of a people who were good and kind (and above all inoffensive), owing to indolence, and who likewise owing to indolence, lived abstemiously, almost without requirements. He understood that such a type of man, with all its vis inertiae, had inevitably to glide into a belief which promises to avoid the return of earthly ill (that is to say, labour and activity generally),—this "understanding" was his genius. The founder of a religion possesses psychological infallibility in the knowledge of a definite, average type of souls, who have not yet recognised themselves as akin. It is he who brings them together: the founding of a religion, therefore, always becomes a long ceremony of recognition.—

The Origin of Religions. The founders of religions make two real inventions. First, they establish a particular way of life and daily routine. This acts as disciplina voluntatis and also dispels boredom. Second, they give that very way of life an interpretation that makes it appear to have the highest value. It then becomes a good for which people struggle and, in certain circumstances, give their lives. In truth, the second invention is more essential. The way of life has usually existed already, alongside other ways of life. But people have not yet been aware of the value it embodies. The importance and originality of a religious founder usually lie in the fact that he sees that way of life, selects it, and is the first to divine its possible purpose and interpretation. Jesus (or Paul), for example, found the life of the common people in the Roman province around him. It was a modest, virtuous, oppressed life. He interpreted it and gave it the highest significance and value. In doing so, he also gave it the courage to despise every other way of life, the calm fanaticism of the Moravians, and a secret, underground self-confidence. This self-confidence keeps growing until it is finally ready "to overcome the world" (that is, Rome and the upper classes throughout the empire). Buddha likewise found the same type of person. In fact, he found it scattered among all classes and social ranks of a people who were good and kind (and above all harmless) because of their laziness. That same laziness made them live sparingly, with almost no needs. He understood that such a type, with all its vis inertiae, would inevitably drift into a belief that promises to avoid the return of earthly suffering (that is, work and activity in general). This "understanding" was his genius. The founder of a religion has an infallible psychological knowledge of a particular, average type of soul. These souls have not yet recognized their kinship with one another. He is the one who brings them together. The founding of a religion, therefore, always becomes a long ceremony of recognition.

The "Genius of the Species."—The problem of consciousness (or more correctly: of becoming conscious of oneself) meets us only when we begin to perceive in what measure we could dispense with it: and it is at the beginning of this perception that we are now placed by physiology and zoology (which have thus required two centuries to overtake the hint thrown out in advance by Leibnitz). For we could in fact think, feel, will, and recollect, we could likewise "act" in every sense of the term, and nevertheless nothing of it all would require to "come into consciousness" (as one says metaphorically). The whole of life would be possible without its seeing itself as it were in a mirror: as in fact even at present the far greater part of our life still goes on without this mirroring,—and even our thinking, feeling, volitional life as well, however painful this statement may sound to an older philosopher. What then is the purpose of consciousness generally, when it is in the main superfluous?—Now it seems to me, if you will hear my answer and its perhaps extravagant supposition, that the subtlety and strength of consciousness are always in proportion to the capacity for communication of a man (or an animal), the capacity for communication in its turn being in proportion to the necessity for communication: the latter not to be understood as if precisely the individual himself who is master in the art of communicating and making known his necessities would at the same time have to be most dependent upon others for his necessities. It seems to me, however, to be so in relation to whole races and successions of generations: where necessity and need have long compelled men to communicate with their fellows and understand one another rapidly and subtly, a surplus of the power and art of communication is at last acquired, as if it were a fortune which had gradually accumulated, and now waited for an heir to squander it prodigally (the so-called artists are these heirs, in like manner the orators, preachers, and authors: all of them men who come at the end of a long succession, "late-born" always, in the best sense of the word, and as has been said, squanderers by their very nature). Granted that this observation is correct, I may proceed further to the conjecture that consciousness generally has only been developed under the pressure of the necessity for communication,—that from the first it has been necessary and useful only between man and man (especially between those commanding and those obeying), and has only developed in proportion to its utility. Consciousness is properly only a connecting network between man and man,—it is only as such that it has had to develop; the recluse and wild-beast species of men would not have needed it. The very fact that our actions, thoughts, feelings and motions come within the range of our consciousness—at least a part of them—is the result of a terrible, prolonged "must" ruling man's destiny: as the most endangered animal he needed help and protection; he needed his fellows, he was obliged to express his distress, he had to know how to make himself understood—and for all this he needed "consciousness" first of all, consequently, to "know" himself what he lacked, to "know" how he felt and to "know" what he thought. For, to repeat it once more, man, like every living creature, thinks unceasingly, but does not know it; the thinking which is becoming conscious of itself is only the smallest part thereof, we may say, the most superficial part, the worst part:—for this conscious thinking alone is done in words, that is to say, in the symbols for communication, by means of which the origin of consciousness is revealed. In short, the development of speech and the development of consciousness (not of reason, but of reason becoming self-conscious) go hand in hand. Let it be further accepted that it is not only speech that serves as a bridge between man and man, but also the looks, the pressure and the gestures; our becoming conscious of our sense impressions, our power of being able to fix them, and as it were to locate them outside of ourselves, has increased in proportion as the necessity has increased for communicating them to others by means of signs. The sign-inventing man is at the same time the man who is always more acutely self-conscious; it is only as a social animal that man has learned to become conscious of himself,—he is doing so still, and doing so more and more.—As is obvious, my idea is that consciousness does not properly belong to the individual existence of man, but rather to the social and gregarious nature in him; that, as follows therefrom, it is only in relation to communal and gregarious utility that it is finely developed; and that consequently each of us, in spite of the best intention of understanding himself as individually as possible, and of "knowing himself," will always just call into consciousness the non-individual in him, namely, his "averageness";—that our thought itself is continuously as it were outvoted by the character of consciousness—by the imperious "genius of the species" therein—and is translated back into the perspective of the herd. Fundamentally our actions are in an incomparable manner altogether personal, unique and absolutely individual—there is no doubt about it; but as soon as we translate them into consciousness, they do not appear so any longer.... This is the proper phenomenalism and perspectivism as I understand it: the nature of animal consciousness involves the notion that the world of which we can become conscious is only a superficial and symbolic world, a generalised and vulgarised world;—that everything which becomes conscious becomes just thereby shallow, meagre, relatively stupid,—a generalisation, a symbol, a characteristic of the herd; that with the evolving of consciousness there is always combined a great, radical perversion, falsification, superficialisation, and generalisation. Finally, the growing consciousness is a danger, and whoever lives among the most conscious Europeans knows even that it is a disease. As may be conjectured, it is not the antithesis of subject and object with which I am here concerned: I leave that distinction to the epistemologists who have remained entangled in the toils of grammar (popular metaphysics). It is still less the antithesis of "thing in itself" and phenomenon, for we do not "know" enough to be entitled even to make such a distinction. Indeed, we have not any organ at all for knowing or for "truth"; we "know" (or believe, or fancy) just as much as may be of use in the interest of the human herd, the species; and even what is here called "usefulness" is ultimately only a belief, a fancy, and perhaps precisely the most fatal stupidity by which we shall one day be ruined.

The "Genius of the Species.": The problem of consciousness, or more precisely, of becoming conscious of ourselves, arises only when we begin to see how much we could do without it. Physiology and zoology have now brought us to the beginning of this insight. They have thus taken two centuries to catch up with the hint Leibnitz gave in advance. For we could think, feel, will, and remember, and we could also "act" in every sense of the word, without any of it needing to "come into consciousness," as the metaphor goes. All of life would be possible without seeing itself, so to speak, in a mirror. In fact, even now, the greater part of our lives goes on without this mirroring. This includes our thinking, feeling, and willing, however painful that statement may sound to an older philosopher. What, then, is the purpose of consciousness at all, when it is largely superfluous? If you will hear my answer and its perhaps extravagant assumption, it seems to me that consciousness is as subtle and strong as a man or animal has the capacity for communication. This capacity, in turn, is proportionate to the necessity for communication. I do not mean that the individual most skilled at communicating and expressing his needs must also be the most dependent on others to meet them. But the relation seems to hold for whole races and sequences of generations. Where necessity and need have long forced people to communicate and understand one another quickly and subtly, they eventually acquire a surplus of communicative power and skill. It is like a fortune that has gradually accumulated and now awaits an heir to squander it lavishly. The so-called artists are these heirs, as are orators, preachers, and authors. All come at the end of a long succession. All are "late-born" in the best sense of the word and, as I have said, squanderers by nature. If this observation is correct, I can go on to suggest that consciousness generally developed only under the pressure of the need to communicate. From the beginning, consciousness was necessary and useful only between people, especially between those who commanded and those who obeyed. And it developed only as far as it was useful. Consciousness is really only a network connecting one person to another. It had to develop only for this purpose. A species of solitary, wild-beast humans would not have needed it. The fact that our actions, thoughts, feelings, and movements come within our consciousness, at least in part, results from a terrible, prolonged "must" that ruled human destiny. As the most endangered animal, man needed help and protection. He needed his fellows. He had to express his distress and make himself understood. For all this, he first needed "consciousness." He therefore needed to "know" for himself what he lacked, how he felt, and what he thought. For, to repeat, man, like every living creature, thinks constantly but does not know it. The thinking that becomes conscious of itself is only the smallest part. We might say it is the most superficial part, the worst part. For only this conscious thinking takes place in words, that is, in symbols used for communication. These symbols reveal the origin of consciousness. In short, the development of speech goes hand in hand with the development of consciousness. This is not the development of reason, but of reason becoming self-conscious. Let us also accept that speech is not the only bridge between people. Looks, physical pressure, and gestures also serve this purpose. We have become more conscious of our sense impressions, more able to fix them and, as it were, locate them outside ourselves. This ability has increased as the need to communicate those impressions to others through signs has increased. The man who invents signs is also the man who becomes ever more sharply conscious of himself. Man has learned to become conscious of himself only as a social animal. He is still doing so, and more and more. As should be clear, my idea is that consciousness does not properly belong to man's individual existence, but rather to his social, herd nature. It follows that consciousness is finely developed only for its usefulness to the community and the herd. So each of us may try as hard as possible to understand ourselves as individuals and to "know ourselves." Yet we will always bring into consciousness only what is not individual in us, namely, our "averageness." Our thought itself is continually, as it were, outvoted by the nature of consciousness, by the commanding "genius of the species" within it. Our thought is translated back into the perspective of the herd. Fundamentally, our actions are altogether personal, unique, and absolutely individual to an incomparable degree. There is no doubt about it. But as soon as we translate our actions into consciousness, they no longer appear so.... This is phenomenalism and perspectivism proper, as I understand it. The nature of animal consciousness means that the world we can become conscious of is only a superficial and symbolic world, a generalized and vulgarized world. Everything that becomes conscious becomes, by that very act, shallow, meager, relatively stupid. It becomes a generalization, a symbol, a mark of the herd. The development of consciousness is always accompanied by a great, radical distortion, falsification, simplification, and generalization. Finally, growing consciousness is a danger. Anyone who lives among the most conscious Europeans knows that it is even a disease. As you may guess, I am not concerned here with the opposition between subject and object. I leave that distinction to the epistemologists who remain caught in the snares of grammar, or popular metaphysics. Still less am I concerned with the opposition between the "thing in itself" and appearance. For we do not "know" enough even to make that distinction. Indeed, we have no organ at all for knowing or for "truth." We "know," or believe, or imagine, only as much as may be useful to the human herd, the species. And even what I call "usefulness" here is ultimately only a belief, an imagining. Perhaps it is precisely the most fatal stupidity, the one that will someday ruin us.

The Origin of our Conception of "Knowledge."—I take this explanation from the street. I heard one of the people saying that "he knew me," so I asked myself: What do the people really understand by knowledge? What do they want when they seek "knowledge"? Nothing more than that what is strange is to be traced back to something known. And we philosophers—have we really understood anything more by knowledge? The known, that is to say, what we are accustomed to, so that we no longer marvel at it, the commonplace, any kind of rule to which we are habituated, all and everything in which we know ourselves to be at home:—what? is our need of knowing not just this need of the known? the will to discover in everything strange, unusual, or questionable, something which no longer disquiets us? Is it not possible that it should be the instinct of fear which enjoins upon us to know? Is it not possible that the rejoicing of the discerner should be just his rejoicing in the regained feeling of security?... One philosopher imagined the world "known" when he had traced it back to the "idea": alas, was it not because the idea was so known, so familiar to him? because he had so much less fear of the "idea"—Oh, this moderation of the discerners! let us but look at their principles, and at their solutions of the riddle of the world in this connection! When they again find aught in things, among things, or behind things, that is unfortunately very well known to us, for example, our multiplication table, or our logic, or our willing and desiring, how happy they immediately are! For "what is known is understood": they are unanimous as to that. Even the most circumspect among them think that the known is at least more easily understood than the strange; that for example, it is methodically ordered to proceed outward from the "inner world," from "the facts of consciousness," because it is the world which is better known to us! Error of errors! The known is the accustomed, and the accustomed is the most difficult of all to "understand," that is to say, to perceive as a problem, to perceive as strange, distant, "outside of us."... The great certainty of the natural sciences in comparison with psychology and the criticism of the elements of consciousness—unnatural sciences as one might almost be entitled to call them—rests precisely on the fact that they take what is strange as their object: while it is almost like something contradictory and absurd to wish to take generally what is not strange as an object....

The Origin of Our Idea of "Knowledge." I take this explanation from the street. I heard someone say that "he knew me." So I asked myself: What do people really mean by knowledge? What do they want when they seek "knowledge"? Nothing more than to trace what is strange back to something known. And have we philosophers really meant anything more by knowledge? The known is what we are used to, what no longer amazes us. It is the commonplace, any rule we have grown accustomed to, everything in which we feel at home. What? Is our need to know nothing more than this need for the known? Is it the desire to find something reassuring in everything strange, unusual, or questionable? Could it be the instinct of fear that drives us to know? Could the thinker's joy be nothing more than joy at feeling safe again?... One philosopher thought he had "known" the world when he traced it back to the "idea." Alas, was this not because the idea was so well known and familiar to him? Was it not because he feared the "idea" so much less? Oh, how easily satisfied these thinkers are! Let us look at their principles and their solutions to the riddle of the world in this light! They find something in things, among things, or behind things that is unfortunately very familiar to us. It might be our multiplication table, our logic, or our willing and desiring. How happy they are at once! For they all agree that "what is known is understood." Even the most careful thinkers believe that the known is at least more easily understood than the strange. They think, for example, that good method requires us to begin with the "inner world," with "the facts of consciousness." They do so because this is the world better known to us! The greatest error of all! The known is what we are used to. And what we are used to is the most difficult thing of all to "understand." It is hardest to see it as a problem, as something strange, distant, "outside of us."... The natural sciences are much more certain than psychology and the study of the elements of consciousness. One might almost be entitled to call the latter unnatural sciences. The natural sciences owe their greater certainty precisely to taking what is strange as their object. By contrast, wanting to take what is not strange as an object at all is almost contradictory and absurd....

In what Manner Europe will always become "more Artistic."—Providing a living still enforces even in the present day (in our transition period when so much ceases to enforce) a definite rôle on almost all male Europeans, their so-called callings; some have the liberty, an apparent liberty, to choose this rôle themselves, but most have it chosen for them. The result is strange enough. Almost all Europeans confound themselves with their rôle when they advance in age; they themselves are the victims of their "good acting," they have forgotten how much chance, whim and arbitrariness swayed them when their "calling" was decided—and how many other rôles they could perhaps have played: for it is now too late! Looked at more closely, we see that their characters have actually evolved out of their rôle, nature out of art. There were ages in which people believed with unshaken confidence, yea, with piety, in their predestination for this very business, for that very mode of livelihood, and would not at all acknowledge chance, or the fortuitous rôle, or arbitrariness therein. Ranks, guilds, and hereditary trade privileges succeeded, with the help of this belief, in rearing those extraordinary broad towers of society which distinguished the Middle Ages, and of which at all events one thing remains to their credit: capacity for duration (and duration is a value of the first rank on earth!). But there are ages entirely the reverse, the properly democratic ages, in which people tend to become more and more oblivious of this conviction, and a sort of impudent conviction and quite contrary mode of viewing things comes to the front, the Athenian conviction which is first observed in the epoch of Pericles, the American conviction of the present day, which wants also more and more to become an European conviction, whereby the individual is convinced that he can do almost anything, that he can play almost any rôle, whereby everyone makes experiments with himself, improvises, tries anew, tries with delight, whereby all nature ceases and becomes art.... The Greeks, having adopted this rôle-creed—an artist creed, if you will—underwent step by step, as is well known, a curious transformation, not in every respect worthy of imitation: they became actual stage-players; and as such they enchanted, they conquered all the world, and at last even the conqueror of the world, (for the Graeculus histrio conquered Rome, and not Greek culture, as the naïve are accustomed to say....) What I fear, however, and what is at present obvious, if we desire to perceive it, is that we modern men are quite on the same road already; and whenever man begins to discover in what respect he plays a rôle, and to what extent he can be a stage-player, he becomes a stage-player.... A new flora and fauna of men thereupon springs up, which cannot grow in more stable, more restricted eras—or is left "at the bottom," under the ban and suspicion of infamy—, thereupon the most interesting and insane periods of history always make their appearance, in which "stage-players," all kinds of stage-players, are the real masters. Precisely thereby another species of man is always more and more injured, and in the end made impossible: above all the great "architects"; the building power is now being paralysed; the courage that makes plans for the distant future is disheartened; there begins to be a lack of organising geniuses. Who is there who would now venture to undertake works for the completion of which millenniums would have to be reckoned upon? The fundamental belief is dying out, on the basis of which one could calculate, promise and anticipate the future in one's plan, and offer it as a sacrifice thereto, that in fact man has only value and significance in so far as he is a stone in a great building; for which purpose he has first of all to be solid, he has to be a "stone."... Above all, not a—stage-player! In short—alas! this fact will be hushed up for some considerable time to come!—that which from henceforth will no longer be built, and can no longer be built, is—a society in the old sense of the term; to build this structure everything is lacking, above all, the material. None of us are any longer material for a society: that is a truth which is seasonable at present! It seems to me a matter of indifference that meanwhile the most short-sighted, perhaps the most honest, and at any rate the noisiest species of men of the present day, our friends the Socialists, believe, hope, dream, and above all scream and scribble almost the opposite; in fact one already reads their watchword of the future: "free society," on all tables and walls. Free society? Indeed! Indeed! But you know, gentlemen, sure enough whereof one builds it? Out of wooden iron! Out of the famous wooden iron! And not even out of wooden....

