Book 1

The Teachers of the Object of Existence.—Whether I look with a good or an evil eye upon men, I find them always at one problem, each and all of them: to do that which conduces to the conservation of the human species. And certainly not out of any sentiment of love for this species, but simply because nothing in them is older, stronger, more inexorable, and more unconquerable than that instinct,—because it is precisely the essence of our race and herd. Although we are accustomed readily enough, with our usual short-sightedness, to separate our neighbours precisely into useful and hurtful, into good and evil men, yet when we make a general calculation, and on longer reflection on the whole question, we become distrustful of this defining and separating, and finally leave it alone. Even the most hurtful man is still perhaps, in respect to the conservation of the race, the most useful of all; for he conserves in himself or by his effect on others, impulses without which mankind might long ago have languished or decayed. Hatred, delight in mischief, rapacity and ambition, and whatever else is called evil—belong to the marvellous economy of the conservation of the race; to be sure a costly, lavish, and on the whole very foolish economy:—which has, however, hitherto preserved our race, as is demonstrated to us. I no longer know, my dear fellow-man and neighbour, if thou canst at all live to the disadvantage of the race, and therefore, "unreasonably" and "badly"; that which could have injured the race has perhaps died out many millenniums ago, and now belongs to the things which are no longer possible even to God. Indulge thy best or thy worst desires, and above all, go to wreck!—in either case thou art still probably the furtherer and benefactor of mankind in some way or other, and in that respect thou mayest have thy panegyrists—and similarly thy mockers! But thou wilt never find him who would be quite qualified to mock at thee, the individual, at thy best, who could bring home to thy conscience its limitless, buzzing and croaking wretchedness so as to be in accord with truth! To laugh at oneself as one would have to laugh in order to laugh out of the veriest truth,—to do this the best have not hitherto had enough of the sense of truth, and the most endowed have had far too little genius! There is perhaps still a future even for laughter! When the maxim, "The race is all, the individual is nothing,"—has incorporated itself in humanity, and when access stands open to every one at all times to this ultimate emancipation and irresponsibility.—Perhaps then laughter will have united with wisdom, perhaps then there will be only "joyful wisdom." Meanwhile, however, it is quite otherwise, meanwhile the comedy of existence has not yet "become conscious" of itself, meanwhile it is still the period of tragedy, the period of morals and religions. What does the ever new appearing of founders of morals and religions, of instigators of struggles for moral valuations, of teachers of remorse of conscience and religious war, imply? What do these heroes on this stage imply? For they have hitherto been the heroes of it, and all else, though solely visible for the time being, and too close to one, has served only as preparation for these heroes, whether as machinery and coulisse, or in the rôle of confidants and valets. (The poets, for example, have always been the valets of some morality or other.)—It is obvious of itself that these tragedians also work in the interest of the race, though they may believe that they work in the interest of God, and as emissaries of God. They also further the life of the species, in that they further the belief in life. "It is worth while to live"—each of them calls out,—"there is something of importance in this life; life has something behind it and under it; take care!" That impulse, which rules equally in the noblest and the ignoblest, the impulse towards the conservation of the species, breaks forth from time to time as reason and passion of spirit; it has then a brilliant train of motives about it, and tries with all its power to make us forget that fundamentally it is just impulse, instinct, folly and baselessness. Life should be loved, for ...! Man should benefit himself and his neighbour, for ...! And whatever all these shoulds and fors imply, and may imply in future! In order that that which necessarily and always happens of itself and without design, may henceforth appear to be done by design, and may appeal to men as reason and ultimate command,—for that purpose the ethiculturist comes forward as the teacher of design in existence; for that purpose he devises a second and different existence, and by means of this new mechanism he lifts the old common existence off its old common hinges. No! he does not at all want us to laugh at existence, nor even at ourselves—nor at himself; to him an individual is always an individual, something first and last and immense, to him there are no species, no sums, no noughts. However foolish and fanatical his inventions and valuations may be, however much he may misunderstand the course of nature and deny its conditions—and all systems of ethics hitherto have been foolish and anti-natural to such a degree that mankind would have been ruined by any one of them had it got the upper hand,—at any rate, every time that "the hero" came upon the stage something new was attained: the frightful counterpart of laughter, the profound convulsion of many individuals at the thought, "Yes, it is worth while to live! yes, I am worthy to live!"—life, and thou, and I, and all of us together became for a while interesting to ourselves once more.—It is not to be denied that hitherto laughter and reason and nature have in the long run got the upper hand of all the great teachers of design: in the end the short tragedy always passed over once more into the eternal comedy of existence; and the "waves of innumerable laughters"—to use the expression of Æschylus—must also in the end beat over the greatest of these tragedies. But with all this corrective laughter, human nature has on the whole been changed by the ever new appearance of those teachers of the design of existence,—human nature has now an additional requirement, the very requirement of the ever new appearance of such teachers and doctrines of "design." Man has gradually become a visionary animal, who has to fulfil one more condition of existence than the other animals: man must from time to time believe that he knows why he exists; his species cannot flourish without periodically confiding in life! Without the belief in reason in life! And always from time to time will the human race decree anew that "there is something which really may not be laughed at." And the most clairvoyant philanthropist will add that "not only laughing and joyful wisdom, but also the tragic, with all its sublime irrationality, counts among the means and necessities for the conservation of the race!"—And consequently! Consequently! Consequently! Do you understand me, oh my brothers? Do you understand this new law of ebb and flow? We also shall have our time!