In What Way Europe Will Always Become "More Artistic". Even today, making a living forces almost all male Europeans into a definite role, their so-called calling. This happens despite our being in a period of transition, when so much is losing its power to compel. Some have the freedom, or apparent freedom, to choose this role themselves, but for most it is chosen. The result is strange enough. As they grow older, almost all Europeans confuse themselves with their role. They become victims of their own "good acting." They have forgotten how much chance, whim, and arbitrary choice influenced the decision about their "calling." They have also forgotten how many other roles they could perhaps have played. Now it is too late! On closer inspection, we see that their characters have actually developed from their roles, nature from art. There were ages when people believed with unshaken confidence, even with piety, that they were destined for their particular occupation and livelihood. They would not admit that chance, an accidental role, or arbitrary choice had anything to do with it. With the help of this belief, ranks, guilds, and hereditary trade privileges managed to raise those extraordinarily broad towers of society that distinguished the Middle Ages. At any rate, one thing remains to their credit: they could last. And lasting is a value of the first rank on earth! But there are ages that are entirely the opposite, the truly democratic ages. In them, people tend more and more to forget this belief. Instead, a kind of impudent belief, a completely opposite view, comes to the fore. It is the Athenian belief, first seen in the age of Pericles, and the American belief of today. It also wants more and more to become a European belief. According to this belief, the individual is convinced that he can do almost anything, that he can play almost any role. Everyone experiments with himself, improvises, tries again, and takes delight in trying. All nature ceases and becomes art.... As is well known, the Greeks adopted this role-creed, an artist's creed, if you like. Step by step, they underwent a curious transformation, not in every respect worthy of imitation: they became actual actors. As actors, they enchanted and conquered the whole world, and finally even the conqueror of the world. For the Graeculus histrio conquered Rome, and not Greek culture, as the naïve are accustomed to say.... What I fear, however, and what is obvious now, if we want to see it, is that we modern men are already on the very same road. Whenever man begins to discover how he plays a role, and how far he can be an actor, he becomes an actor.... A new flora and fauna of men then springs up. They cannot grow in more stable, more restricted ages. Or else they are left "at the bottom," under a ban and suspected of infamy. Then the most interesting and insane periods of history always appear. In them, "actors," all kinds of actors, are the real masters. By this very process, another kind of man is always harmed more and more, and finally made impossible. Above all, the great "architects" suffer. The power to build is now being paralyzed. The courage to make plans for the distant future is losing heart. Geniuses of organization are beginning to disappear. Who would now dare undertake works whose completion would have to be reckoned in millennia? The fundamental belief that made such works possible is dying out. It allowed one to calculate, promise, and anticipate the future in one's plan, and to offer the future as a sacrifice to that plan. It was the belief that man has value and significance only insofar as he is a stone in a great building. For that purpose, he must first of all be solid. He must be a "stone."... Above all, not an actor! In short, alas! This fact will be hushed up for a considerable time to come! What will no longer be built from now on, and can no longer be built, is a society in the old sense of the term. Everything needed to build this structure is lacking, above all the material. None of us are any longer material for a society: that is a timely truth! Meanwhile, our friends the Socialists believe, hope, dream, and above all scream and scribble almost the opposite. They are the most short-sighted, perhaps the most honest, and at any rate the noisiest kind of men today. That seems to me a matter of indifference. In fact, one already reads their watchword of the future on every table and wall: "free society." Free society? Indeed! Indeed! But you know, gentlemen, what it is built from, surely? From wooden iron! From the famous wooden iron! And not even from wooden....

The old Problem: "What is German?"—Let us count up apart the real acquisitions of philosophical thought for which we have to thank German intellects: are they in any allowable sense to be counted also to the credit of the whole race? Can we say that they are at the same time the work of the "German soul," or at least a symptom of it, in the sense in which we are accustomed to think, for example, of Plato's ideomania, his almost religious madness for form, as an event and an evidence of the "Greek soul"? Or would the reverse perhaps be true? Were they so individual, so much an exception to the spirit of the race, as was, for example, Goethe's Paganism with a good conscience? Or as Bismarck's Macchiavelism was with a good conscience, his so-called "practical politics" in Germany? Did our philosophers perhaps even go counter to the need of the "German soul"? In short, were the German philosophers really philosophical Germans?—I call to mind three cases. Firstly, Leibnitz's incomparable insight—with which he obtained the advantage not only over Descartes, but over all who had philosophised up to his time,—that consciousness is only an accident of mental representation, and not its necessary and essential attribute; that consequently what we call consciousness only constitutes a state of our spiritual and psychical world (perhaps a morbid state), and is far from being that world itself:—is there anything German in this thought, the profundity of which has not as yet been exhausted? Is there reason to think that a person of the Latin race would not readily have stumbled on this reversal of the apparent?—for it is a reversal. Let us call to mind secondly, the immense note of interrogation which Kant wrote after the notion of causality. Not that he at all doubted its legitimacy, like Hume: on the contrary, he began cautiously to define the domain within which this notion has significance generally (we have not even yet got finished with the marking out of these limits). Let us take thirdly, the astonishing hit of Hegel, who stuck at no logical usage or fastidiousness when he ventured to teach that the conceptions of kinds develop out of one another: with which theory the thinkers in Europe were prepared for the last great scientific movement, for Darwinism—for without Hegel there would have been no Darwin. Is there anything German in this Hegelian innovation which first introduced the decisive conception of evolution into science? Yes, without doubt we feel that there is something of ourselves "discovered" and divined in all three cases; we are thankful for it, and at the same time surprised; each of these three principles is a thoughtful piece of German self-confession, self-understanding, and self-knowledge. We feel with Leibnitz that "our inner world is far richer, ampler, and more concealed"; as Germans we are doubtful, like Kant, about the ultimate validity of scientific knowledge of nature, and in general about whatever can be known causaliter: the knowable as such now appears to us of less worth. We Germans should still have been Hegelians, even though there had never been a Hegel, inasmuch as we (in contradistinction to all Latin peoples) instinctively attribute to becoming, to evolution, a profounder significance and higher value than to that which "is"—we hardly believe at all in the validity of the concept "being." This is all the more the case because we are not inclined to concede to our human logic that it is logic in itself, that it is the only kind of logic (we should rather like, on the contrary, to convince ourselves that it is only a special case, and perhaps one of the strangest and most stupid). A fourth question would be whether also Schopenhauer with his Pessimism, that is to say the problem of the worth of existence, had to be a German. I think not. The event after which this problem was to be expected with certainty, so that an astronomer of the soul could have calculated the day and the hour for it—namely, the decay of the belief in the Christian God, the victory of scientific atheism,—is a universal European event, in which all races are to have their share of service and honour. On the contrary, it has to be ascribed precisely to the Germans—those with whom Schopenhauer was contemporary,—that they delayed this victory of atheism longest, and endangered it most. Hegel especially was its retarder par excellence, in virtue of the grandiose attempt which he made to persuade us of the divinity of existence, with the help at the very last of our sixth sense, "the historical sense." As philosopher, Schopenhauer was the first avowed and inflexible atheist we Germans have had: his hostility to Hegel had here its background. The non-divinity of existence was regarded by him as something understood, palpable, indisputable; he always lost his philosophical composure and got into a passion when he saw anyone hesitate and beat about the bush here. It is at this point that his thorough uprightness of character comes in: unconditional, honest atheism is precisely the preliminary condition for his raising the problem, as a final and hardwon victory of the European conscience, as the most prolific act of two thousand years' discipline to truth, which in the end no longer tolerates the lie of the belief in a God.... One sees what has really gained the victory over the Christian God—, Christian morality itself, the conception of veracity, taken ever more strictly, the confessional subtlety of the Christian conscience, translated and sublimated to the scientific conscience, to intellectual purity at any price. To look upon nature as if it were a proof of the goodness and care of a God; to interpret history in honour of a divine reason, as a constant testimony to a moral order in the world and a moral final purpose; to explain personal experiences as pious men have long enough explained them, as if everything were a dispensation or intimation of Providence, something planned and sent on behalf of the salvation of the soul: all that is now past, it has conscience against it, it is regarded by all the more acute consciences as disreputable and dishonourable, as mendaciousness, femininism, weakness, and cowardice,—by virtue of this severity, if by anything, we are good Europeans, the heirs of Europe's longest and bravest self-conquest. When we thus reject the Christian interpretation, and condemn its "significance" as a forgery, we are immediately confronted in a striking manner with the Schopenhauerian question: Has existence then a significance at all?—the question which will require a couple of centuries even to be completely heard in all its profundity. Schopenhauer's own answer to this question was—if I may be forgiven for saying so—a premature, juvenile reply, a mere compromise, a stoppage and sticking in the very same Christian-ascetic, moral perspectives, the belief in which had got notice to quit along with the belief in God.... But he raised the question—as a good European, as we have said, and not as a German.—Or did the Germans prove at least by the way in which they seized on the Schopenhauerian question, their inner connection and relationship to him, their preparation for his problem, and their need of it? That there has been thinking and printing even in Germany since Schopenhauer's time on the problem raised by him,—it was late enough!—does not at all suffice to enable us to decide in favour of this closer relationship; one could, on the contrary, lay great stress on the peculiar awkwardness of this post-Schopenhauerian Pessimism—Germans evidently do not behave themselves there as in their element. I do not at all allude here to Eduard von Hartmann; on the contrary, my old suspicion is not vanished even at present that he is too clever for us; I mean to say that as arrant rogue from the very first, he did not perhaps make merry solely over German Pessimism—and that in the end he might probably "bequeathe" to them the truth as to how far a person could bamboozle the Germans themselves in the age of bubble companies. But further, are we perhaps to reckon to the honour of Germans, the old humming-top, Bahnsen, who all his life spun about with the greatest pleasure around his realistically dialectic misery and "personal ill-luck,"—was that German? (In passing I recommend his writings for the purpose for which I myself have used them, as anti-pessimistic fare, especially on account of his elegantia psychologica, which, it seems to me, could alleviate even the most constipated body and soul). Or would it be proper to count such dilettanti and old maids as the mawkish apostle of virginity, Mainländer, among the genuine Germans? After all he was probably a Jew (all Jews become mawkish when they moralise). Neither Bahnsen, nor Mainländer, nor even Eduard von Hartmann, give us a reliable grasp of the question whether the pessimism of Schopenhauer (his frightened glance into an undeified world, which has become stupid, blind, deranged and problematic, his honourable fright) was not only an exceptional case among Germans, but a German event: while everything else which stands in the foreground, like our valiant politics and our joyful Jingoism (which decidedly enough regards everything with reference to a principle sufficiently unphilosophical: "Deutschland, Deutschland, über Alles,"¹² consequently sub specie speciei, namely, the German species), testifies very plainly to the contrary. No! The Germans of to-day are not pessimists! And Schopenhauer was a pessimist, I repeat it once more, as a good European, and not as a German.

The old Problem: "What is German?" Let us consider separately the real advances in philosophical thought that we owe to German intellects. Can they also be credited, in any reasonable sense, to the whole race? Can we say that they are also the work of the "German soul," or at least a sign of it? We are accustomed, for example, to see Plato's mania for ideas, his almost religious madness for form, as an event in and evidence of the "Greek soul." Or might the reverse be true of the German philosophers? Were they so individual, so much exceptions to the spirit of the race, as Goethe's Paganism with a clear conscience? Or as Bismarck's Macchiavellism with a clear conscience, his so-called "practical politics" in Germany? Did our philosophers perhaps even go against the need of the "German soul"? In short, were the German philosophers really philosophical Germans? I recall three cases. First, there is Leibnitz's incomparable insight. It gave him an advantage not only over Descartes, but over everyone who had philosophized before him. He saw that consciousness is only an incidental feature of mental representation, and not a necessary and essential one. What we call consciousness is therefore only a state of our spiritual and mental world, perhaps a diseased state. It is far from being that world itself. Is there anything German in this thought, whose depth has still not been exhausted? Is there reason to think that a person of the Latin race would not readily have stumbled upon this reversal of appearances? For it is a reversal. Second, let us recall the enormous question mark that Kant placed after the concept of causality. He did not doubt its legitimacy, as Hume did. On the contrary, he cautiously began to define the domain within which the concept has any meaning. We have still not finished marking out those limits. Third, consider Hegel's astonishing stroke of insight. He let no logical convention or scruple stop him when he dared to teach that concepts of kinds develop out of one another. With this theory, Europe's thinkers were prepared for the last great scientific movement, Darwinism. For without Hegel there would have been no Darwin. Is there anything German in this Hegelian innovation, which first introduced the decisive concept of evolution into science? Yes, without doubt we feel that something of ourselves is "discovered" and discerned in all three cases. We are grateful for it and surprised at the same time. Each of these three principles is a thoughtful piece of German self-confession, self-understanding, and self-knowledge. With Leibnitz, we feel that "our inner world is far richer, ampler, and more concealed". As Germans, we doubt, like Kant, the ultimate validity of scientific knowledge of nature. We also doubt the ultimate validity of whatever can be known causaliter. What is knowable as such now seems to us less valuable. We Germans would still have been Hegelians even if Hegel had never existed. Unlike all Latin peoples, we instinctively attach deeper meaning and higher value to becoming, to evolution, than to what "is". We hardly believe in the validity of the concept "being" at all. This is all the more true because we are unwilling to grant that our human logic is logic itself, the only kind of logic. On the contrary, we would rather convince ourselves that it is only a special case, and perhaps one of the strangest and most stupid. A fourth question is whether Schopenhauer, too, had to be a German because of his Pessimism, that is, the problem of the worth of existence. I think not. After one particular event, this problem was certain to arise. An astronomer of the soul could have calculated the day and hour. That event was the decay of belief in the Christian God and the victory of scientific atheism. It is a universal European event, in which all races are to have their share of service and honor. On the contrary, it is precisely the Germans of Schopenhauer's time who must be blamed for delaying this victory of atheism longest and endangering it most. Hegel above all delayed it par excellence. He made a grand attempt to persuade us of the divinity of existence, finally calling on our sixth sense, "the historical sense." As a philosopher, Schopenhauer was the first open and uncompromising atheist we Germans have had. This was the background to his hostility toward Hegel. He regarded the non-divinity of existence as obvious, tangible, and indisputable. Whenever he saw anyone hesitate or evade the point, he lost his philosophical composure and flew into a passion. Here we see his thorough uprightness of character. Unconditional, honest atheism is precisely the preliminary condition for raising his problem. It is a final, hard-won victory of the European conscience. It is the most fruitful act of two thousand years of training in truth. In the end, this training no longer tolerates the lie of belief in a God.... We can see what has really defeated the Christian God: Christian morality itself. It is the idea of truthfulness, applied ever more strictly. It is the subtlety of the Christian conscience, trained in confession, transformed and refined into the scientific conscience, into intellectual purity at any price. People once looked on nature as proof of a God's goodness and care. They interpreted history to honor a divine reason, as constant testimony to a moral order and a moral purpose in the world. They explained personal experiences as pious people have long done. They took everything as a dispensation or hint from Providence, planned and sent for the salvation of the soul. All that is now past. Conscience is against it. All the more acute consciences regard it as disreputable and dishonorable, as dishonesty, femininism, weakness, and cowardice. If anything makes us good Europeans, it is this severity. It makes us heirs to Europe's longest and bravest conquest of itself. When we reject the Christian interpretation and condemn its "significance" as a forgery, we immediately face the striking Schopenhauerian question: Does existence have any significance at all? It will take a couple of centuries even to hear this question fully in all its depth. Schopenhauer's own answer, if I may be forgiven for saying so, was premature and juvenile. It was a mere compromise. He stopped and remained stuck in the very same Christian-ascetic, moral perspectives. Yet belief in those perspectives had been given notice to quit along with belief in God.... But he raised the question, as a good European, as we have said, and not as a German. Or did the Germans at least show an inner connection and kinship with Schopenhauer by the way they took up his question? Did they show that they were prepared for his problem and had need of it? Since Schopenhauer's time, people have thought and printed works about his problem even in Germany. It was late enough! But that is nowhere near enough to establish this closer relationship. On the contrary, one could place great weight on the peculiar awkwardness of this post-Schopenhauerian Pessimism. Germans clearly do not behave as if they were in their element there. I do not mean Eduard von Hartmann at all. On the contrary, I still have my old suspicion that he is too clever for us. I mean that, as a thorough rogue from the start, he may not have amused himself solely at the expense of German Pessimism. In the end, he might well "bequeath" to the Germans the truth about how far one could bamboozle them in the age of bubble companies. But should we perhaps credit the Germans with that old spinning top, Bahnsen? All his life he took the greatest pleasure in spinning around his realistically dialectical misery and "personal ill-luck." Was that German? (In passing, I recommend his writings for the purpose for which I have used them myself, as anti-pessimistic fare. I recommend them especially for their elegantia psychologica. It seems to me that this could relieve even the most constipated body and soul.) Or should we count such dilettantes and old maids as the sentimental apostle of virginity, Mainländer, among the genuine Germans? After all, he was probably a Jew (all Jews become sentimental when they moralize). Neither Bahnsen, nor Mainländer, nor even Eduard von Hartmann gives us a reliable way to decide the question. Was Schopenhauer's pessimism not only an exceptional case among Germans, but a German event? His pessimism was his frightened glance into a world stripped of divinity, a world that had become stupid, blind, deranged, and problematic. It was his honorable fright. Meanwhile, everything else in the foreground points very plainly in the opposite direction. There is our valiant politics and our cheerful Jingoism. This Jingoism quite clearly judges everything by a sufficiently unphilosophical principle: "Deutschland, Deutschland, über Alles,"¹² and therefore sub specie speciei, namely, the German species. No! Today's Germans are not pessimists! And Schopenhauer was a pessimist, I repeat once more, as a good European, and not as a German.