The Teachers of the Purpose of Existence. Whether I look kindly or unkindly at people, I find them all engaged in the same task: doing what helps preserve the human species. They certainly do not do this out of love for the species. They do it simply because nothing in them is older, stronger, more relentless, or more invincible than that instinct. It is precisely the essence of our race and herd. In our usual short-sightedness, we readily divide our neighbors into useful and harmful, good and evil people. But when we consider the whole question more carefully, we grow suspicious of these divisions. Finally, we abandon them. Even the most harmful person may be the most useful of all for preserving the race. For he preserves, in himself or through his effect on others, impulses without which humanity might long ago have weakened or decayed. Hatred, delight in mischief, greed, ambition, and everything else called evil belong to the remarkable economy that preserves the race. It is certainly a costly, wasteful, and, on the whole, very foolish economy. Yet it has preserved our race so far, as we can see. My dear fellow human being and neighbor, I no longer know whether you can live in a way that harms the race, and thus live “unreasonably” and “badly.” What could have harmed the race may have died out many thousands of years ago. Perhaps it now belongs among the things that are no longer possible even for God. Indulge your best or your worst desires, and above all, go to ruin! Either way, you probably still help and benefit humanity in one way or another. In that respect, you may have people to praise you, and people to mock you too! But you will never find someone fully qualified to mock you, the individual, at your best. No one could truly bring home to your conscience its boundless, buzzing, croaking wretchedness! To laugh at oneself as one would have to laugh to laugh from the deepest truth: the best people have not yet had enough sense of truth for that. And the most gifted have had far too little genius! Perhaps laughter still has a future! The saying “The race is all, the individual is nothing” may become part of humanity itself. And everyone may gain access at all times to this ultimate freedom and release from responsibility. Then perhaps laughter will have joined with wisdom. Perhaps then there will be only “joyful wisdom.” For now, however, things are quite different. For now, the comedy of existence has not yet “become conscious” of itself. We are still in the age of tragedy, the age of morals and religions. What does it mean that founders of morals and religions keep appearing? What does it mean that people keep stirring up battles over moral values, teaching remorse of conscience, and inciting religious war? What do these heroes on the stage mean? For until now they have been its heroes. Everything else, though it alone was visible for the time being and too close for us to see clearly, has served only to prepare for them. It has played the part of stage machinery and scenery, or of confidants and servants. (Poets, for example, have always been the servants of one morality or another.) Clearly, these tragedians also work in the interest of the race, though they may believe they work in God’s interest, as his messengers. They too advance the life of the species, by advancing belief in life. “It is worth living,” each of them calls out. “There is something important in this life. There is something behind life and beneath it. Take care!” The impulse to preserve the species rules equally in the noblest and the lowest people. From time to time, it bursts forth as reason and passionate thought. It then surrounds itself with a brilliant array of motives. It tries with all its power to make us forget what it fundamentally is: impulse, instinct, folly, and something without foundation. Life should be loved, because ...! A person should benefit himself and his neighbor, because ...! And so it is with whatever all these shoulds and becauses imply, now or in the future! The teacher of morality comes forward as a teacher of purpose in existence. He wants what necessarily happens, always and by itself, without any plan, to seem planned from then on. He wants it to appear to people as reason and an ultimate command. For this purpose, he invents a second, different existence. With this new mechanism, he lifts ordinary old existence off its ordinary old hinges. No! He does not want us to laugh at existence, or even at ourselves, or at him. To him, an individual is always an individual, something first and last and immense. For him there are no species, no totals, no zeros. His inventions and values may be foolish and fanatical. He may greatly misunderstand the course of nature and deny its conditions. Indeed, all systems of ethics so far have been so foolish and opposed to nature that any one of them would have ruined humanity had it prevailed. Even so, every time “the hero” came on stage, something new was achieved. The terrifying opposite of laughter took hold: many individuals were deeply shaken by the thought, “Yes, it is worth living! Yes, I am worthy to live!” For a while, life, and you, and I, and all of us together became interesting to ourselves again. It cannot be denied that, in the long run, laughter, reason, and nature have prevailed over all the great teachers of purpose. In the end, the brief tragedy always gave way again to the eternal comedy of existence. And the “waves of innumerable laughters,” to use Æschylus’s expression, must in the end break over even the greatest of these tragedies. But despite all this correcting laughter, the repeated appearance of those teachers of life’s purpose has changed human nature overall. Human nature now has an additional need: the need for such teachers and doctrines of “purpose” to keep appearing. Human beings have gradually become visionary animals. They must meet one more condition of existence than other animals do. From time to time, a human being must believe that he knows why he exists. His species cannot flourish without periodically placing its trust in life! Without belief in reason in life! And from time to time, the human race will always declare anew that “there is something that really must not be laughed at.” And the most clear-sighted lover of humanity will add that “not only laughter and joyful wisdom, but also tragedy, with all its sublime irrationality, belongs among the means and necessities for preserving the race!” And consequently! Consequently! Consequently! Do you understand me, oh my brothers? Do you understand this new law of ebb and flow? We too shall have our time!