The Peasant Revolt of the Spirit.—We Europeans find ourselves in view of an immense world of ruins, where some things still tower aloft, while other objects stand mouldering and dismal, where most things however already lie on the ground, picturesque enough—where were there ever finer ruins?—overgrown with weeds, large and small. It is the Church which is this city of decay: we see the religious organisation of Christianity shaken to its deepest foundations. The belief in God is overthrown, the belief in the Christian ascetic ideal is now fighting its last fight. Such a long and solidly built work as Christianity—it was the last construction of the Romans!—could not of course be demolished all at once; every sort of earthquake had to shake it, every sort of spirit which perforates, digs, gnaws and moulders had to assist in the work of destruction. But that which is strangest is that those who have exerted themselves most to retain and preserve Christianity, have been precisely those who did most to destroy it,—the Germans. It seems that the Germans do not understand the essence of a Church. Are they not spiritual enough, or not distrustful enough to do so? In any case the structure of the Church rests on a southern freedom and liberality of spirit, and similarly on a southern suspicion of nature, man, and spirit,—it rests on a knowledge of man, an experience of man, entirely different from what the north has had. The Lutheran Reformation in all its length and breadth was the indignation of the simple against something "complicated." To speak cautiously, it was a coarse, honest misunderstanding, in which much is to be forgiven,—people did not understand the mode of expression of a victorious Church, and only saw corruption; they misunderstood the noble scepticism, the luxury of scepticism and toleration which every victorious, self-confident power permits.... One overlooks the fact readily enough at present that as regards all cardinal questions concerning power Luther was badly endowed; he was fatally short-sighted, superficial and imprudent—and above all, as a man sprung from the people, he lacked all the hereditary qualities of a ruling caste, and all the instincts for power; so that his work, his intention to restore the work of the Romans, merely became involuntarily and unconsciously the commencement of a work of destruction. He unravelled, he tore asunder with honest rage, where the old spider had woven longest and most carefully. He gave the sacred books into the hands of everyone,—they thereby got at last into the hands of the philologists, that is to say, the annihilators of every belief based upon books. He demolished the conception of "the Church" in that he repudiated the belief in the inspiration of the Councils: for only under the supposition that the inspiring spirit which had founded the Church still lives in it, still builds it, still goes on building its house, does the conception of "the Church" retain its power. He gave back to the priest sexual intercourse: but three-fourths of the reverence of which the people (and above all the women of the people) are capable, rests on the belief that an exceptional man in this respect will also be an exceptional man in other respects. It is precisely here that the popular belief in something superhuman in man, in a miracle, in the saving God in man, has its most subtle and insidious advocate. After Luther had given a wife to the priest, he had to take from him auricular confession; that was psychologically right: but thereby he practically did away with the Christian priest himself, whose profoundest utility has ever consisted in his being a sacred ear, a silent well, and a grave for secrets. "Every man his own priest"—behind such formulæ and their bucolic slyness, there was concealed in Luther the profoundest hatred of "higher men" and the rule of "higher men," as the Church had conceived them. Luther disowned an ideal which he did not know how to attain, while he seemed to combat and detest the degeneration thereof. As a matter of fact, he, the impossible monk, repudiated the rule of the homines religiosi; he consequently brought about precisely the same thing within the ecclesiastical social order that he combated so impatiently in the civic order,—namely a "peasant insurrection."—As to all that grew out of his Reformation afterwards, good and bad, which can at present be almost counted up,—who would be naïve enough to praise or blame Luther simply on account of these results? He is innocent of all; he knew not what he did. The art of making the European spirit shallower, especially in the north, or more good-natured, if people would rather hear it designated by a moral expression, undoubtedly took a clever step in advance in the Lutheran Reformation; and similarly there grew out of it the mobility and disquietude of the spirit, its thirst for independence, its belief in the right to freedom, and its "naturalness." If people wish to ascribe to the Reformation in the last instance the merit of having prepared and favoured that which we at present honour as "modern science," they must of course add that it is also accessory to bringing about the degeneration of the modern scholar with his lack of reverence, of shame and of profundity; and that it is also responsible for all naïve candour and plain-dealing in matters of knowledge, in short for the plebeianism of the spirit which is peculiar to the last two centuries, and from which even pessimism hitherto, has not in any way delivered us. "Modern ideas" also belong to this peasant insurrection of the north against the colder, more ambiguous, more suspicious spirit of the south, which has built itself its greatest monument in the Christian Church. Let us not forget in the end what a Church is, and especially, in contrast to every "State": a Church is above all an authoritative organisation which secures to the most spiritual men the highest rank, and believes in the power of spirituality so far as to forbid all grosser appliances of authority. Through this alone the Church is under all circumstances a nobler institution than the State.—

The Peasant Revolt of the Spirit. We Europeans find ourselves looking out over an immense world of ruins. Some structures still tower above us, while others stand decaying and gloomy. Most, however, already lie on the ground, picturesque enough. Where have there ever been finer ruins? They are overgrown with weeds, large and small. This city of decay is the Church. We see the religious organization of Christianity shaken to its deepest foundations. Belief in God has been overthrown, and belief in the Christian ascetic ideal is now fighting its last battle. A structure as old and solidly built as Christianity could not, of course, be demolished all at once. It was the Romans' last construction! Every kind of earthquake had to shake it. Every kind of spirit that bores, digs, gnaws, and decays had to help destroy it. But the strangest thing is that those who worked hardest to retain and preserve Christianity did the most to destroy it. They were the Germans. It seems that the Germans do not understand the essence of a Church. Are they not spiritual enough, or not suspicious enough, to understand it? In any case, the structure of the Church rests on a southern freedom and openness of spirit. It also rests on a southern suspicion of nature, humanity, and the spirit. It rests on a knowledge and experience of humanity entirely different from anything the north has had. The Lutheran Reformation, in all its extent, was the outrage of simple people at something "complicated." To put it cautiously, it was a crude, honest misunderstanding, for which much can be forgiven. People did not understand how a victorious Church expressed itself, and they saw only corruption. They misunderstood the noble skepticism, the luxury of skepticism and toleration that every victorious, self-confident power allows itself.... Today it is easy to overlook how poorly equipped Luther was to deal with the central questions of power. He was fatally short-sighted, superficial, and imprudent. Above all, as a man of the people, he lacked every inherited quality of a ruling caste and every instinct for power. He intended to restore the work of the Romans. Instead, his work became the beginning of its destruction, though he neither intended nor knew it. He unraveled and tore apart in honest rage what the old spider had woven longest and most carefully. He put the sacred books into everyone's hands. They eventually fell into the hands of the philologists, the destroyers of every belief based on books. He destroyed the idea of "the Church" by rejecting the belief that the Church councils were inspired. For the idea of "the Church" retains its power only if the spirit that inspired and founded it still lives in it. That spirit must still be building it, still adding to its house. He gave priests back sexual intercourse. Yet three-fourths of the reverence of which people are capable, especially women of the people, rests on a belief. They believe that a man who is exceptional in this respect will also be exceptional in others. It is precisely here that popular belief finds its subtlest and most insidious advocate. That belief is in something superhuman in man, in a miracle, in the saving God in man. After Luther had given the priest a wife, he had to take away from him confession to a priest. Psychologically, that was right. But in doing so he practically did away with the Christian priest himself. The priest's deepest usefulness has always been his role as a sacred ear, a silent well, and a grave for secrets. "Every man his own priest". Behind such formulas and their rustic cunning, Luther concealed the deepest hatred of "higher men" and their rule, as the Church had conceived them. Luther rejected an ideal he did not know how to reach, while seeming to fight and detest its degeneration. In fact, this impossible monk rejected the rule of the homines religiosi. As a result, he brought about a "peasant insurrection" within the social order of the Church. This was precisely what he fought so impatiently in the civic order. Much grew out of his Reformation afterward, both good and bad. By now we can almost count it all. But who would be naïve enough to praise or blame Luther simply for these results? He is innocent of all of them. He did not know what he was doing. The Lutheran Reformation undoubtedly made a clever advance in the art of making the European spirit shallower, especially in the north. Or, if people prefer a moral expression, it made the spirit more good-natured. It also gave rise to the spirit's mobility and restlessness, its thirst for independence, its belief in the right to freedom, and its "naturalness." People may wish to credit the Reformation, in the end, with preparing and encouraging what we now honor as "modern science." But they must also add that it helped bring about the degeneration of the modern scholar, with his lack of reverence, shame, and depth. It is also responsible for all naïve frankness and plain dealing in matters of knowledge. In short, it is responsible for the plebeianism of the spirit peculiar to the last two centuries. Even pessimism has so far done nothing to free us from it. "Modern ideas" also belong to this northern peasant revolt against the colder, more ambiguous, more suspicious spirit of the south. That spirit built its greatest monument in the Christian Church. Finally, let us not forget what a Church is, especially in contrast to every "State". Above all, a Church is an authoritative organization that gives the highest rank to the most spiritual people. It believes in the power of spirituality enough to forbid all cruder means of exercising authority. For this reason alone, the Church is under all circumstances a nobler institution than the State.

Vengeance on Intellect and other Backgrounds of Morality.—Morality—where do you think it has its most dangerous and rancorous advocates?—There, for example, is an ill-constituted man, who does not possess enough of intellect to be able to take pleasure in it, and just enough of culture to be aware of the fact; bored, satiated, and a self-despiser; besides being cheated unfortunately by some hereditary property out of the last consolation, the "blessing of labour," the self-forgetfulness in the "day's work"; one who is thoroughly ashamed of his existence—perhaps also harbouring some vices,—and who on the other hand (by means of books to which he has no right, or more intellectual society than he can digest), cannot help vitiating himself more and more, and making himself vain and irritable: such a thoroughly poisoned man—for intellect becomes poison, culture becomes poison, possession becomes poison, solitude becomes poison, to such ill-constituted beings—gets at last into a habitual state of vengeance and inclination to vengeance.... What do you think he finds necessary, absolutely necessary in order to give himself the appearance in his own eyes of superiority over more intellectual men, so as to give himself the delight of perfect revenge, at least in imagination? It is always morality that he requires, one may wager on it; always the big moral words, always the high-sounding words: justice, wisdom, holiness, virtue; always the stoicism of gestures (how well stoicism hides what one does not possess!); always the mantle of wise silence, of affability, of gentleness, and whatever else the idealist-mantle is called in which the incurable self-despisers and also the incurably conceited walk about. Let me not be misunderstood: out of such born enemies of the spirit there arises now and then that rare specimen of humanity who is honoured by the people under the name of saint or sage: it is out of such men that there arise those prodigies of morality that make a noise, that make history,—St Augustine was one of these men. Fear of the intellect, vengeance on the intellect—Oh! how often have these powerfully impelling vices become the root of virtues! Yea, virtue itself!—And asking the question among ourselves, even the philosopher's pretension to wisdom, which has occasionally been made here and there on the earth, the maddest and most immodest of all pretensions,—has it not always been, in India as well as in Greece, above all a means of concealment? Sometimes, perhaps, from the point of view of education which hallows so many lies, it has been a tender regard for growing and evolving persons, for disciples who have often to be guarded against themselves by means of the belief in a person (by means of an error). In most cases, however, it is a means of concealment for a philosopher, behind which he seeks protection, owing to exhaustion, age, chilliness, or hardening; as a feeling of the approaching end, as the sagacity of the instinct which animals have before their death,—they go apart, remain at rest, choose solitude, creep into caves, become wise.... What? Wisdom a means of concealment of the philosopher from—intellect?—

Vengeance on Intellect and Other Backgrounds of Morality. Where do you think morality finds its most dangerous and bitter advocates? Consider, for example, an ill-constituted man. He lacks enough intellect to take pleasure in it, but has just enough culture to know this. He is bored, fed up, and full of self-contempt. Unfortunately, inherited property has also robbed him of his last consolation. He cannot enjoy the "blessing of labour," the self-forgetfulness of a "day's work." He is thoroughly ashamed of his existence and perhaps harbors some vices too. Yet he reads books he has no right to read, or keeps more intellectual company than he can digest. As a result, he cannot help corrupting himself further and becoming vain and irritable. For such ill-constituted people, intellect becomes poison, culture becomes poison, possession becomes poison, and solitude becomes poison. Eventually, this thoroughly poisoned man lives in a constant state of vengeance and a desire for vengeance.... What does he find absolutely necessary to make himself feel superior to more intellectual men? What does he need to enjoy perfect revenge, at least in his imagination? You can wager that it is always morality. He always needs the grand moral words, the high-sounding words: justice, wisdom, holiness, virtue. He always needs stoic gestures. How well stoicism hides what one does not possess! He always needs the cloak of wise silence, of friendliness, of gentleness, and whatever else that idealist cloak is called. It is the cloak worn by people who incurably despise themselves and by the incurably conceited. Do not misunderstand me. Now and then, these born enemies of the spirit produce a rare kind of person whom people honor as a saint or sage. Such men produce those moral prodigies that cause a stir and make history. St Augustine was one of these men. Fear of the intellect, vengeance on the intellect. Oh, how often have these powerfully driving vices become the root of virtues! Indeed, of virtue itself! And just between ourselves, what about the philosopher's claim to wisdom? It has been made here and there on earth, and it is the maddest and most immodest of all claims. In India as well as in Greece, has it not always been above all a means of concealment? Sometimes, perhaps, it has shown a tender concern for people who are still growing and developing. It may have served the purposes of education, which makes so many lies sacred. Disciples must often be protected from themselves by belief in a person, by an error. In most cases, however, a philosopher hides behind this claim to protect himself. He does so because of exhaustion, age, coldness, or hardening. It is a feeling that the end is near. It is the wisdom of the instinct animals have before death. They go away, rest, seek solitude, and creep into caves. They become wise.... What? Is wisdom a way for the philosopher to hide from intellect?

Two Kinds of Causes which are Confounded.—It seems to me one of my most essential steps and advances that I have learned to distinguish the cause of the action generally from the cause of action in a particular manner, say, in this direction, with this aim. The first kind of cause is a quantum of stored-up force, which waits to be used in some manner, for some purpose; the second kind of cause, on the contrary, is something quite unimportant in comparison with the first, an insignificant hazard for the most part, in conformity with which the quantum of force in question "discharges" itself in some unique and definite manner: the lucifer-match in relation to the barrel of gunpowder. Among those insignificant hazards and lucifer-matches I count all the so-called "aims," and similarly the still more so-called "occupations" of people: they are relatively optional, arbitrary, and almost indifferent in relation to the immense quantum of force which presses on, as we have said, to be used up in any way whatever. One generally looks at the matter in a different manner: one is accustomed to see the impelling force precisely in the aim (object, calling, &c.), according to a primeval error,—but it is only the directing force; the steersman and the steam have thereby been confounded. And yet it is not even always the steersman, the directing force.... Is the "aim," the "purpose," not often enough only an extenuating pretext, an additional self-blinding of conceit, which does not wish it to be said that the ship follows the stream into which it has accidentally run? That it "wishes" to go that way, because it must go that way? That it has a direction, sure enough, but—not a steersman? We still require a criticism of the conception of "purpose."