The Intellectual Conscience.—I have always the same experience over again, and always make a new effort against it; for although it is evident to me I do not want to believe it: in the greater number of men the intellectual conscience is lacking; indeed, it would often seem to me that in demanding such a thing, one is as solitary in the largest cities as in the desert. Everyone looks at you with strange eyes, and continues to make use of his scales, calling this good and that bad; and no one blushes for shame when you remark that these weights are not the full amount,—there is also no indignation against you; perhaps they laugh at your doubt. I mean to say that the greater number of people do not find it contemptible to believe this or that, and live according to it, without having been previously aware of the ultimate and surest reasons for and against it, and without even giving themselves any trouble about such reasons afterwards,—the most gifted men and the noblest women still belong to this "greater number." But what is kind-heartedness, refinement and genius to me, if the man with these virtues harbours indolent sentiments in belief and judgment, if the longing for certainty does not rule in him, as his innermost desire and profoundest need—as that which separates higher from lower men! In certain pious people I have found a hatred of reason, and have been favourably disposed to them for it: their bad, intellectual conscience still betrayed itself, at least in this manner! But to stand in the midst of this rerum concordia discors and all the marvellous uncertainty and ambiguity of existence, and not to question, not to tremble with desire and delight in questioning, not even to hate the questioner—perhaps even to make merry over him to the extent of weariness—that is what I regard as contemptible, and it is this sentiment which I first of all search for in every one:—some folly or other always persuades me anew that every man has this sentiment, as man. This is my special kind of unrighteousness.

The Intellectual Conscience. I keep having the same experience, and I keep trying to resist it. For although the truth is clear to me, I do not want to believe it: most men lack an intellectual conscience. Indeed, demanding such a conscience often seems to leave one as alone in the largest cities as in the desert. Everyone looks at you strangely and goes on using his scales, calling this good and that bad. No one blushes with shame when you point out that these weights fall short. No one is indignant with you, either. Perhaps they laugh at your doubt. I mean that most people do not find it contemptible to believe something and live by it without first knowing the deepest and most reliable reasons for and against it. They do not even trouble themselves about those reasons afterward. The most gifted men and the noblest women still belong to this "greater number." But what do kindness, refinement, and genius mean to me if a man with these virtues is lazy in his beliefs and judgments? What do they mean if the longing for certainty does not rule him, as his innermost desire and deepest need? For that is what separates higher from lower men! I have found a hatred of reason in certain pious people, and I have felt kindly toward them for it. At least their guilty intellectual conscience still revealed itself in this way! But existence is full of rerum concordia discors, the discordant harmony of things, and of marvelous uncertainty and ambiguity. To stand in the middle of it all and not to question, not to tremble with desire and delight in questioning, not even to hate the questioner, perhaps even to laugh at him until one grows tired of it, that is what I regard as contemptible. And this is the feeling I look for first in everyone. Some folly or other keeps persuading me that every man, as a man, shares this feeling. This is my own particular kind of injustice.

Noble and Ignoble.—To ignoble natures all noble, magnanimous sentiments appear inexpedient, and on that account first and foremost, as incredible: they blink with their eyes when they hear of such matters, and seem inclined to say, "there will, no doubt, be some advantage therefrom, one cannot see through all walls;"—they are jealous of the noble person, as if he sought advantage by back-stair methods. When they are all too plainly convinced of the absence of selfish intentions and emoluments, the noble person is regarded by them as a kind of fool: they despise him in his gladness, and laugh at the lustre of his eye. "How can a person rejoice at being at a disadvantage, how can a person with open eyes want to meet with disadvantage! It must be a disease of the reason with which the noble affection is associated,"—so they think, and they look depreciatingly thereon; just as they depreciate the joy which the lunatic derives from his fixed idea. The ignoble nature is distinguished by the fact that it keeps its advantage steadily in view, and that this thought of the end and advantage is even stronger than its strongest impulse: not to be tempted to inexpedient activities by its impulses—that is its wisdom and inspiration. In comparison with the ignoble nature the higher nature is more irrational:—for the noble, magnanimous, and self-sacrificing person succumbs in fact to his impulses, and in his best moments his reason lapses altogether. An animal, which at the risk of life protects its young, or in the pairing season follows the female where it meets with death, does not think of the risk and the death; its reason pauses likewise, because its delight in its young, or in the female, and the fear of being deprived of this delight, dominate it exclusively; it becomes stupider than at other times, like the noble and magnanimous person. He possesses feelings of pleasure and pain of such intensity that the intellect must either be silent before them, or yield itself to their service: his heart then goes into his head, and one henceforth speaks of "passions." (Here and there to be sure, the antithesis to this, and as it were the "reverse of passion," presents itself; for example in Fontenelle, to whom some one once laid the hand on the heart with the words, "What you have there, my dearest friend, is brain also.") It is the unreason, or perverse reason of passion, which the ignoble man despises in the noble individual, especially when it concentrates upon objects whose value appears to him to be altogether fantastic and arbitrary. He is offended at him who succumbs to the passion of the belly, but he understands the allurement which here plays the tyrant; but he does not understand, for example, how a person out of love of knowledge can stake his health and honour on the game. The taste of the higher nature devotes itself to exceptional matters, to things which usually do not affect people, and seem to have no sweetness; the higher nature has a singular standard of value. Besides, it is mostly of the belief that it has not a singular standard of value in its idiosyncrasies of taste; it rather sets up its values and non-values as the generally valid values and non-values, and thus becomes incomprehensible and impracticable. It is very rarely that a higher nature has so much reason over and above as to understand and deal with everyday men as such; for the most part it believes in its passion as if it were the concealed passion of every one, and precisely in this belief it is full of ardour and eloquence. If then such exceptional men do not perceive themselves as exceptions, how can they ever understand the ignoble natures and estimate average men fairly! Thus it is that they also speak of the folly, inexpediency and fantasy of mankind, full of astonishment at the madness of the world, and that it will not recognise the "one thing needful for it."—This is the eternal unrighteousness of noble natures.

Noble and Ignoble. To ignoble natures, all noble, generous feelings seem impractical, and therefore, above all, unbelievable. They blink when they hear of such things and seem inclined to say, "Surely there must be some advantage in it. One cannot see through every wall." They are jealous of the noble person, as if he were seeking an advantage by underhanded means. When they are plainly convinced that he has no selfish intentions and gains nothing, they regard him as a kind of fool. They despise his joy and laugh at the sparkle in his eyes. "How can anyone rejoice in being at a disadvantage? How can anyone knowingly want to put himself at a disadvantage? The noble feeling must be linked to some disease of reason." So they think, and they look down on it, just as they look down on the joy a madman takes in his fixed idea. The ignoble nature is distinguished by always keeping its advantage in view. This concern for its goal and its advantage is even stronger than its strongest impulse. Its wisdom and inspiration lie in not letting its impulses tempt it into impractical actions. Compared with the ignoble nature, the higher nature is more irrational. For the noble, generous, self-sacrificing person does give in to his impulses. In his best moments, his reason fails altogether. An animal that risks its life to protect its young does not think of the risk or of death. Nor does an animal that follows a female to its death in mating season. Its reason pauses too, because it is completely ruled by delight in its young or the female, and fear of losing that delight. Like the noble and generous person, it becomes stupider than at other times. His feelings of pleasure and pain are so intense that his intellect must either fall silent before them or serve them. His heart then enters his head, and from then on we speak of "passions." (Here and there, of course, we find the opposite, the "reverse of passion," as it were. Once, for example, someone laid a hand on Fontenelle's heart and said, "What you have there, my dearest friend, is brain too.") The ignoble man despises the unreason, or twisted reason, of passion in the noble individual. He especially despises it when it focuses on things whose value seems entirely fanciful and arbitrary to him. He is offended by someone who gives in to the passion of the belly, but he understands its tyrannical pull. Yet he cannot understand, for example, how someone can risk health and honor for love of knowledge. The higher nature's taste is drawn to exceptional things, things that usually do not move people and seem to offer no pleasure. The higher nature has an unusual standard of value. Yet for the most part, it believes that its particular tastes do not give it an unusual standard of value. Instead, it treats what it values and rejects as valuable or worthless for everyone. Thus it becomes incomprehensible and impractical. Very rarely does a higher nature have enough reason left over to understand and deal with ordinary people as they are. For the most part, it believes its passion is everyone's hidden passion. And it is precisely this belief that fills it with ardor and eloquence. If such exceptional people do not see themselves as exceptions, how can they ever understand ignoble natures and judge average people fairly? So they too speak of humanity's folly, impracticality, and fantasy. They are astonished by the madness of the world and by its failure to recognize "the one thing it needs." This is the eternal injustice of noble natures.

That which Preserves the Species.—The strongest and most evil spirits have hitherto advanced mankind the most: they always rekindled the sleeping passions—all orderly arranged society lulls the passions to sleep; they always reawakened the sense of comparison, of contradiction, of delight in the new, the adventurous, the untried; they compelled men to set opinion against opinion, ideal plan against ideal plan. By means of arms, by upsetting boundary-stones, by violations of piety most of all: but also by new religions and morals! The same kind of "wickedness" is in every teacher and preacher of the new—which makes a conqueror infamous, although it expresses itself more refinedly, and does not immediately set the muscles in motion (and just on that account does not make so infamous!). The new, however, is under all circumstances the evil, as that which wants to conquer, which tries to upset the old boundary-stones and the old piety; only the old is the good! The good men of every age are those who go to the roots of the old thoughts and bear fruit with them, the agriculturists of the spirit. But every soil becomes finally exhausted, and the ploughshare of evil must always come once more.—There is at present a fundamentally erroneous theory of morals which is much celebrated, especially in England: according to it the judgments "good" and "evil" are the accumulation of the experiences of that which is "expedient" and "inexpedient"; according to this theory, that which is called good is conservative of the species, what is called evil, however, is detrimental to it. But in reality the evil impulses are just in as high a degree expedient, indispensable, and conservative of the species as the good:—only, their function is different.

What Preserves the Species. The strongest and most evil spirits have done the most to advance humanity so far. They have always rekindled sleeping passions, which every orderly society lulls to sleep. They have always reawakened the urge to compare and contradict, and the delight in the new, the adventurous, and the untried. They have forced people to set opinion against opinion, and ideal plan against ideal plan. They have done this through warfare, by moving boundary stones, and above all by violating what is sacred. But they have also done it through new religions and morals! The same kind of "wickedness" that makes a conqueror infamous is found in every teacher and preacher of the new. In them, though, it takes a more refined form and does not immediately stir the muscles to action. And for that very reason, it does not make them as infamous! But the new is always the evil. It wants to conquer and tries to overturn the old boundaries and the old sacred beliefs. Only the old is good! The good people of every age are those who go back to the roots of old ideas and make them bear fruit. They are the farmers of the spirit. But every soil is eventually exhausted, and the plow of evil must always return. A fundamentally mistaken theory of morality is now widely celebrated, especially in England. According to this theory, our judgments of "good" and "evil" are built up from experiences of what is "expedient" and "inexpedient". What we call good, the theory says, preserves the species, while what we call evil harms it. But in reality, evil impulses are just as useful, indispensable, and necessary to the preservation of the species as good ones. Their function is simply different.