Two Kinds of Causes We Confuse. It seems to me that one of my most important advances was learning to distinguish two kinds of causes. One causes an action in general. The other causes an action to take a particular form, say, to move in a particular direction or toward a particular aim. The first kind is an amount of stored force, waiting to be used somehow, for some purpose. The second kind is quite unimportant by comparison. It is usually a trivial chance event that makes the stored force "discharge" itself in a particular, definite way. It is like a match next to a barrel of gunpowder. Among these trivial chance events and matches, I count all so-called "aims." I also count what are even more dubiously called people’s "occupations." These are relatively optional, arbitrary, and almost irrelevant compared with the immense force pressing to be used up in any way at all. People usually see the matter differently. Because of an ancient error, they are accustomed to seeing the aim (object, calling, and so on) as the driving force. But it is only the directing force. They have confused the steersman with the steam. And yet the aim is not even always the steersman, the directing force.... Is the "aim," the "purpose," not often merely an excuse? Is it not another way for vanity to blind itself? Vanity does not want anyone to say that the ship follows the current it happened to enter. It does not want anyone to say that the ship "wishes" to go that way because it must go that way. Or that the ship certainly has a direction, but no steersman. We still need a critique of the concept of "purpose."

The Problem of the Actor.—The problem of the actor has disquieted me the longest; I was uncertain (and am sometimes so still) whether one could not get at the dangerous conception of "artist"—a conception hitherto treated with unpardonable leniency—from this point of view. Falsity with a good conscience; delight in dissimulation breaking forth as power, pushing aside, overflowing, and sometimes extinguishing the so-called "character"; the inner longing to play a rôle, to assume a mask, to put on an appearance; a surplus of capacity for adaptations of every kind, which can no longer gratify themselves in the service of the nearest and narrowest utility: all that perhaps does not pertain solely to the actor in himself?... Such an instinct would develop most readily in families of the lower class of the people, who have had to pass their lives in absolute dependence, under shifting pressure and constraint, who (to accommodate themselves to their conditions, to adapt themselves always to new circumstances) had again and again to pass themselves off and represent themselves as different persons,—thus having gradually qualified themselves to adjust the mantle to every wind, thereby almost becoming the mantle itself, as masters of the embodied and incarnated art of eternally playing the game of hide and seek, which one calls mimicry among the animals:—until at last this ability, stored up from generation to generation, has become domineering, irrational and intractable, till as instinct it begins to command the other instincts, and begets the actor, the "artist" (the buffoon, the pantaloon, the Jack-Pudding, the fool, and the clown in the first place, also the classical type of servant, Gil Blas: for in such types one has the precursors of the artist, and often enough even of the "genius"). Also under higher social conditions there grows under similar pressure a similar species of men. Only the histrionic instinct is there for the most part held strictly in check by another instinct, for example, among "diplomatists";—for the rest, I should think that it would always be open to a good diplomatist to become a good actor on the stage, provided his dignity "allowed" it. As regards the Jews, however, the adaptable people par excellence, we should, in conformity to this line of thought, expect to see among them a world-historical institution from the very beginning, for the rearing of actors, a genuine breeding-place for actors; and in fact the question is very pertinent just now: what good actor at present is not—a Jew? The Jew also, as a born literary man, as the actual ruler of the European press, exercises this power on the basis of his histrionic capacity: for the literary man is essentially an actor,—he plays the part of "expert," of "specialist."—Finally women. If we consider the whole history of women, are they not obliged first of all, and above all to be actresses? If we listen to doctors who have hypnotised women, or, finally, if we love them—and let ourselves be "hypnotised" by them,—what is always divulged thereby? That they "give themselves airs," even when they—"give themselves."... Woman is so artistic....

The Problem of the Actor. The problem of the actor has troubled me longer than any other. I have wondered, and sometimes still do, whether this problem might lead us to the dangerous concept of the "artist." Until now, this concept has been treated far too leniently. Consider falseness practiced with a clear conscience. Consider the pleasure in pretending, bursting forth as a force that pushes aside, overwhelms, and sometimes extinguishes so-called "character." Consider the inner longing to play a role, to wear a mask, to put on an appearance. Consider, too, an excess of adaptability that can no longer find satisfaction in serving the most immediate and narrow purposes. Perhaps all this does not belong solely to the actor himself?... Such an instinct would develop most readily in lower-class families. They have had to live in complete dependence, under changing pressures and constraints. To cope with their conditions and adapt to new circumstances, they have had to present themselves again and again as different people. Gradually, they learned to turn their cloak to every wind, almost becoming the cloak itself. They became masters of an art embodied in their very nature, the art of endlessly playing hide-and-seek. Among animals, one calls this mimicry. At last, this ability, stored up over generations, became domineering, irrational, and uncontrollable. As an instinct, it began to command the other instincts and produced the actor, the "artist." First came the buffoon, the pantaloon, the Jack-Pudding, the fool, and the clown. There was also the classical type of servant, Gil Blas. For these types are the forerunners of the artist, and often enough even of the "genius." Under similar pressure, a similar kind of person also develops in higher social positions. But there the acting instinct is usually held firmly in check by another instinct, as among "diplomatists," for example. Still, I should think that a good diplomatist could always become a good stage actor, provided his dignity "allowed" it. As for the Jews, the adaptable people par excellence, this line of thought leads us to an expectation. Among them we should find, from the very beginning, an institution of world-historical importance for training actors, a genuine breeding ground for actors. And indeed, the question is especially pertinent now: what good actor today is not a Jew? The Jew, too, as a born literary man and the actual ruler of the European press, exercises this power through his acting ability. For the literary man is essentially an actor. He plays the part of "expert," of "specialist." Finally, women. If we consider the whole history of women, are they not obliged, first and foremost, to be actresses? If we listen to doctors who have hypnotised women, what does this always reveal? Or, finally, what is revealed if we love women and let ourselves be "hypnotised" by them? That they "give themselves airs," even when they "give themselves."... Woman is so artistic....

My Belief in the Virilising of Europe.—We owe it to Napoleon (and not at all to the French Revolution, which had in view the "fraternity" of the nations, and the florid interchange of good graces among people generally) that several warlike centuries, which have not had their like in past history, may now follow one another—in short, that we have entered upon the classical age of war, war at the same time scientific and popular, on the grandest scale (as regards means, talents and discipline), to which all coming millenniums will look back with envy and awe as a work of perfection:—for the national movement out of which this martial glory springs, is only the counter-choc against Napoleon, and would not have existed without him. To him, consequently, one will one day be able to attribute the fact that man in Europe has again got the upper hand of the merchant and the Philistine; perhaps even of "woman" also, who has become pampered owing to Christianity and the extravagant spirit of the eighteenth century, and still more owing to "modern ideas." Napoleon, who saw in modern ideas, and accordingly in civilisation, something like a personal enemy, has by this hostility proved himself one of the greatest continuators of the Renaissance: he has brought to the surface a whole block of the ancient character, the decisive block perhaps, the block of granite. And who knows but that this block of ancient character will in the end get the upper hand of the national movement, and will have to make itself in a positive sense the heir and continuator of Napoleon:—who, as one knows, wanted one Europe, which was to be mistress of the world.—

My Belief in the Making of a More Manly Europe. We owe it to Napoleon that several centuries of warfare may now follow one another. They may be unlike anything in past history. We do not owe this to the French Revolution, which aimed at the "fraternity" of nations and an elaborate exchange of courtesies among people generally. In short, we have entered the classical age of war. War is now both scientific and popular, and waged on the grandest scale in means, talent, and discipline. All future millenniums will look back on it with envy and awe as a work of perfection. For the national movement from which this martial glory springs is only a counter-blow against Napoleon. It would not have existed without him. One day, then, Napoleon may be credited with giving man in Europe the upper hand again over the merchant and the Philistine. Perhaps even over "woman" as well. She has been pampered by Christianity and the extravagant spirit of the eighteenth century, and still more by "modern ideas." Napoleon saw modern ideas, and therefore civilization, as something like a personal enemy. Through this hostility, he proved himself one of the greatest continuators of the Renaissance. He brought a whole block of the ancient character to the surface, perhaps the decisive block, the block of granite. And who knows? Perhaps this block of ancient character will in the end gain the upper hand over the national movement. Perhaps it will have to become Napoleon's heir and successor in a positive sense. For Napoleon, as we know, wanted one Europe, which was to be mistress of the world.

How each Sex has its Prejudice about Love.—Notwithstanding all the concessions which I am inclined to make to the monogamic prejudice, I will never admit that we should speak of equal rights in the love of man and woman: there are no such equal rights. The reason is that man and woman understand something different by the term love,—and it belongs to the conditions of love in both sexes that the one sex does not presuppose the same feeling, the same conception of "love," in the other sex. What woman understands by love is clear enough: complete surrender (not merely devotion) of soul and body, without any motive, without any reservation, rather with shame and terror at the thought of a devotion restricted by clauses or associated with conditions. In this absence of conditions her love is precisely a faith: woman has no other.—Man, when he loves a woman, wants precisely this love from her; he is consequently, as regards himself, furthest removed from the prerequisites of feminine love; granted, however, that there should also be men to whom on their side the demand for complete devotion is not unfamiliar,—well, they are really—not men. A man who loves like a woman becomes thereby a slave; a woman, however, who loves like a woman becomes thereby a more perfect woman.... The passion of woman in its unconditional renunciation of its own rights presupposes in fact that there does not exist on the other side an equal pathos, an equal desire for renunciation: for if both renounced themselves out of love, there would result—well, I don't know what, perhaps a horror vacui? Woman wants to be taken and accepted as a possession, she wishes to be merged in the conceptions of "possession" and "possessed"; consequently she wants one who takes, who does not offer and give himself away, but who reversely is rather to be made richer in "himself"—by the increase of power, happiness and faith which the woman herself gives to him. Woman gives herself, man takes her.—I do not think one will get over this natural contrast by any social contract, or with the very best will to do justice, however desirable it may be to avoid bringing the severe, frightful, enigmatical, and unmoral elements of this antagonism constantly before our eyes. For love, regarded as complete, great, and full, is nature, and as nature, is to all eternity something "unmoral."—Fidelity is accordingly included in woman's love, it follows from the definition thereof; with man fidelity may readily result in consequence of his love, perhaps as gratitude or idiosyncrasy of taste, and so-called elective affinity, but it does not belong to the essence of his love—and indeed so little, that one might almost be entitled to speak of a natural opposition between love and fidelity in man, whose love is just a desire to possess, and not a renunciation and giving away; the desire to possess, however, comes to an end every time with the possession.... As a matter of fact it is the more subtle and jealous thirst for possession in the man (who is rarely and tardily convinced of having this "possession"), which makes his love continue; in that case it is even possible that the love may increase after the surrender,—he does not readily own that a woman has nothing more to "surrender" to him.—

How Each Sex Has Its Prejudice About Love. Although I am inclined to make many concessions to the prejudice in favor of monogamy, I will never admit that men and women have equal rights in love. There are no such equal rights. The reason is that men and women mean different things by love. For both sexes, love depends on neither sex assuming that the other feels or understands "love" in the same way. What a woman means by love is clear enough. It is the complete surrender of soul and body, not merely devotion. It is without any motive or reservation. Indeed, a woman feels shame and terror at the thought of devotion restricted by clauses or tied to conditions. In its lack of conditions, her love is precisely a faith. A woman has no other. When a man loves a woman, he wants precisely this love from her. So, for his own part, he is as far as possible from the conditions required for a woman's love. Suppose, however, that there are also men who are familiar with the demand for complete devotion on their own part. Well, they are really not men. A man who loves like a woman becomes a slave. A woman who loves like a woman, however, becomes a more perfect woman.... A woman's passion involves an unconditional surrender of her own rights. It therefore assumes that there is not an equal pathos, an equal desire for surrender, on the other side. For if both surrendered themselves out of love, the result would be, well, I don't know what, perhaps a horror vacui? A woman wants to be taken and accepted as a possession. She wishes to be absorbed into the ideas of "possession" and "possessed". So she wants someone who takes, who does not offer and give himself away. Instead, she wants someone who will grow richer in "himself" through the increased power, happiness, and faith she gives him. A woman gives herself, a man takes her. I do not think any social contract or even the best intention to be fair will overcome this natural contrast. Yet it may be desirable not to keep the harsh, frightening, mysterious, and unmoral elements of this conflict constantly before our eyes. For love, in its complete, great, and full form, is nature. And as nature, it is eternally "unmoral". Fidelity is therefore part of a woman's love. It follows from the definition of her love. For a man, fidelity may readily follow from love, perhaps as gratitude, a quirk of taste, or a so-called elective affinity. But fidelity does not belong to the essence of his love. In fact, it belongs to his love so little that one might almost speak of a natural opposition between love and fidelity in a man. His love is simply a desire to possess, not a surrender and giving away of himself. But the desire to possess ends each time possession is achieved.... In fact, it is the man's subtler and more jealous thirst for possession that keeps his love alive. He is rarely convinced that he has this "possession", and slow to be convinced. In that case, his love may even grow after the woman has surrendered herself. He does not readily admit that a woman has nothing more to "surrender" to him.

The Anchorite Speaks.—The art of associating with men rests essentially on one's skilfulness (which presupposes long exercise) in accepting a repast, in taking a repast in the cuisine of which one has no confidence. Provided one comes to the table with the hunger of a wolf everything is easy ("the worst society gives thee experience"—as Mephistopheles says); but one has not got this wolf's-hunger when one needs it! Alas! how difficult are our fellow-men to digest! First principle: to stake one's courage as in a misfortune, to seize boldly, to admire oneself at the same time, to take one's repugnance between one's teeth, to cram down one's disgust. Second principle: to "improve" one's fellow-man, by praise for example, so that he may begin to sweat out his self-complacency; or to seize a tuft of his good or "interesting" qualities, and pull at it till one gets his whole virtue out, and can put him under the folds of it. Third principle: self-hypnotism. To fix one's eye on the object of one's intercourse, as on a glass knob, until, ceasing to feel pleasure or pain thereat, one falls asleep unobserved, becomes rigid, and acquires a fixed pose: a household recipe used in married life and in friendship, well tested and prized as indispensable, but not yet scientifically formulated. Its proper name is—patience.—

The Hermit Speaks. The art of getting along with people rests mainly on knowing how to accept a meal from a kitchen you do not trust. This skill takes long practice. If you come to the table as hungry as a wolf, everything is easy ("the worst company gives you experience", as Mephistopheles says). But you cannot summon a wolf's hunger whenever you need it! Alas, how hard our fellow human beings are to digest! First principle: summon your courage as you would in a misfortune. Dig in boldly, admire yourself as you do it, bite down on your revulsion, and force down your disgust. Second principle: "improve" your fellow human being. Praise him, for example, so that he begins to sweat out his self-satisfaction. Or seize a tuft of his good or "interesting" qualities and pull until you draw out his whole virtue. Then you can wrap him in its folds. Third principle: self-hypnosis. Fix your eyes on the person you are with as if he were a glass knob. Keep staring until you feel neither pleasure nor pain at the sight of him. Then you fall asleep without being noticed, grow rigid, and settle into a fixed pose. This household remedy is used in marriage and friendship. It has been thoroughly tested and is valued as indispensable, though it has not yet been scientifically formulated. Its proper name is patience.

The Anchorite Speaks once more.—We also have intercourse with "men," we also modestly put on the clothes in which people know us (as such), respect us and seek us; and we thereby mingle in society, that is to say, among the disguised who do not wish to be so called; we also do like all prudent masqueraders, and courteously dismiss all curiosity which has not reference merely to our "clothes." There are however other modes and artifices for "going about" among men and associating with them: for example, as a ghost,—which is very advisable when one wants to scare them, and get rid of them easily. An example: a person grasps at us, and is unable to seize us. That frightens him. Or we enter by a closed door. Or when the lights are extinguished. Or after we are dead. The latter is the artifice of posthumous men par excellence. ("What?" said such a one once impatiently, "do you think we should delight in enduring this strangeness, coldness, death-stillness about us, all this subterranean, hidden, dim, undiscovered solitude, which is called life with us, and might just as well be called death, if we were not conscious of what will arise out of us,—and that only after our death shall we attain to our life and become living, ah! very living! we posthumous men!"—)

The Anchorite Speaks Again. We too have dealings with "men." We too modestly put on the clothes in which people know us (as such), respect us, and seek us out. In this way we mingle in society, among others in disguise who do not want to be called disguised. Like all prudent masqueraders, we politely turn away any curiosity that goes beyond our "clothes." But there are other ways and tricks for "going about" among men and associating with them. For example, one can go about as a ghost. This is very useful when one wants to frighten people and get rid of them easily. For example, someone reaches for us but cannot grasp us. That frightens him. Or we enter through a closed door. Or when the lights have gone out. Or after we are dead. This last trick belongs above all to posthumous men. ("What?" one such man once said impatiently. "Do you think we would gladly endure all this strangeness, coldness, and deathly stillness around us? Do you think we would endure all this underground, hidden, dim, undiscovered solitude? We call it life, though it might just as well be called death. Would we endure it if we did not know what will arise out of us? And if we did not know that only after death shall we come into our life and become living? Ah, very living! We posthumous men!")