Unconditional Duties.—All men who feel that they need the strongest words and intonations, the most eloquent gestures and attitudes, in order to operate at all—revolutionary politicians, socialists, preachers of repentance with or without Christianity, with all of whom there must be no mere half-success,—all these speak of "duties," and indeed, always of duties, which have the character of being unconditional—without such they would have no right to their excessive pathos: they know that right well! They grasp, therefore, at philosophies of morality which preach some kind of categorical imperative, or they assimilate a good lump of religion, as, for example, Mazzini did. Because they want to be trusted unconditionally, it is first of all necessary for them to trust themselves unconditionally, on the basis of some ultimate, undebatable command, sublime in itself, as the ministers and instruments of which, they would fain feel and announce themselves. Here we have the most natural, and for the most part, very influential opponents of moral enlightenment and scepticism: but they are rare. On the other hand, there is always a very numerous class of those opponents wherever interest teaches subjection, while repute and honour seem to forbid it. He who feels himself dishonoured at the thought of being the instrument of a prince, or of a party and sect, or even of wealthy power (for example, as the descendant of a proud, ancient family), but wishes just to be this instrument, or must be so before himself and before the public—such a person has need of pathetic principles which can at all times be appealed to:—principles of an unconditional ought, to which a person can subject himself without shame, and can show himself subjected. All more refined servility holds fast to the categorical imperative, and is the mortal enemy of those who want to take away the unconditional character of duty: propriety demands this from them, and not only propriety.

Unconditional Duties. All men who need the strongest words and tones, the most eloquent gestures and poses, just to have any effect speak of "duties." They include revolutionary politicians, socialists, and preachers of repentance, with or without Christianity. None of them can be content with mere partial success. They always speak of duties that are unconditional. Without such duties, they would have no right to their excessive pathos, and they know it very well! So they seize on moral philosophies that preach some kind of categorical imperative. Or they take in a large dose of religion, as Mazzini did, for example. Because they want to be trusted unconditionally, they must first trust themselves unconditionally. They need to base this trust on some ultimate, indisputable command, sublime in itself. They want to feel and declare that they are its servants and instruments. These are the most natural, and for the most part very influential, opponents of moral enlightenment and skepticism. But they are rare. On the other hand, there is always a very large class of such opponents wherever self-interest teaches submission, while reputation and honor seem to forbid it. A person may feel dishonored at the thought of being the instrument of a prince, a party or sect, or even the power of wealth. This might be true, for example, of someone descended from a proud, ancient family. Yet he may wish to be just such an instrument, or must be one in his own eyes and in the eyes of the public. Such a person needs stirring principles he can always appeal to. He needs principles of an unconditional ought, to which he can submit without shame and be seen to submit. All more refined servility clings to the categorical imperative. It is the mortal enemy of those who want to strip duty of its unconditional character. Propriety demands this of them, and not only propriety.

Loss of Dignity.—Meditation has lost all its dignity of form; the ceremonial and solemn bearing of the meditative person have been made a mockery, and one would no longer endure a wise man of the old style. We think too hastily and on the way and while walking and in the midst of business of all kinds, even when we think on the most serious matters; we require little preparation, even little quiet:—it is as if each of us carried about an unceasingly revolving machine in his head, which still works, even under the most unfavourable circumstances. Formerly it was perceived in a person that on some occasion he wanted to think—it was perhaps the exception!—that he now wanted to become wiser and collected his mind on a thought: he put on a long face for it, as for a prayer, and arrested his step—nay, stood still for hours on the street when the thought "came"—on one or on two legs. It was thus "worthy of the affair"!

Loss of Dignity. Meditation has lost all dignity in the way it is practiced. The formal, solemn manner of the meditative person has become a joke. We would no longer put up with an old-fashioned wise man. We think too hastily, on the go, while walking, and in the middle of all kinds of business. We do this even when thinking about the most serious matters. We need little preparation and even little quiet. It is as if each of us carried an endlessly turning machine in our head. The machine keeps working even under the most unfavorable conditions. In the past, you could tell when someone wanted to think. Perhaps thinking was the exception! The person wanted to become wiser and focused their mind on a thought. They put on a solemn face, as if for a prayer, and stopped walking. Indeed, they stood still in the street for hours when the thought "came", on one leg or two. That was "worthy of the affair"!