At the Sight of a Learned Book.—We do not belong to those who only get their thoughts from books, or at the prompting of books,—it is our custom to think in the open air, walking, leaping, climbing, or dancing on lonesome mountains by preference, or close to the sea, where even the paths become thoughtful. Our first question concerning the value of a book, a man, or a piece of music is: Can it walk? or still better: Can it dance?... We seldom read; we do not read the worse for that—oh, how quickly do we divine how a person has arrived at his thoughts:—whether sitting before an ink-bottle with compressed belly and head bent over the paper: oh, how quickly we are then done with his book! The constipated bowels betray themselves, one may wager on it, just as the atmosphere of the room, the ceiling of the room, the smallness of the room, betray themselves.—These were my feelings as I was closing a straightforward, learned book, thankful, very thankful, but also relieved.... In the book of a learned man there is almost always something oppressive and oppressed: the "specialist" comes to light somewhere, his ardour, his seriousness, his wrath, his over-estimation of the nook in which he sits and spins, his hump—every specialist has his hump. A learned book also always mirrors a distorted soul: every trade distorts. Look at our friends again with whom we have spent our youth, after they have taken possession of their science: alas! how the reverse has always taken place! Alas! how they themselves are now for ever occupied and possessed by their science! Grown into their nook, crumpled into unrecognisability, constrained, deprived of their equilibrium, emaciated and angular everywhere, perfectly round only in one place,—we are moved and silent when we find them so. Every handicraft, granting even that it has a golden floor,¹³ has also a leaden ceiling above it, which presses and presses on the soul, till it is pressed into a strange and distorted shape. There is nothing to alter here. We need not think that it is at all possible to obviate this disfigurement by any educational artifice whatever. Every kind of perfection is purchased at a high price on earth, where everything is perhaps purchased too dear; one is an expert in one's department at the price of being also a victim of one's department. But you want to have it otherwise—"more reasonable," above all more convenient—is it not so, my dear contemporaries? Very well! But then you will also immediately get something different: that is to say, instead of the craftsman and expert, the literary man, the versatile, "many-sided" littérateur, who to be sure lacks the hump—not taking account of the hump or bow which he makes before you as the shopman of the intellect and the "porter" of culture—, the littérateur, who is really nothing, but "represents" almost everything: he plays and "represents" the expert, he also takes it upon himself in all modesty to see that he is paid, honoured and celebrated in this position.—No, my learned friends! I bless you even on account of your humps! And also because like me you despise the littérateurs and parasites of culture! And because you do not know how to make merchandise of your intellect! And have so many opinions which cannot be expressed in money value! And because you do not represent anything which you are not! Because your sole desire is to become masters of your craft; because you reverence every kind of mastership and ability, and repudiate with the most relentless scorn everything of a make-believe, half-genuine, dressed-up, virtuoso, demagogic, histrionic nature in litteris et artibus—all that which does not convince you by its absolute genuineness of discipline and preparatory training, or cannot stand your test! (Even genius does not help a person to get over such a defect, however well it may be able to deceive with regard to it: one understands this if one has once looked closely at our most gifted painters and musicians,—who almost without exception, can artificially and supplementarily appropriate to themselves (by means of artful inventions of style, make-shifts, and even principles), the appearance of that genuineness, that solidity of training and culture; to be sure, without thereby deceiving themselves, without thereby imposing perpetual silence on their bad consciences. For you know well enough that all great modern artists suffer from bad consciences?...)

At the Sight of a Learned Book. We are not among those who get their thoughts only from books, or from their prompting. We usually think outdoors, while walking, leaping, climbing, or dancing. We prefer lonely mountains or the seashore, where even the paths become thoughtful. Our first question about the value of a book, a person, or a piece of music is: Can it walk? Or better still: Can it dance?... We seldom read, but we read no worse for that. Oh, how quickly we sense how a person arrived at his thoughts! Did he sit before an ink bottle, belly compressed and head bent over the paper? Oh, how quickly we are finished with his book then! You can bet that his constipated bowels give themselves away. So do the air in the room, its ceiling, and its cramped size. These were my feelings as I closed a straightforward, learned book. I was grateful, very grateful, but also relieved.... A learned man's book almost always contains something oppressive and oppressed. Somewhere the "specialist" comes into view: his passion, his seriousness, his anger, his inflated opinion of the corner where he sits spinning, his hump. Every specialist has his hump. A learned book also always reflects a distorted soul. Every trade distorts. Look again at the friends of our youth, after they have taken possession of their science. Alas, how often the opposite has happened! Alas, how their science now occupies and possesses them forever! They have grown into their corner and been crumpled beyond recognition. They are constrained and thrown off balance, thin and angular everywhere, perfectly round in just one place. When we find them like this, we are moved to silence. Every craft, even if it has a golden floor,¹³ also has a leaden ceiling above it. The ceiling presses and presses on the soul until it takes on a strange, distorted shape. Nothing can be changed here. We need not think that any educational trick can prevent this disfigurement. Every kind of perfection is bought at a high price on earth, where perhaps everything costs too much. You become an expert in your field at the price of becoming its victim too. But you want things otherwise. You want them "more reasonable," and above all more convenient. Isn't that so, my dear contemporaries? Very well! But then you will immediately get something different. Instead of the craftsman and expert, you will get the literary man, the versatile, "many-sided" littérateur. He certainly has no hump, apart from the hump, or bow, he makes before you. He is the shopman of the intellect and the "porter" of culture. The littérateur really is nothing, but "represents" almost everything. He plays and "represents" the expert. And in all modesty, he also takes it upon himself to see that he is paid, honored, and celebrated in that role. No, my learned friends! I bless you even for your humps! I bless you too because, like me, you despise the littérateurs and parasites of culture! Because you do not know how to sell your intellect! Because you have so many opinions that cannot be valued in money! Because you do not represent anything you are not! Because your only desire is to become masters of your craft! Because you respect every kind of mastery and skill! And because, in litteris et artibus, you reject with the harshest scorn everything fake, half genuine, dressed up, showy, demagogic, or theatrical. You reject everything that fails to convince you of its absolutely genuine discipline and training, or cannot stand your test! (Even genius cannot make up for such a defect, however well it may disguise it. You understand this once you have looked closely at our most gifted painters and musicians. Almost without exception, they can manufacture the appearance of that genuineness and solid training and culture to make up for what they lack. They do it through clever inventions of style, makeshifts, and even principles. But they do not deceive themselves or permanently silence their guilty consciences by doing so. For you know well enough that all great modern artists suffer from guilty consciences?...)

How one has to Distinguish first of all in Works of Art.—Everything that is thought, versified, painted and composed, yea, even built and moulded, belongs either to monologic art, or to art before witnesses. Under the latter there is also to be included the apparently monologic art which involves the belief in God, the whole lyric of prayer; because for a pious man there is no solitude,—we, the godless, have been the first to devise this invention. I know of no profounder distinction in all the perspective of the artist than this: Whether he looks at his growing work of art (at "himself—") with the eye of the witness; or whether he "has forgotten the world," as is the essential thing in all monologic art,——it rests on forgetting, it is the music of forgetting.

How to Make the First Distinction in Works of Art. Everything thought, written in verse, painted, composed, built, or sculpted belongs either to monologic art or to art made before witnesses. The latter also includes apparently monologic art that involves belief in God, all the lyric poetry of prayer. For a pious person, there is no solitude. We, the godless, were the first to invent it. I know of no deeper distinction in an artist's perspective than this: Does the artist look at the growing work of art (at "himself") through the eyes of a witness? Or has he "forgotten the world"? Forgetting the world is essential to all monologic art. Such art rests on forgetting, it is the music of forgetting.

The Cynic Speaks.—My objections to Wagner's music are physiological objections. Why should I therefore begin by disguising them under æsthetic formulæ? My "point" is that I can no longer breathe freely when this music begins to operate on me; my foot immediately becomes indignant at it and rebels: for what it needs is time, dance and march; it demands first of all from music the ecstasies which are in good walking, striding, leaping and dancing. But do not my stomach, my heart, my blood and my bowels also protest? Do I not become hoarse unawares under its influence? And then I ask myself what it is really that my body wants from music generally. I believe it wants to have relief: so that all animal functions should be accelerated by means of light, bold, unfettered, self-assured rhythms; so that brazen, leaden life should be gilded by means of golden, good, tender harmonies. My melancholy would fain rest its head in the hiding-places and abysses of perfection: for this reason I need music. What do I care for the drama! What do I care for the spasms of its moral ecstasies, in which the "people" have their satisfaction! What do I care for the whole pantomimic hocus-pocus of the actor!... It will now be divined that I am essentially anti-theatrical at heart,—but Wagner on the contrary, was essentially a man of the stage and an actor, the most enthusiastic mummer-worshipper that has ever existed, even among musicians!... And let it be said in passing that if Wagner's theory was that "drama is the object, and music is only the means to it,"—his practice on the contrary from beginning to end has been to the effect that "attitude is the object, drama and even music can never be anything else but means to that." Music as a means of elucidating, strengthening and intensifying dramatic poses and the actor's appeal to the senses, and Wagnerian drama only an opportunity for a number of dramatic attitudes! Wagner possessed, along with all other instincts, the dictatorial instinct of a great actor in all and everything, and as has been said, also as a musician.—I once made this clear with some trouble to a thorough-going Wagnerian, and I had reasons for adding:—"Do be a little more honest with yourself: we are not now in the theatre. In the theatre we are only honest in the mass; as individuals we lie, we belie even ourselves. We leave ourselves at home when we go to the theatre; we there renounce the right to our own tongue and choice, to our taste, and even to our courage as we possess it and practise it within our own four walls in relation to God and man. No one takes his finest taste in art into the theatre with him, not even the artist who works for the theatre: there one is people, public, herd, woman, Pharisee, voting animal, democrat, neighbour, and fellow-creature; there even the most personal conscience succumbs to the levelling charm of the 'great multitude'; there stupidity operates as wantonness and contagion; there the neighbour rules, there one becomes a neighbour...." (I have forgotten to mention what my enlightened Wagnerian answered to my physiological objections: "So the fact is that you are really not healthy enough for our music?"—)

The Cynic Speaks. My objections to Wagner's music are physiological. Why, then, should I begin by disguising them in aesthetic formulas? My "point" is that I can no longer breathe freely when this music starts to affect me. My foot immediately takes offense and rebels. It needs rhythm, dancing and marching. Above all, it demands from music the ecstasies found in good walking, striding, leaping and dancing. But don't my stomach, heart, blood and bowels protest too? Don't I become hoarse under the music's influence without noticing it? Then I ask myself what my body wants from music in general. I believe it wants relief. It wants light, bold, free, confident rhythms to quicken all its animal functions. It wants golden, good, tender harmonies to gild life, with all its brass and lead. My melancholy longs to rest its head in the hiding places and depths of perfection. That is why I need music. What do I care about drama! What do I care about the spasms of its moral ecstasies, which satisfy the "people"! What do I care about all the actor's mimed hocus-pocus!... By now you will have guessed that I am at heart opposed to the theater. Wagner, on the other hand, was essentially a man of the stage and an actor. He was the most enthusiastic worshipper of actors who ever lived, even among musicians!... And let me say in passing that Wagner's theory was that "drama is the object, and music is only the means to it." But his practice, from beginning to end, said the opposite: "The pose is the object. Drama and even music can only be means to that." Music served to clarify, strengthen and intensify dramatic poses and the actor's appeal to the senses. Wagnerian drama was only an opportunity for a series of dramatic poses! Along with all his other instincts, Wagner had the dictatorial instinct of a great actor in everything he did. As I have said, this included his work as a musician. I once took some trouble to make this clear to a committed Wagnerian. I had reasons for adding: "Do be a little more honest with yourself. We are not in the theater now. In the theater we are honest only as a crowd. As individuals, we lie. We even misrepresent ourselves. We leave ourselves at home when we go to the theater. There we give up the right to speak and choose for ourselves. We give up our taste and even the courage we possess and exercise within our own four walls toward God and man. No one takes his finest artistic taste into the theater, not even the artist who works for it. There one is people, public, herd, woman, Pharisee, voting animal, democrat, neighbor, and fellow creature. There even the most personal conscience gives in to the leveling spell of the 'great multitude'. There stupidity spreads as both reckless abandon and contagion. There the neighbor rules. There one becomes a neighbor...." (I forgot to mention what my enlightened Wagnerian said in answer to my physiological objections: "So the fact is that you are really not healthy enough for our music?")

Juxtapositions in us.—Must we not acknowledge to ourselves, we artists, that there is a strange discrepancy in us; that on the one hand our taste, and on the other hand our creative power, keep apart in an extraordinary manner, continue apart, and have a separate growth;—I mean to say that they have entirely different gradations and tempi of age, youth, maturity, mellowness and rottenness? So that, for example, a musician could all his life create things which contradict all that his ear and heart, spoilt as they are for listening, prize, relish and prefer:—he would not even require to be aware of the contradiction! As an almost painfully regular experience shows, a person's taste can easily outgrow the taste of his power, even without the latter being thereby paralysed or checked in its productivity. The reverse, however, can also to some extent take place,—and it is to this especially that I should like to direct the attention of artists. A constant producer, a man who is a "mother" in the grand sense of the term, one who no longer knows or hears of anything except pregnancies and child-beds of his spirit, who has no time at all to reflect and make comparisons with regard to himself and his work, who is also no longer inclined to exercise his taste, but simply forgets it, letting it take its chance of standing, lying or falling,—perhaps such a man at last produces works on which he is then not at all fit to pass a judgment: so that he speaks and thinks foolishly about them and about himself. This seems to me almost the normal condition with fruitful artists,—nobody knows a child worse than its parents—and the rule applies even (to take an immense example) to the entire Greek world of poetry and art, which was never "conscious" of what it had done....

Juxtapositions within us. Must we artists not admit that there is a strange discrepancy within us? Our taste and our creative power remain remarkably separate and develop independently. I mean that they have entirely different degrees and tempos of age, youth, maturity, mellowness, and decay. A musician, for example, could spend a lifetime creating things that contradict everything his ear and heart prize, enjoy, and prefer. His ear and heart have become too discerning to enjoy his own music. He would not even have to be aware of the contradiction! As experience shows with almost painful regularity, a person's taste can easily outgrow the taste of his creative power. Yet his creative power need not be paralyzed or held back by this. The reverse can also happen to some extent. I would especially like to draw artists' attention to this. Consider a constant producer, a man who is a "mother" in the grand sense of the word. He knows and hears of nothing but his spirit's pregnancies and births. He has no time to reflect on himself and his work or to make comparisons. He is no longer inclined to exercise his taste either. He simply forgets it, leaving it to stand, lie, or fall as it may. Perhaps such a man eventually produces works he is not at all fit to judge. As a result, he speaks and thinks foolishly about them and about himself. This seems to me almost the normal condition of productive artists. Nobody knows a child worse than its parents. The rule applies even to the entire Greek world of poetry and art, to take an immense example. That world was never "conscious" of what it had done....

What is Romanticism?—It will be remembered perhaps, at least among my friends, that at first I assailed the modern world with some gross errors and exaggerations, but at any rate with hope in my heart. I recognised—who knows from what personal experiences?—the philosophical pessimism of the nineteenth century as the symptom of a higher power of thought, a more daring courage and a more triumphant plenitude of life than had been characteristic of the eighteenth century, the age of Hume, Kant, Condillac, and the sensualists: so that the tragic view of things seemed to me the peculiar luxury of our culture, its most precious, noble, and dangerous mode of prodigality; but nevertheless, in view of its overflowing wealth, a justifiable luxury. In the same way I interpreted for myself German music as the expression of a Dionysian power in the German soul: I thought I heard in it the earthquake by means of which a primeval force that had been imprisoned for ages was finally finding vent—indifferent as to whether all that usually calls itself culture was thereby made to totter. It is obvious that I then misunderstood what constitutes the veritable character both of philosophical pessimism and of German music,—namely, their Romanticism. What is Romanticism? Every art and every philosophy may be regarded as a healing and helping appliance in the service of growing, struggling life: they always presuppose suffering and sufferers. But there are two kinds of sufferers: on the one hand those that suffer from overflowing vitality, who need Dionysian art, and require a tragic view and insight into life; and on the other hand those who suffer from reduced vitality, who seek repose, quietness, calm seas, and deliverance from themselves through art or knowledge, or else intoxication, spasm, bewilderment and madness. All Romanticism in art and knowledge responds to the twofold craving of the latter; to them Schopenhauer as well as Wagner responded (and responds),—to name those most celebrated and decided romanticists who were then misunderstood by me (not however to their disadvantage, as may be reasonably conceded to me). The being richest in overflowing vitality, the Dionysian God and man, may not only allow himself the spectacle of the horrible and questionable, but even the fearful deed itself, and all the luxury of destruction, disorganisation and negation. With him evil, senselessness and ugliness seem as it were licensed, in consequence of the overflowing plenitude of procreative, fructifying power, which can convert every desert into a luxuriant orchard. Conversely, the greatest sufferer, the man poorest in vitality, would have most need of mildness, peace and kindliness in thought and action: he would need, if possible, a God who is specially the God of the sick, a "Saviour"; similarly he would have need of logic, the abstract intelligibility of existence—for logic soothes and gives confidence;—in short he would need a certain warm, fear-dispelling narrowness and imprisonment within optimistic horizons. In this manner I gradually began to understand Epicurus, the opposite of a Dionysian pessimist;—in a similar manner also the "Christian," who in fact is only a type of Epicurean, and like him essentially a romanticist:—and my vision has always become keener in tracing that most difficult and insidious of all forms of retrospective inference, which most mistakes have been made—the inference from the work to its author, from the deed to its doer, from the ideal to him who needs it, from every mode of thinking and valuing to the imperative want behind it.—In regard to all æsthetic values I now avail myself of this radical distinction: I ask in every single case, "Has hunger or superfluity become creative here?" At the outset another distinction might seem to recommend itself more—it is far more conspicuous,—namely, to have in view whether the desire for rigidity, for perpetuation, for being is the cause of the creating, or the desire for destruction, for change, for the new, for the future—for becoming. But when looked at more carefully, both these kinds of desire prove themselves ambiguous, and are explicable precisely according to the before-mentioned and, as it seems to me, rightly preferred scheme. The desire for destruction, change and becoming, may be the expression of overflowing power, pregnant with futurity (my terminus for this is of course the word "Dionysian"); but it may also be the hatred of the ill-constituted, destitute and unfortunate, which destroys, and must destroy, because the enduring, yea, all that endures, in fact all being, excites and provokes it. To understand this emotion we have but to look closely at our anarchists. The will to perpetuation requires equally a double interpretation. It may on the one hand proceed from gratitude and love:—art of this origin will always be an art of apotheosis, perhaps dithyrambic, as with Rubens, mocking divinely, as with Hafiz, or clear and kind-hearted as with Goethe, and spreading a Homeric brightness and glory over everything (in this case I speak of Apollonian art). It may also, however, be the tyrannical will of a sorely-suffering, struggling or tortured being, who would like to stamp his most personal, individual and narrow characteristics, the very idiosyncrasy of his suffering, as an obligatory law and constraint on others; who, as it were, takes revenge on all things, in that he imprints, enforces and brands his image, the image of his torture, upon them. The latter is romantic pessimism in its most extreme form, whether it be as Schopenhauerian will-philosophy, or as Wagnerian music:—romantic pessimism, the last great event in the destiny of our civilisation. (That there may be quite a different kind of pessimism, a classical pessimism—this presentiment and vision belongs to me, as something inseparable from me, as my proprium and ipsissimum; only that the word "classical" is repugnant to my ears, it has become far too worn; too indefinite and indistinguishable. I call that pessimism of the future,—for it is coming! I see it coming!—Dionysian pessimism.)

What is Romanticism? Perhaps my friends, at least, will remember how I first attacked the modern world. I made some gross errors and exaggerations, but at least I had hope in my heart. I saw nineteenth-century philosophical pessimism as a sign of greater intellectual power, greater daring, and a more triumphant fullness of life than had been characteristic of the eighteenth century, the age of Hume, Kant, Condillac, and the sensualists. Who knows what personal experiences led me to see it that way? The tragic view of things seemed to me the distinctive luxury of our culture. It seemed our culture’s most precious, noble, and dangerous form of extravagance. Yet given our overflowing wealth, it seemed a justifiable luxury. I interpreted German music in the same way, as an expression of a Dionysian power in the German soul. I thought I heard an earthquake in it. A primeval force, imprisoned for ages, was finally breaking free. It did not care whether everything usually called culture was shaken by its release. Clearly, I misunderstood the true character of both philosophical pessimism and German music: their Romanticism. What is Romanticism? Every art and every philosophy can be seen as a means of healing and helping growing, struggling life. Both always assume that there is suffering and that there are sufferers. But there are two kinds of sufferers. First, there are those who suffer from overflowing vitality. They need Dionysian art and a tragic view and understanding of life. Then there are those who suffer from reduced vitality. Through art or knowledge, they seek rest, quiet, calm seas, and release from themselves. Or else they seek intoxication, convulsions, confusion, and madness. All Romanticism in art and knowledge answers the twofold craving of the latter. Schopenhauer and Wagner both answered it, and still do. These are the most celebrated and committed romantics whom I misunderstood at the time. Still, I think it can fairly be said that my misunderstanding did not put them at a disadvantage. The being richest in overflowing vitality, the Dionysian god and man, can allow himself more than the spectacle of the horrible and questionable. He can even allow himself fearful deeds and the whole luxury of destruction, disorder, and negation. In him, evil, senselessness, and ugliness seem, as it were, permitted. His creative, fruitful power is so abundant that it can turn any desert into a lush orchard. The greatest sufferer, by contrast, the person poorest in vitality, would have the greatest need for gentleness, peace, and kindness in thought and action. If possible, he would need a god who is especially the god of the sick, a "Saviour". He would also need logic and the abstract intelligibility of existence. For logic soothes and gives confidence. In short, he would need a certain comforting, fear-dispelling narrowness and confinement within optimistic horizons. In this way, I gradually began to understand Epicurus, the opposite of a Dionysian pessimist. In a similar way, I began to understand the "Christian". The Christian is in fact only a type of Epicurean and, like Epicurus, essentially a romantic. My eye also grew steadily sharper at tracing the most difficult and insidious form of reasoning backward. It is the form in which the most mistakes have been made: reasoning from the work to its author, from the deed to its doer, from the ideal to the person who needs it, and from every way of thinking and valuing to the urgent need behind it. In judging all aesthetic values, I now use this fundamental distinction. In every case, I ask: "Has hunger or excess become creative here?" At first, another distinction might seem more useful, since it is much more obvious. We might ask whether the act of creation springs from a desire for permanence and rigidity, for being. Or does it spring from a desire for destruction, change, the new, and the future, for becoming? But on closer inspection, both desires turn out to have more than one meaning. Both can be explained using the distinction I have just given, which seems to me the better one. The desire for destruction, change, and becoming may express overflowing power, full of promise for the future. My term for this is, of course, "Dionysian". But the desire may also express the hatred of the ill-constituted, deprived, and unfortunate. They destroy, and must destroy, because whatever lasts, indeed all that endures, all being itself, excites and provokes them. To understand this feeling, we need only look closely at our anarchists. The will to make things last also requires two interpretations. On the one hand, it may come from gratitude and love. Art of this origin will always glorify its subject. It may be wildly celebratory, as with Rubens, divinely mocking, as with Hafiz, or clear and kindhearted, as with Goethe. It casts a Homeric brightness and glory over everything. In this case, I speak of Apollonian art. But the will to make things last may also be the tyrannical will of a deeply suffering, struggling, or tortured being. Such a person wants to impose his most personal, individual, and narrow traits on others as a binding law and constraint. He wants to impose the distinctive character of his suffering. It is as if he takes revenge on all things by stamping, forcing, and branding them with his image, the image of his torture. This is romantic pessimism in its most extreme form, whether in Schopenhauer’s philosophy of the will or in Wagner’s music. Romantic pessimism is the last great event in the destiny of our civilization. (There may be a quite different kind of pessimism, a classical pessimism. This presentiment and vision belongs to me. It is inseparable from me, my proprium and ipsissimum. Only the word "classical" jars on my ears. It has become far too worn, too vague, and too indistinct. I call that pessimism of the future Dionysian pessimism. For it is coming! I see it coming!)

We Unintelligible Ones.—Have we ever complained among ourselves of being misunderstood, misjudged, and confounded with others; of being calumniated, misheard, and not heard? That is just our lot—alas, for a long time yet! say, to be modest, until 1901—, it is also our distinction; we should not have sufficient respect for ourselves if we wished it otherwise. People confound us with others—the reason of it is that we ourselves grow, we change continually, we cast off old bark, we still slough every spring, we always become younger, higher, stronger, as men of the future, we thrust our roots always more powerfully into the deep—into evil—, while at the same time we embrace the heavens ever more lovingly, more extensively, and suck in their light ever more eagerly with all our branches and leaves. We grow like trees—that is difficult to understand, like all life!—not in one place, but everywhere, not in one direction only, but upwards and outwards, as well as inwards and downwards. At the same time our force shoots forth in stem, branches, and roots; we are really no longer free to do anything separately, or to be anything separately.... Such is our lot, as we have said: we grow in height; and even should it be our calamity—for we dwell ever closer to the lightning!—well, we honour it none the less on that account; it is that which we do not wish to share with others, which we do not wish to bestow upon others, the fate of all elevation, our fate....

We Who Cannot Be Understood. Have we ever complained among ourselves that people misunderstand us, misjudge us, and confuse us with others? That they slander us, mishear us, and do not hear us at all? That is simply our fate, alas, for a long time yet! Let us say, to be modest, until 1901. It is also what sets us apart. We would not respect ourselves enough if we wished it otherwise. People confuse us with others because we ourselves are growing. We change constantly. We shed our old bark. We still shed our skin every spring. We grow younger, taller, stronger. As people of the future, we push our roots ever deeper into the depths, into evil. At the same time, we embrace the heavens ever more lovingly and more widely. With all our branches and leaves, we drink in their light ever more eagerly. We grow like trees. That is hard to understand, as all life is! We grow not in one place, but everywhere. We grow not in one direction alone, but upward and outward, as well as inward and downward. At the same time, our strength shoots forth in trunk, branches, and roots. We are no longer really free to do anything separately, or to be anything separately.... As we have said, this is our fate: we grow in height. And even if it should bring us disaster, for we live ever closer to the lightning, we honor it no less. It is what we do not wish to share with others or give to them. It is the fate of all who rise, our fate....

Why we are not Idealists.—Formerly philosophers were afraid of the senses: have we, perhaps, been far too forgetful of this fear? We are at present all of us sensualists, we representatives of the present and of the future in philosophy,—not according to theory, however, but in praxis, in practice.... Those former philosophers, on the contrary, thought that the senses lured them out of their world, the cold realm of "ideas," to a dangerous southern island, where they were afraid that their philosopher-virtues would melt away like snow in the sun. "Wax in the ears," was then almost a condition of philosophising; a genuine philosopher no longer listened to life, in so far as life is music, he denied the music of life—it is an old philosophical superstition that all music is Sirens' music.—Now we should be inclined at the present day to judge precisely in the opposite manner (which in itself might be just as false), and to regard ideas, with their cold, anæmic appearance, and not even in spite of this appearance, as worse seducers than the senses. They have always lived on the "blood" of the philosopher, they always consumed his senses, and indeed, if you will believe me, his "heart" as well. Those old philosophers were heartless: philosophising was always a species of vampirism. At the sight of such figures even as Spinoza, do you not feel a profoundly enigmatical and disquieting sort of impression? Do you not see the drama which is here performed, the constantly increasing pallor—, the spiritualisation always more ideally displayed? Do you not imagine some long-concealed blood-sucker in the background, which makes its beginning with the senses, and in the end retains or leaves behind nothing but bones and their rattling?—I mean categories, formulæ, and words (for you will pardon me in saying that what remains of Spinoza, amor intellectualis dei, is rattling and nothing more! What is amor, what is deus, when they have lost every drop of blood?...) In summa: all philosophical idealism has hitherto been something like a disease, where it has not been, as in the case of Plato, the prudence of superabundant and dangerous healthfulness, the fear of overpowerful senses, and the wisdom of a wise Socratic.—Perhaps, is it the case that we moderns are merely not sufficiently sound to require Plato's idealism? And we do not fear the senses because——.

Why we are not Idealists. Philosophers used to fear the senses. Have we perhaps forgotten their fear too completely? Today, we representatives of the present and future in philosophy are all sensualists. We are not sensualists in theory, however, but in praxis, in practice.... Those earlier philosophers, by contrast, thought the senses lured them out of their world, the cold realm of "ideas." The senses lured them to a dangerous southern island. There they feared their philosophical virtues would melt away like snow in the sun. "Wax in the ears" was then almost a condition of doing philosophy. A genuine philosopher no longer listened to life, insofar as life is music. He denied the music of life. It is an old philosophical superstition that all music is Sirens' music. Today we would be inclined to judge the matter in exactly the opposite way. That judgment might itself be just as false. We would regard ideas, with their cold, bloodless appearance, as worse seducers than the senses. And we would think so not even in spite of their appearance. Ideas have always lived on the philosopher's "blood." They have always consumed his senses and, if you will believe me, his "heart" as well. Those old philosophers were heartless. Philosophy was always a kind of vampirism. Even when you look at figures like Spinoza, don't you feel something deeply mysterious and disturbing? Don't you see the drama being played out here? The growing paleness, the increasingly ideal display of spiritualization? Don't you imagine a long-hidden bloodsucker in the background? It begins with the senses and ends by keeping or leaving behind nothing but bones and their rattling. I mean categories, formulas, and words. You will forgive me for saying that what remains of Spinoza, amor intellectualis dei, is rattling and nothing more! What are amor and deus when they have lost every drop of blood?... In short: all philosophical idealism so far has been something like a disease. An exception is Plato's idealism. His idealism was the caution of someone with abundant, dangerous health, the fear of overpowerful senses, and the wisdom of a wise follower of Socrates. Perhaps we moderns are simply not healthy enough to need Plato's idealism? And we do not fear the senses because...

"Science" as Prejudice.—It follows from the laws of class distinction that the learned, in so far as they belong to the intellectual middle-class, are debarred from getting even a sight of the really great problems and notes of interrogation. Besides, their courage, and similarly their outlook, does not reach so far,—and above all, their need, which makes them investigators, their innate anticipation and desire that things should be constituted in such and such a way, their fears and hopes are too soon quieted and set at rest. For example, that which makes the pedantic Englishman, Herbert Spencer, so enthusiastic in his way, and impels him to draw a line of hope, a horizon of desirability, the final reconciliation of "egoism and altruism" of which he dreams,—that almost causes nausea to people like us:—a humanity with such Spencerian perspectives as ultimate perspectives would seem to us deserving of contempt, of extermination! But the fact that something has to be taken by him as his highest hope, which is regarded, and may well be regarded, by others merely as a distasteful possibility, is a note of interrogation which Spencer could not have foreseen.... It is just the same with the belief with which at present so many materialistic natural-scientists are content, the belief in a world which is supposed to have its equivalent and measure in human thinking and human valuations, a "world of truth" at which we might be able ultimately to arrive with the help of our insignificant, four-cornered human reason! What? do we actually wish to have existence debased in that fashion to a ready-reckoner exercise and calculation for stay-at-home mathematicians? We should not, above all, seek to divest existence of its ambiguous character: good taste forbids it, gentlemen, the taste of reverence for everything that goes beyond your horizon! That a world-interpretation is alone right by which you maintain your position, by which investigation and work can go on scientifically in your sense (you really mean mechanically?), an interpretation which acknowledges numbering, calculating, weighing, seeing and handling, and nothing more—such an idea is a piece of grossness and naïvety, provided it is not lunacy and idiocy. Would the reverse not be quite probable, that the most superficial and external characters of existence—its most apparent quality, its outside, its embodiment—should let themselves be apprehended first? perhaps alone allow themselves to be apprehended? A "scientific" interpretation of the world as you understand it might consequently still be one of the stupidest that is to say, the most destitute of significance, of all possible world-interpretations:—I say this in confidence to my friends the Mechanicians, who to-day like to hobnob with philosophers, and absolutely believe that mechanics is the teaching of the first and last laws upon which, as upon a ground-floor, all existence must be built. But an essentially mechanical world would be an essentially meaningless world! Supposing we valued the worth of a music with reference to how much it could be counted, calculated, or formulated—how absurd such a "scientific" estimate of music would be! What would one have apprehended, understood, or discerned in it! Nothing, absolutely nothing of what is really "music" in it!...