Something for the Laborious.—He who at present wants to make moral questions a subject of study has an immense field of labour before him. All kinds of passions must be thought about singly, and followed singly throughout periods, peoples, great and insignificant individuals; all their rationality, all their valuations and elucidations of things, ought to come to light! Hitherto all that has given colour to existence has lacked a history: where would one find a history of love, of avarice, of envy, of conscience, of piety, of cruelty? Even a comparative history of law, as also of punishment, has hitherto been completely lacking. Have the different divisions of the day, the consequences of a regular appointment of the times for labour, feast, and repose, ever been made the object of investigation? Do we know the moral effects of the alimentary substances? Is there a philosophy of nutrition? (The ever-recurring outcry for and against vegetarianism proves that as yet there is no such philosophy!) Have the experiences with regard to communal living, for example, in monasteries, been collected? Has the dialectic of marriage and friendship been set forth? The customs of the learned, of trades-people, of artists, and of mechanics—have they already found their thinkers? There is so much to think of thereon! All that up till now has been considered as the "conditions of existence," of human beings, and all reason, passion and superstition in this consideration—have they been investigated to the end? The observation alone of the different degrees of development which the human impulses have attained, and could yet attain, according to the different moral climates, would furnish too much work for the most laborious; whole generations, and regular co-operating generations of the learned, would be needed in order to exhaust the points of view and the material here furnished. The same is true of the determining of the reasons for the differences of the moral climates ("on what account does this sun of a fundamental moral judgment and standard of highest value shine here—and that sun there?"). And there is again a new labour which points out the erroneousness of all these reasons, and determines the entire essence of the moral judgments hitherto made. Supposing all these labours to be accomplished, the most critical of all questions would then come into the foreground: whether science is in a position to furnish goals for human action, after it has proved that it can take them away and annihilate them—and then would be the time for a process of experimenting in which every kind of heroism could satisfy itself, an experimenting for centuries, which would put into the shade all the great labours and sacrifices of previous history. Science has not hitherto built its Cyclopic structures; for that also the time will come.

Something for the Hardworking. Anyone who wants to study moral questions today faces an enormous task. Every kind of passion must be considered separately. Each must be traced through different periods, peoples, and individuals, both great and insignificant. All the reasoning, judgments, and explanations of things associated with these passions must come to light! Until now, everything that has given color to existence has lacked a history. Where can one find a history of love, greed, envy, conscience, piety, or cruelty? Even a comparative history of law, and of punishment, has been completely lacking until now. Have the different divisions of the day ever been studied? Has anyone studied the effects of setting regular times for work, celebration, and rest? Do we know the moral effects of different foods? Is there a philosophy of nutrition? (The recurring outcry for and against vegetarianism proves that there is no such philosophy yet!) Have experiences of communal living, in monasteries for example, been collected? Has the dialectic of marriage and friendship been explained? Have thinkers studied the customs of scholars, tradespeople, artists, and mechanics? There is so much to think about here! Has everything so far regarded as a “condition of existence” for human beings been fully investigated? Has all the reason, passion, and superstition involved in such thinking been investigated too? The observation of human impulses alone would provide too much work for the most hardworking scholars. They would have to observe the different degrees of development these impulses have reached, and might yet reach, in different moral climates. Entire generations of scholars, working together in an organized way, would be needed. Only then could they exhaust the perspectives and material available here. The same is true of finding the reasons for differences between moral climates. (“Why does this sun of a fundamental moral judgment and standard of highest value shine here, and that sun there?”) Then there is another new task: to show how all these reasons are mistaken and to determine the entire nature of moral judgments made so far. Suppose all these tasks were completed. Then the most critical question of all would come to the foreground. Can science provide goals for human action, after proving that it can take them away and destroy them? Then would come the time for a process of experimentation in which every kind of heroism could find satisfaction. This experimentation would last for centuries. It would put all the great efforts and sacrifices of earlier history in the shade. Science has not yet built its Cyclopic structures. The time for that will come too.

Unconscious Virtues.—All qualities in a man of which he is conscious—and especially when he presumes that they are visible and evident to his environment also—are subject to quite other laws of development than those qualities which are unknown to him, or imperfectly known, which by their subtlety can also conceal themselves from the subtlest observer, and hide as it were behind nothing,—as in the case of the delicate sculptures on the scales of reptiles (it would be an error to suppose them an adornment or a defence—for one sees them only with the microscope; consequently, with an eye artificially strengthened to an extent of vision which similar animals, to which they might perhaps have meant adornment or defence, do not possess!) Our visible moral qualities, and especially our moral qualities believed to be visible, follow their own course,—and our invisible qualities of similar name, which in relation to others neither serve for adornment nor defence, also follow their own course: quite a different course probably, and with lines and refinements, and sculptures, which might perhaps give pleasure to a God with a divine microscope. We have, for example, our diligence, our ambition, our acuteness: all the world knows about them,—and besides, we have probably once more our diligence, our ambition, our acuteness; but for these—our reptile scales—the microscope has not yet been invented!—And here the adherents of instinctive morality will say, "Bravo! He at least regards unconscious virtues as possible—that suffices us!"—Oh, ye unexacting creatures!

Unconscious Virtues. All the qualities a man knows he has develop according to certain laws. This is especially true when he assumes that those around him can see these qualities too. But qualities he does not know he has, or knows only imperfectly, develop according to quite different laws. These qualities can be so subtle that even the most perceptive observer cannot see them. They seem to hide behind nothing, like the delicate carvings on reptile scales. (It would be wrong to suppose these carvings are ornaments or defenses. They can be seen only through a microscope, with eyesight artificially strengthened beyond the powers of similar animals. Those animals might otherwise have found the carvings attractive or threatening!) Our visible moral qualities follow their own course, especially those we believe to be visible. Our invisible qualities with similar names also follow their own course. These invisible qualities serve neither as ornaments nor as defenses in relation to others. They probably follow quite a different course, with lines, refinements, and carvings that might delight a God with a divine microscope. For example, we have our diligence, our ambition, and our sharpness. The whole world knows about them. But we probably also have another kind of our diligence, our ambition, and our sharpness. The microscope for these, our reptile scales, has not yet been invented! And here the followers of instinctive morality will say, "Bravo! At least he considers unconscious virtues possible. That is enough for us!" Oh, you easily satisfied creatures!

Our Eruptions.—Numberless things which humanity acquired in its earlier stages, but so weakly and embryonically that it could not be noticed that they were acquired, are thrust suddenly into light long afterwards, perhaps after the lapse of centuries: they have in the interval become strong and mature. In some ages this or that talent, this or that virtue seems to be entirely lacking, as it is in some men; but let us wait only for the grandchildren and grandchildren's children, if we have time to wait,—they bring the interior of their grandfathers into the sun, that interior of which the grandfathers themselves were unconscious. The son, indeed, is often the betrayer of his father; the latter understands himself better since he has got his son. We have all hidden gardens and plantations in us; and by another simile, we are all growing volcanoes, which will have their hours of eruption:—how near or how distant this is, nobody of course knows, not even the good God.

Our Eruptions. Countless things humanity acquired in its early stages were so weak and undeveloped that no one noticed them. Long afterward, perhaps centuries later, they suddenly come to light. In the meantime, they have grown strong and mature. In some ages, a particular talent or virtue seems entirely absent, just as it does in some people. But let us wait for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren, if we have time. They bring their grandfathers’ inner lives into the sunlight, lives their grandfathers themselves knew nothing about. A son often betrays his father. Once a father has a son, he understands himself better. We all have hidden gardens and plantations inside us. Or, to use another image, we are all growing volcanoes that will one day erupt. Of course, nobody knows how near or distant that day is, not even the good God.

A Species of Atavism.—I like best to think of the rare men of an age as suddenly emerging aftershoots of past cultures, and of their persistent strength: like the atavism of a people and its civilisation:—there is thus still something in them to think of! They now seem strange, rare, and extraordinary: and he who feels these forces in himself has to foster them in face of a different, opposing world; he has to defend them, honour them, and rear them to maturity: and he either becomes a great man thereby, or a deranged and eccentric person, unless he should altogether break down betimes. Formerly these rare qualities were usual, and were consequently regarded as common: they did not distinguish people. Perhaps they were demanded and presupposed; it was impossible to become great with them, for indeed there was also no danger of becoming insane and solitary with them.—It is principally in the old-established families and castes of a people that such after-effects of old impulses present themselves, while there is no probability of such atavism where races, habits, and valuations change too rapidly. For the tempo of the evolutional forces in peoples implies just as much as in music; for our case an andante of evolution is absolutely necessary, as the tempo of a passionate and slow spirit:—and the spirit of conserving families is certainly of that sort.

A Kind of Atavism. I prefer to think of the rare men of an age as unexpected offshoots of past cultures. Their strength lives on in them, like an atavism of a people and its civilisation. So there is still something in them to think about! Today they seem strange, rare, and extraordinary. Anyone who feels these forces in himself must nurture them in a world that is different and hostile. He must defend and honour them, and bring them to maturity. In doing so, he either becomes a great man or a deranged eccentric, unless he breaks down early on. In the past, these rare qualities were usual and therefore regarded as ordinary. They did not set people apart. Perhaps they were expected and taken for granted. A person could not become great through them. But there was also no danger that they would make him insane and solitary. Such lingering effects of old impulses appear mainly in the long-established families and castes of a people. Such atavism is unlikely where races, habits, and values change too quickly. For the tempo of evolutionary forces matters just as much in peoples as it does in music. In this case, an andante of evolution is absolutely necessary. It must have the tempo of a passionate and slow spirit. And the spirit of families that preserve their traditions is certainly of that kind.

Consciousness.—Consciousness is the last and latest development of the organic, and consequently also the most unfinished and least powerful of these developments. Innumerable mistakes originate out of consciousness, which, "in spite of fate," as Homer says, cause an animal or a man to break down earlier than might be necessary. If the conserving bond of the instincts were not very much more powerful, it would not generally serve as a regulator: by perverse judging and dreaming with open eyes, by superficiality and credulity, in short, just by consciousness, mankind would necessarily have broken down: or rather, without the former there would long ago have been nothing more of the latter! Before a function is fully formed and matured, it is a danger to the organism: all the better if it be then thoroughly tyrannised over! Consciousness is thus thoroughly tyrannised over—and not least by the pride in it! It is thought that here is the quintessence of man; that which is enduring, eternal, ultimate, and most original in him! Consciousness is regarded as a fixed, given magnitude! Its growth and intermittences are denied! It is accepted as the "unity of the organism"!—This ludicrous overvaluation and misconception of consciousness, has as its result the great utility, that a too rapid maturing of it has thereby been hindered. Because men believed that they already possessed consciousness, they gave themselves very little trouble to acquire it—and even now it is not otherwise! It is still an entirely new problem just dawning on the human eye and hardly yet plainly recognisable: to embody knowledge in ourselves and make it instinctive,—a problem which is only seen by those who have grasped the fact that hitherto our errors alone have been embodied in us, and that all our consciousness is relative to errors!