"Science" as Prejudice. According to the laws of class distinction, scholars who belong to the intellectual middle class cannot even glimpse the truly great problems and questions. Their courage and their outlook do not reach that far. Above all, the need that drives them to investigate is satisfied too easily. So are their inborn expectations and desires that things should be this way or that, along with their fears and hopes. Take the pedantic Englishman Herbert Spencer. What excites him in his own way is the final reconciliation of "egoism and altruism" that he dreams of. This reconciliation gives him a line of hope, a horizon of what he finds desirable. To people like us, it is almost nauseating. A humanity whose ultimate horizons were those of Spencer would seem to us worthy of contempt, of extermination! But Spencer could not have foreseen the question raised by this fact. What he must take as his highest hope is regarded, and may well be regarded, by others as merely a distasteful possibility.... The same is true of a belief that satisfies so many materialistic natural scientists today. They believe in a world that supposedly has its equivalent and measure in human thought and human values. They believe in a "world of truth" that we might eventually reach with our insignificant, four-cornered human reason! What? Do we really want to reduce existence to an exercise in arithmetic and calculation for stay-at-home mathematicians? Above all, we should not try to strip existence of its ambiguous character. Good taste forbids it, gentlemen. I mean the taste that respects everything beyond your horizon! You claim that only one interpretation of the world is right. It is the interpretation that preserves your position and allows investigation and work to proceed scientifically in your sense. Do you really mean mechanically? This interpretation recognizes counting, calculating, weighing, seeing, and handling, and nothing more. Such a claim is crude and naive, if it is not madness and idiocy. Is the reverse not quite probable? The most superficial and external features of existence might be the first to be understood: its most apparent quality, its outside, its embodiment. Perhaps they are the only features that can be understood. A "scientific" interpretation of the world, as you understand it, might therefore still be one of the stupidest of all possible interpretations. In other words, it might be one of those most lacking in meaning. I say this in confidence to my friends the Mechanicians. Today they like to associate with philosophers. They firmly believe that mechanics teaches the first and last laws on which all existence must be built, as on a ground floor. But an essentially mechanical world would be an essentially meaningless world! Suppose we judged the worth of music by how much of it could be counted, calculated, or put into formulas. How absurd such a "scientific" judgment of music would be! What would we have grasped, understood, or recognized in it? Nothing, absolutely nothing of what is really "music" in it!...

Our new "Infinite."—How far the perspective character of existence extends, or whether it have any other character at all, whether an existence without explanation, without "sense" does not just become "nonsense," whether, on the other hand, all existence is not essentially an explaining existence—these questions, as is right and proper, cannot be determined even by the most diligent and severely conscientious analysis and self-examination of the intellect, because in this analysis the human intellect cannot avoid seeing itself in its perspective forms, and only in them. We cannot see round our corner: it is hopeless curiosity to want to know what other modes of intellect and perspective there might be: for example, whether any kind of being could perceive time backwards, or alternately forwards and backwards (by which another direction of life and another conception of cause and effect would be given). But I think that we are to-day at least far from the ludicrous immodesty of decreeing from our nook that there can only be legitimate perspectives from that nook. The world, on the contrary, has once more become "infinite" to us: in so far we cannot dismiss the possibility that it contains infinite interpretations. Once more the great horror seizes us—but who would desire forthwith to deify once more this monster of an unknown world in the old fashion? And perhaps worship the unknown thing as the "unknown person" in future? Ah! there are too many ungodly possibilities of interpretation comprised in this unknown, too much devilment, stupidity and folly of interpretation.—also our own human, all too human interpretation itself, which we know....

Our new "Infinite." How far does the perspectival character of existence extend? Does existence have any other character at all? Does existence without explanation, without "sense," simply become "nonsense"? Or is all existence essentially an explaining existence? Quite properly, even the most diligent and scrupulous analysis and self-examination of the intellect cannot settle these questions. For in this analysis, the human intellect cannot avoid seeing itself in its own perspectival forms, and only in them. We cannot see around our own corner. It is hopeless curiosity to ask what other kinds of intellect and perspective there might be. For example, could any kind of being perceive time backward, or alternately forward and backward? This would give life another direction and produce another conception of cause and effect. But I think that today we are at least far from a ridiculous kind of arrogance. We no longer decree from our own little corner that legitimate perspectives can come only from there. On the contrary, the world has once again become "infinite" to us. For we cannot dismiss the possibility that it contains infinite interpretations. Once again, the great horror seizes us. But who would want to turn this monster of an unknown world into a god again, in the old way? And perhaps, in the future, worship the unknown thing as the "unknown person"? Ah! This unknown contains too many ungodly possibilities of interpretation, too much devilment, stupidity, and folly in interpretation. These include our own human, all too human interpretation, which we know....

Why we Seem to be Epicureans.—We are cautious, we modern men, with regard to final convictions, our distrust lies in wait for the enchantments and tricks of conscience involved in every strong belief, in every absolute Yea and Nay: how is this explained? Perhaps one may see in it a good deal of the caution of the "burnt child," of the disillusioned idealist; but one may also see in it another and better element, the joyful curiosity of a former lingerer in the corner, who has been brought to despair by his nook, and now luxuriates and revels in its antithesis, in the unbounded, in the "open air in itself." Thus there is developed an almost Epicurean inclination for knowledge, which does not readily lose sight of the questionable character of things; likewise also a repugnance to pompous moral phrases and attitudes, a taste that repudiates all coarse, square contrasts, and is proudly conscious of its habitual reserve. For this too constitutes our pride, this easy tightening of the reins in our headlong impulse after certainty, this self-control of the rider in his most furious riding: for now, as of old we have mad, fiery steeds under us, and if we delay, it is certainly least of all the danger which causes us to delay....

Why We Seem to Be Epicureans. We modern people are cautious about final convictions. We watch out for the spells and tricks of conscience involved in every strong belief, every absolute Yes and No. How can we explain this? Perhaps we can see in it much of the caution of a "burnt child," a disillusioned idealist. But we can also see another, better element in it. It is the joyful curiosity of someone who once lingered in a corner. His nook had driven him to despair, and now he delights in its opposite, in the boundless, in the "open air in itself." This gives rise to an almost Epicurean love of knowledge, one that rarely loses sight of how questionable things are. It also brings a dislike of pompous moral phrases and poses. We reject all crude, rigid contrasts, and we are proudly aware of our habitual restraint. For this too is a source of pride for us: we can easily rein in our headlong drive for certainty. Like a rider at full gallop, we can control ourselves. For now, as in the past, we ride wild, fiery horses. And if we hold back, it is certainly not danger that makes us do so....

Our Slow Periods.—It is thus that artists feel, and all men of "works," the maternal species of men: they always believe at every chapter of their life—a work always makes a chapter—that they have already reached the goal itself; they would always patiently accept death with the feeling: "we are ripe for it." This is not the expression of exhaustion,—but rather that of a certain autumnal sunniness and mildness, which the work itself, the maturing of the work, always leaves behind in its originator. Then the tempo of life slows down—turns thick and flows with honey—into long pauses, into the belief in the long pause....

Our Slow Periods. Artists feel this way, as do all people who create works, the maternal type of person. At every chapter of their lives, they believe they have already reached the goal. A work always makes a chapter. They would always accept death patiently, feeling: "we are ripe for it." This does not express exhaustion. Rather, it expresses a kind of sunny, gentle autumn mood. A work, as it matures, always leaves its creator with this feeling. Then the pace of life slows down. It thickens and flows like honey into long pauses, into the belief in the long pause....

We Homeless Ones.—Among the Europeans of to-day there are not lacking those who may call themselves homeless ones in a way which is at once a distinction and an honour; it is by them that my secret wisdom and gaya scienza is expressly to be laid to heart. For their lot is hard, their hope uncertain; it is a clever feat to devise consolation for them. But what good does it do! We children of the future, how could we be at home in the present? We are unfavourable to all ideals which could make us feel at home in this frail, broken-down, transition period; and as regards the "realities" thereof, we do not believe in their endurance. The ice which still carries us has become very thin: the thawing wind blows; we ourselves, the homeless ones, are an influence that breaks the ice, and the other all too thin "realities."... We "preserve" nothing, nor would we return to any past age; we are not at all "liberal," we do not labour for "progress," we do not need first to stop our ears to the song of the market-place and the sirens of the future—their song of "equal rights," "free society," "no longer either lords or slaves," does not allure us! We do not by any means think it desirable that the kingdom of righteousness and peace should be established on earth (because under any circumstances it would be the kingdom of the profoundest mediocrity and Chinaism); we rejoice in all men, who, like ourselves, love danger, war and adventure, who do not make compromises, nor let themselves be captured, conciliated and stunted; we count ourselves among the conquerors; we ponder over the need of a new order of things, even of a new slavery—for every strengthening and elevation of the type "man" also involves a new form of slavery. Is it not obvious that with all this we must feel ill at ease in an age which claims the honour of being the most humane, gentle and just that the sun has ever seen? What a pity that at the mere mention of these fine words, the thoughts at the back of our minds are all the more unpleasant, that we see therein only the expression—or the masquerade—of profound weakening, exhaustion, age, and declining power! What can it matter to us with what kind of tinsel an invalid decks out his weakness? He may parade it as his virtue; there is no doubt whatever that weakness makes people gentle, alas, so gentle, so just, so inoffensive, so "humane"!—The "religion of pity," to which people would like to persuade us—yes, we know sufficiently well the hysterical little men and women who need this religion at present as a cloak and adornment! We are no humanitarians; we should not dare to speak of our "love of mankind"; for that, a person of our stamp is not enough of an actor! Or not sufficiently Saint-Simonist, not sufficiently French. A person must have been affected with a Gallic excess of erotic susceptibility and amorous impatience even to approach mankind honourably with his lewdness.... Mankind! Was there ever a more hideous old woman among all old women (unless perhaps it were "the Truth": a question for philosophers)? No, we do not love Mankind! On the other hand, however, we are not nearly "German" enough (in the sense in which the word "German" is current at present) to advocate nationalism and race-hatred, or take delight in the national heart-itch and blood-poisoning, on account of which the nations of Europe are at present bounded off and secluded from one another as if by quarantines. We are too unprejudiced for that, too perverse, too fastidious; also too well-informed, and too much "travelled." We prefer much rather to live on mountains, apart and "out of season," in past or coming centuries, in order merely to spare ourselves the silent rage to which we know we should be condemned as witnesses of a system of politics which makes the German nation barren by making it vain, and which is a petty system besides:—will it not be necessary for this system to plant itself between two mortal hatreds, lest its own creation should immediately collapse? Will it not be obliged to desire the perpetuation of the petty-state system of Europe?... We homeless ones are too diverse and mixed in race and descent as "modern men," and are consequently little tempted to participate in the falsified racial self-admiration and lewdness which at present display themselves in Germany, as signs of German sentiment, and which strike one as doubly false and unbecoming in the people with the "historical sense." We are, in a word—and it shall be our word of honour!—good Europeans, the heirs of Europe, the rich, over-wealthy heirs, also the too deeply pledged heirs of millenniums of European thought. As such, we have also outgrown Christianity, and are disinclined to it—and just because we have grown out of it, because our forefathers were Christians uncompromising in their Christian integrity, who willingly sacrificed possessions and positions, blood and country, for the sake of their belief. We—do the same. For what, then? For our unbelief? For all sorts of unbelief? Nay, you know better than that, my friends! The hidden Yea in you is stronger than all the Nays and Perhapses, of which you and your age are sick; and when you are obliged to put out to sea, you emigrants, it is—once more a faith which urges you thereto!...

We Homeless Ones. Among Europeans today, there are some who may call themselves homeless, and wear that name with distinction and honor. It is especially for them to take my secret wisdom and gaya scienza to heart. Their lot is hard, their hope uncertain. It takes ingenuity to find consolation for them. But what good does it do? We children of the future, how could we feel at home in the present? We oppose all ideals that might make us feel at home in this fragile, broken-down period of transition. And we do not believe that its "realities" will last. The ice that still bears us has grown very thin. The thawing wind is blowing. We homeless ones are ourselves a force that breaks the ice and those other all too thin "realities."... We "preserve" nothing, nor would we return to any past age. We are not at all "liberal," and we do not work for "progress." We do not even need to stop our ears against the song of the marketplace and the sirens of the future. Their song of "equal rights," "free society," "no longer either lords or slaves," does not tempt us! We certainly do not think it desirable to establish the kingdom of righteousness and peace on earth. Under any circumstances, it would be the kingdom of the deepest mediocrity and Chinaism. We delight in all men who, like us, love danger, war, and adventure. They make no compromises and do not let themselves be captured, won over, or stunted. We count ourselves among the conquerors. We think about the need for a new order of things, even a new slavery. For every strengthening and elevation of the type "man" also involves a new form of slavery. Is it not obvious that all this must make us uneasy in our age? It claims the honor of being the most humane, gentle, and just age the sun has ever seen. What a pity that these fine words bring even more unpleasant thoughts to the backs of our minds! We see in them only the expression, or the disguise, of deep weakening, exhaustion, age, and declining power. What does it matter to us what kind of tinsel an invalid uses to dress up his weakness? He may parade it as his virtue. There is no doubt that weakness makes people gentle. Alas, so gentle, so just, so harmless, so "humane"! The "religion of pity," which people would like to persuade us to adopt. Yes, we know well enough the hysterical little men and women who now need this religion as a cloak and an adornment! We are no humanitarians. We would not dare to speak of our "love of mankind". A person of our kind is not enough of an actor for that! Or not enough of a Saint-Simonist, not French enough. A person would need a Gallic excess of erotic susceptibility and amorous impatience even to approach mankind honorably with his lust.... Mankind! Was there ever a more hideous old woman among all old women? Unless perhaps it was "the Truth". That is a question for philosophers. No, we do not love Mankind! On the other hand, we are nowhere near "German" enough to advocate nationalism and race-hatred. We mean "German" in the sense in which the word is used today. Nor are we German enough to delight in the national heart-itch and blood-poisoning. These now divide and isolate the nations of Europe from one another, as if by quarantines. We are too free of prejudice for that, too perverse, too fastidious. We are also too well informed and too much "travelled." We would much rather live in the mountains, apart and "out of season," in past or coming centuries. That would at least spare us the silent rage we know we would feel as witnesses to a particular political system. It makes the German nation barren by making it vain, and it is a petty system besides. Must it not set itself between two deadly hatreds, lest its own creation immediately collapse? Will it not be obliged to want Europe's system of petty states to continue?... We homeless ones, as "modern men," are too diverse and mixed in race and descent. So we are hardly tempted to join in the false racial self-admiration and lust now displayed in Germany as signs of German sentiment. In the people with the "historical sense," they strike one as doubly false and unbecoming. In short, we are good Europeans, and let that be our word of honor! We are the heirs of Europe, the rich, excessively wealthy heirs, but also the heirs bound too deeply to thousands of years of European thought. As such, we have also outgrown Christianity and are disinclined toward it. This is precisely because we have grown out of it. Our forefathers were Christians who would not compromise their Christian integrity. They willingly sacrificed possessions and positions, blood and country, for their belief. We do the same. For what, then? For our unbelief? For all sorts of unbelief? No, my friends, you know better than that! The hidden Yea in you is stronger than all the Nays and Perhapses that make you and your age sick. And when you emigrants are forced to put out to sea, it is once again a faith that drives you!...

"And once more Grow Clear."—We, the generous and rich in spirit, who stand at the sides of the streets like open fountains and would hinder no one from drinking from us: we do not know, alas! how to defend ourselves when we should like to do so; we have no means of preventing ourselves being made turbid and dark,—we have no means of preventing the age in which we live casting its "up-to-date rubbish" into us, nor of hindering filthy birds throwing their excrement, the boys their trash, and fatigued resting travellers their misery, great and small, into us. But we do as we have always done: we take whatever is cast into us down into our depths—for we are deep, we do not forget—and once more grow clear....

"And Grow Clear Again." We are generous and rich in spirit. We stand beside the streets like open fountains and would stop no one from drinking from us. Yet, sadly, we do not know how to defend ourselves when we want to. We have no way to keep ourselves from becoming cloudy and dark. We cannot stop our age from throwing its "up-to-date rubbish" into us. Nor can we stop filthy birds from dropping their excrement into us, boys from throwing in their trash, or weary travelers from pouring in their troubles, great and small. But we do what we have always done. We take whatever is thrown into us down into our depths. For we are deep, and we do not forget. Then we grow clear again....

The Fool's Interruption.—It is not a misanthrope who has written this book: the hatred of men costs too dear to-day. To hate as they formerly hated man, in the fashion of Timon, completely, without qualification, with all the heart, from the pure love of hatred—for that purpose one would have to renounce contempt:—and how much refined pleasure, how much patience, how much benevolence even, do we owe to contempt! Moreover we are thereby the "elect of God": refined contempt is our taste and privilege, our art, our virtue perhaps, we, the most modern amongst the moderns!... Hatred, on the contrary, makes equal, it puts men face to face, in hatred there is honour; finally, in hatred there is fear, quite a large amount of fear. We fearless ones, however, we, the most intellectual men of the period, know our advantage well enough to live without fear as the most intellectual persons of this age. People will not easily behead us, shut us up, or banish us; they will not even ban or burn our books. The age loves intellect, it loves us, and needs us, even when we have to give it to understand that we are artists in despising; that all intercourse with men is something of a horror to us; that with all our gentleness, patience, humanity and courteousness, we cannot persuade our nose to abandon its prejudice against the proximity of man; that we love nature the more, the less humanly things are done by her, and that we love art when it is the flight of the artist from man, or the raillery of the artist at man, or the raillery of the artist at himself....

The Fool's Interruption. This book was not written by a misanthrope. Hatred of people costs too much today. To hate man as people once did, like Timon, completely, without reservation, with all one's heart, out of pure love of hatred, one would have to give up contempt. And how much refined pleasure, how much patience, even how much kindness, do we owe to contempt! Besides, contempt makes us the "elect of God". Refined contempt is our taste and privilege, our art, perhaps our virtue, we who are the most modern of the moderns!... Hatred, by contrast, makes people equal. It puts them face to face. There is honor in hatred. And finally, there is fear in hatred, quite a lot of fear. But we fearless ones, the most intellectual people of the period, know our advantage well enough to live without fear as the most intellectual people of this age. People are unlikely to behead us, lock us up, or banish us. They will not even ban or burn our books. The age loves intellect. It loves us and needs us, even when we have to make it understand that we are artists in contempt. All contact with people is something of a horror to us. For all our gentleness, patience, humanity, and courtesy, we cannot persuade our noses to give up their prejudice against the nearness of man. We love nature more, the less humanly she behaves. And we love art when it is the artist's escape from man, or the artist's mockery of man, or the artist's mockery of himself....

"The Wanderer" Speaks.—In order for once to get a glimpse of our European morality from a distance, in order to compare it with other earlier or future moralities, one must do as the traveller who wants to know the height of the towers of a city: for that purpose he leaves the city. "Thoughts concerning moral prejudices," if they are not to be prejudices concerning prejudices, presuppose a position outside of morality, some sort of world beyond good and evil, to which one must ascend, climb, or fly—and in the given case at any rate, a position beyond our good and evil, an emancipation from all "Europe," understood as a sum of inviolable valuations which have become part and parcel of our flesh and blood. That one wants in fact to get outside, or aloft, is perhaps a sort of madness, a peculiarly unreasonable "thou must"—for even we thinkers have our idiosyncrasies of "unfree will"—: the question is whether one can really get there. That may depend on manifold conditions: in the main it is a question of how light or how heavy we are, the problem of our "specific gravity." One must be very light in order to impel one's will to knowledge to such a distance, and as it were beyond one's age, in order to create eyes for oneself for the survey of millenniums, and a pure heaven in these eyes besides! One must have freed oneself from many things by which we Europeans of to-day are oppressed, hindered, held down, and made heavy. The man of such a "Beyond," who wants to get even in sight of the highest standards of worth of his age, must first of all "surmount" this age in himself—it is the test of his power—and consequently not only his age, but also his past aversion and opposition to his age, his suffering caused by his age, his unseasonableness, his Romanticism....

"The Wanderer" Speaks. To glimpse our European morality from a distance, we must do what a traveler does to learn the height of a city’s towers. We must leave the city. Only then can we compare our morality with other moralities, past or future. If “thoughts concerning moral prejudices” are not to become prejudices about prejudices, they require a position outside morality. They require some kind of world beyond good and evil, to which we must ascend, climb, or fly. In this case, at least, we need a position beyond our good and evil. We must free ourselves from all of “Europe.” By “Europe” I mean the whole set of supposedly inviolable values that have become part of our flesh and blood. To want to get outside or rise above may itself be a kind of madness, a peculiarly unreasonable “you must.” Even we thinkers have our own quirks of “unfree will.” But the question is whether we can really get there. That may depend on many conditions. Above all, it is a question of how light or heavy we are, the problem of our “specific gravity.” One must be very light to drive one’s will to knowledge so far, as if beyond one’s own age. One must create eyes for oneself that can survey millenniums, and have a clear sky in those eyes as well! One must have freed oneself from many things that oppress, hinder, hold down, and weigh down us Europeans today. A man of such a “Beyond” wants even to catch sight of the highest standards of value of his age. To do so, he must first “overcome” that age within himself. This is the test of his strength. And so he must overcome not only his age, but also his past aversion and opposition to it, his suffering caused by it, his untimeliness, his Romanticism....

The Question of Intelligibility.—One not only wants to be understood when one writes, but also—quite as certainly—not to be understood. It is by no means an objection to a book when someone finds it unintelligible: perhaps this might just have been the intention of its author,—perhaps he did not want to be understood by "anyone." A distinguished intellect and taste, when it wants to communicate its thoughts, always selects its hearers; by selecting them, it at the same time closes its barriers against "the others." It is there that all the more refined laws of style have their origin: they at the same time keep off, they create distance, they prevent "access" (intelligibility, as we have said,)—while they open the ears of those who are acoustically related to them. And to say it between ourselves and with reference to my own case,—I do not desire that either my ignorance, or the vivacity of my temperament, should prevent me being understood by you, my friends: I certainly do not desire that my vivacity should have that effect, however much it may impel me to arrive quickly at an object, in order to arrive at it at all. For I think it is best to do with profound problems as with a cold bath—quickly in, quickly out. That one does not thereby get into the depths, that one does not get deep enough down—is a superstition of the hydrophobic, the enemies of cold water; they speak without experience. Oh! the great cold makes one quick!—And let me ask by the way: Is it a fact that a thing has been misunderstood and unrecognised when it has only been touched upon in passing, glanced at, flashed at? Must one absolutely sit upon it in the first place? Must one have brooded on it as on an egg? Diu noctuque incubando, as Newton said of himself? At least there are truths of a peculiar shyness and ticklishness which one can only get hold of suddenly, and in no other way,—which one must either take by surprise, or leave alone.... Finally, my brevity has still another value: on those questions which pre-occupy me, I must say a great deal briefly, in order that it may be heard yet more briefly. For as immoralist, one has to take care lest one ruins innocence, I mean the asses and old maids of both sexes, who get nothing from life but their innocence; moreover my writings are meant to fill them with enthusiasm, to elevate them, to encourage them in virtue. I should be at a loss to know of anything more amusing than to see enthusiastic old asses and maids moved by the sweet feelings of virtue: and "that have I seen"—spake Zarathustra. So much with respect to brevity; the matter stands worse as regards my ignorance, of which I make no secret to myself. There are hours in which I am ashamed of it; to be sure there are likewise hours in which I am ashamed of this shame. Perhaps we philosophers, all of us, are badly placed at present with regard to knowledge: science is growing, the most learned of us are on the point of discovering that we know too little. But it would be worse still if it were otherwise,—if we knew too much; our duty is and remains, first of all, not to get into confusion about ourselves. We are different from the learned; although it cannot be denied that amongst other things we are also learned. We have different needs, a different growth, a different digestion: we need more, we need also less. There is no formula as to how much an intellect needs for its nourishment; if, however, its taste be in the direction of independence, rapid coming and going, travelling, and perhaps adventure for which only the swiftest are qualified, it prefers rather to live free on poor fare, than to be unfree and plethoric. Not fat, but the greatest suppleness and power is what a good dancer wishes from his nourishment,—and I know not what the spirit of a philosopher would like better than to be a good dancer. For the dance is his ideal, and also his art, in the end likewise his sole piety, his "divine service."...

The Question of Intelligibility. When you write, you want to be understood, but you also want, just as certainly, not to be understood. It is not necessarily a criticism of a book to find it unintelligible. Perhaps that was just what the author intended. Perhaps he did not want "anyone" to understand him. A distinguished mind with distinguished taste always chooses its listeners when it wants to communicate its thoughts. By choosing them, it also shuts out "the others." This is the origin of all the more refined laws of style. They keep people away, create distance, and prevent "access" (intelligibility, as we have said). At the same time, they open the ears of those who are attuned to them. And, between ourselves, let me speak of my own case. I do not want either my ignorance or my lively temperament to keep you, my friends, from understanding me. I certainly do not want my liveliness to have that effect. Yet it often drives me to reach a subject quickly, so that I can reach it at all. For I think profound problems are best treated like a cold bath. Get in quickly and get out quickly. Some say that this way you do not reach the depths, that you do not go deep enough down. That is a superstition of those who fear water, the enemies of cold water. They speak without experience. Oh, the great cold makes you quick! And let me ask in passing: Has something really been misunderstood and overlooked if it has only been touched on, glanced at, or briefly illuminated? Must you first sit on it? Must you brood over it like an egg? Diu noctuque incubando, as Newton said of himself? At least some truths are so shy and sensitive that you can only catch them suddenly, and in no other way. You must either take them by surprise or leave them alone.... Finally, my brevity has another value. On the questions that occupy me, I must say a great deal briefly, so that it may be heard even more briefly. For as an immoralist, I must take care not to ruin innocence. I mean the asses and old maids of both sexes, who get nothing from life but their innocence. Besides, my writings are meant to fill them with enthusiasm, uplift them, and encourage them in virtue. I can think of nothing more amusing than seeing enthusiastic old asses and maids moved by the sweet feelings of virtue. And "that have I seen," said Zarathustra. So much for brevity. Things are worse with my ignorance, which I do not conceal from myself. There are hours when I am ashamed of it. Of course, there are also hours when I am ashamed of that shame. Perhaps all of us philosophers are in a difficult position regarding knowledge today. Science is growing, and the most learned among us are on the point of discovering that we know too little. But it would be worse still if things were otherwise, if we knew too much. Our first duty is, and remains, not to become confused about ourselves. We are different from the learned, though it cannot be denied that we too are learned, among other things. We have different needs, a different way of growing, and a different digestion. We need more, and we also need less. There is no formula for how much nourishment a mind needs. But suppose its taste is for independence, for coming and going quickly, for travel, and perhaps for adventures only the swiftest can undertake. Then it would rather live freely on poor fare than be unfree and overfed. A good dancer wants food to give him not fat, but the greatest suppleness and strength. And I know of nothing the spirit of a philosopher would rather be than a good dancer. For dance is his ideal and his art. In the end it is also his sole piety, his "divine service."...

Great Healthiness.—We, the new, the nameless, the hard-to-understand, we firstlings of a yet untried future—we require for a new end also a new means, namely, a new healthiness, stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder and merrier than any healthiness hitherto. He whose soul longs to experience the whole range of hitherto recognised values and desirabilities, and to circumnavigate all the coasts of this ideal "Mediterranean Sea," who, from the adventures of his most personal experience, wants to know how it feels to be a conqueror, and discoverer of the ideal—as likewise how it is with the artist, the saint, the legislator, the sage, the scholar, the devotee, the prophet, and the godly Nonconformist of the old style:—requires one thing above all for that purpose, great healthiness—such healthiness as one not only possesses, but also constantly acquires and must acquire, because one continually sacrifices it again, and must sacrifice it!—And now, after having been long on the way in this fashion, we Argonauts of the ideal, who are more courageous perhaps than prudent, and often enough shipwrecked and brought to grief, nevertheless, as said above, healthier than people would like to admit, dangerously healthy, always healthy again,—it would seem, as if in recompense for it all, that we have a still undiscovered country before us, the boundaries of which no one has yet seen, a beyond to all countries and corners of the ideal known hitherto, a world so over-rich in the beautiful, the strange, the questionable, the frightful, and the divine, that our curiosity as well as our thirst for possession thereof, have got out of hand—alas! that nothing will now any longer satisfy us! How could we still be content with the man of the present day after such peeps, and with such a craving in our conscience and consciousness? What a pity; but it is unavoidable that we should look on the worthiest aims and hopes of the man of the present day with ill-concealed amusement, and perhaps should no longer look at them. Another ideal runs on before us, a strange, tempting ideal, full of danger, to which we should not like to persuade any one, because we do not so readily acknowledge any one's right thereto: the ideal of a spirit who plays naïvely (that is to say involuntarily and from overflowing abundance and power) with everything that has hitherto been called holy, good, inviolable, divine; to whom the loftiest conception which the people have reasonably made their measure of value, would already imply danger, ruin, abasement, or at least relaxation, blindness, or temporary self-forgetfulness; the ideal of a humanly superhuman welfare and benevolence, which may often enough appear inhuman, for example, when put by the side of all past seriousness on earth, and in comparison with all past solemnities in bearing, word, tone, look, morality and pursuit, as their truest involuntary parody,— but with which, nevertheless, perhaps the great seriousness only commences, the proper interrogation mark is set up, the fate of the soul changes, the hour-hand moves, and tragedy begins....

Great Healthiness. We are the new, the nameless, the hard to understand. We are the first of a future not yet tried. For a new goal, we also need a new means: a new healthiness. It must be stronger, sharper, tougher, bolder, and more cheerful than any healthiness so far. Imagine someone whose soul longs to experience the full range of values and desirable things recognized so far. He wants to sail around every coast of this ideal "Mediterranean Sea." Through his own personal adventures, he wants to know how it feels to conquer and discover the ideal. He also wants to know how it feels to be an artist, a saint, a legislator, a sage, or a scholar. He wants to know how it feels to be a devotee, a prophet, or a godly Nonconformist of the old style. Above all, he needs one thing for this: great healthiness. He must not only possess it but constantly acquire it, because he continually sacrifices it and must sacrifice it again! We Argonauts of the ideal have now traveled this way for a long time. We are perhaps more courageous than prudent, and we have often been shipwrecked and come to grief. Still, as I said, we are healthier than people would like to admit. We are dangerously healthy, always recovering our health. Now, as if in reward for all this, an undiscovered country seems to lie before us. No one has yet seen its borders. It lies beyond all the countries and corners of the ideal known so far. This world is overflowing with beauty, strangeness, uncertainty, terror, and divinity. Our curiosity and our desire to possess it have gotten out of hand. Alas! Nothing will satisfy us anymore! After such glimpses, and with such a craving in our conscience and consciousness, how could we remain content with the man of the present day? What a pity. But we cannot help looking with barely concealed amusement at the worthiest aims and hopes of the man of the present day. Perhaps we can no longer even look at them. Another ideal beckons us onward, strange, tempting, and full of danger. We would not want to persuade anyone to pursue it, because we do not readily acknowledge anyone's right thereto. It is the ideal of a spirit who plays naïvely with everything once called holy, good, inviolable, or divine. By naïvely, I mean involuntarily, out of overflowing abundance and power. People have reasonably made their highest conception their measure of value. But for this spirit, that conception would already mean danger, ruin, or degradation. At the very least, it would mean relaxation, blindness, or temporary self-forgetting. This ideal is one of a humanly superhuman well-being and benevolence. It may often appear inhuman. For example, set beside all past seriousness on earth, it may seem an involuntary parody of it. The same is true when it is compared with all past solemnities of bearing, word, tone, look, morality, and pursuit. It may seem their truest involuntary parody. Yet perhaps only with this ideal does the great seriousness begin. Only then is the real question mark set in place, the fate of the soul changes, the hour hand moves, and tragedy begins....

Epilogue.—But while I slowly, slowly finish the painting of this sombre interrogation-mark, and am still inclined to remind my readers of the virtues of right reading—oh, what forgotten and unknown virtues—it comes to pass that the wickedest, merriest, gnome-like laughter resounds around me: the spirits of my book themselves pounce upon me, pull me by the ears, and call me to order. "We cannot endure it any longer," they shout to me, "away, away with this raven-black music. Is it not clear morning round about us? And green, soft ground and turf, the domain of the dance? Was there ever a better hour in which to be joyful? Who will sing us a song, a morning song, so sunny, so light and so fledged that it will not scare the tantrums,—but will rather invite them to take part in the singing and dancing. And better a simple rustic bagpipe than such weird sounds, such toad-croakings, grave-voices and marmot-pipings, with which you have hitherto regaled us in your wilderness, Mr Anchorite and Musician of the Future! No! Not such tones! But let us strike up something more agreeable and more joyful!"—You would like to have it so, my impatient friends? Well! Who would not willingly accord with your wishes? My bagpipe is waiting, and my voice also—it may sound a little hoarse; take it as it is! don't forget we are in the mountains! But what you will hear is at least new; and if you do not understand it, if you misunderstand the singer, what does it matter! That—has always been "The Singer's Curse."¹⁴ So much the more distinctly can you hear his music and melody, so much the better also can you—dance to his piping. Would you like to do that?...

Epilogue. But as I slowly, slowly finish painting this gloomy question mark, I still feel inclined to remind my readers how to read well. Oh, what forgotten and unfamiliar virtues that takes! Then the wickedest, merriest, gnome-like laughter rings out around me. The spirits of my book themselves pounce on me, pull my ears, and call me to order. "We can't stand it any longer," they shout. "Away, away with this raven-black music. Isn't it a clear morning all around us? And isn't the ground green and soft, covered with turf, the home of the dance? Was there ever a better time to be joyful? Who will sing us a song, a morning song? It should be sunny, light, and feathered enough not to scare the tantrums, but to invite them to sing and dance. Even a simple rustic bagpipe would be better than those weird sounds. You've treated us to toad croaks, grave voices, and marmot whistles long enough in your wilderness, Mr Anchorite and Musician of the Future! No! Not those sounds! Let's strike up something more pleasant and joyful!" Is that what you want, my impatient friends? Well! Who wouldn't gladly grant your wishes? My bagpipe is ready, and so is my voice. It may sound a little hoarse, but take it as it is! Don't forget we're in the mountains! But what you'll hear is at least new. And what does it matter if you don't understand it, if you misunderstand the singer? That has always been "The Singer's Curse."¹⁴ All the more clearly can you hear his music and melody, and all the better can you dance to his piping. Would you like to do that?...