Consciousness. Consciousness is the last and most recent development of organic life. It is therefore also the most unfinished and least powerful of these developments. Countless mistakes arise from consciousness. These cause an animal or a person to break down earlier than necessary, "in spite of fate," as Homer says. The instincts bind us together and preserve us. If this bond were not much more powerful, it could not generally regulate us. Through misguided judgments, waking dreams, superficiality and gullibility, in short, through consciousness itself, humanity would inevitably have broken down. Or rather, without the instincts, there would long ago have been no consciousness left! Before a function is fully formed and mature, it is a danger to the organism. So much the better if it is thoroughly tyrannized over in the meantime! Consciousness is indeed thoroughly tyrannized over, not least by our pride in it! We think it is the quintessence of humanity, what is enduring, eternal, ultimate and most original in us! We regard consciousness as a fixed, given quantity! We deny that it grows or comes and goes! We accept it as the "unity of the organism"! This ridiculous overvaluation and misunderstanding of consciousness has one great benefit: it has prevented consciousness from maturing too quickly. Because people believed they already possessed consciousness, they took very little trouble to acquire it. Even now, it is no different! An entirely new problem is only beginning to appear before human eyes. It is still hardly recognizable: to embody knowledge in ourselves and make it instinctive. Only those who understand one fact can see this problem. Until now, only our errors have been embodied in us, and all our consciousness relates to errors!

The Goal of Science.—What? The ultimate goal of science is to create the most pleasure possible to man, and the least possible pain? But what if pleasure and pain should be so closely connected that he who wants the greatest possible amount of the one must also have the greatest possible amount of the other,—that he who wants to experience the "heavenly high jubilation,"⁷ must also be ready to be "sorrowful unto death"?(ref. same footnote) And it is so, perhaps! The Stoics at least believed it was so, and they were consistent when they wished to have the least possible pleasure, in order to have the least possible pain from life. (When one uses the expression: "The virtuous man is the happiest," it is as much the sign-board of the school for the masses, as a casuistic subtlety for the subtle.) At present also ye have still the choice: either the least possible pain, in short painlessness—and after all, socialists and politicians of all parties could not honourably promise more to their people,—or the greatest possible amount of pain, as the price of the growth of a fullness of refined delights and enjoyments rarely tasted hitherto! If ye decide for the former, if ye therefore want to depress and minimise man's capacity for pain, well, ye must also depress and minimise his capacity for enjoyment. In fact, one can further the one as well as the other goal by science! Perhaps science is as yet best known by its capacity for depriving man of enjoyment, and making him colder, more statuesque, and more Stoical. But it might also turn out to be the great pain-bringer!—And then, perhaps, its counteracting force would be discovered simultaneously, its immense capacity for making new sidereal worlds of enjoyment beam forth!

The Goal of Science. What? Is the ultimate goal of science to give people the greatest possible pleasure and the least possible pain? But what if pleasure and pain are so closely connected that anyone who wants the greatest possible amount of one must also have the greatest possible amount of the other? What if anyone who wants to experience the "heavenly high jubilation,"⁷ must also be ready to be "sorrowful unto death"?(ref. same footnote) And perhaps that is how it is! The Stoics, at least, believed it was. They were consistent in wanting the least possible pleasure, so that life would bring them the least possible pain. (The saying "The virtuous man is the happiest" is both the school’s advertisement for the masses and a fine point of reasoning for subtle thinkers.) You still have the choice today: either the least possible pain, in short, freedom from pain. After all, socialists and politicians of all parties could not honestly promise their people more than that. Or you can choose the greatest possible amount of pain, as the price of a growing abundance of refined delights and enjoyments rarely tasted until now! If you choose the first, then you want to reduce and minimize people’s capacity for pain. Well, you must also reduce and minimize their capacity for enjoyment. In fact, either goal can be advanced by science! Perhaps science is still best known for its ability to deprive people of enjoyment and make them colder, more like statues, and more Stoical. But it might also turn out to be the great bringer of pain! And then, perhaps, its counteracting power would be discovered at the same time: its immense capacity to make new starry worlds of enjoyment shine forth!

The Theory of the Sense of Power.—We exercise our power over others by doing them good or by doing them ill—that is all we care for! Doing ill to those on whom we have to make our power felt; for pain is a far more sensitive means for that purpose than pleasure:—pain always asks concerning the cause, while pleasure is inclined to keep within itself and not look backward. Doing good and being kind to those who are in any way already dependent on us (that is, who are accustomed to think of us as their raison d'être); we want to increase their power, because we thus increase our own; or we want to show them the advantage there is in being in our power,—they thus become more contented with their position, and more hostile to the enemies of our power and readier to contend with them. If we make sacrifices in doing good or in doing ill, it does not alter the ultimate value of our actions; even if we stake our life in the cause, as martyrs for the sake of our church, it is a sacrifice to our longing for power, or for the purpose of conserving our sense of power. He who under these circumstances feels that he "is in possession of truth," how many possessions does he not let go, in order to preserve this feeling! What does he not throw overboard, in order to keep himself "up,"—that is to say, above the others who lack the "truth"! Certainly the condition we are in when we do ill is seldom so pleasant, so purely pleasant, as that in which we practise kindness,—it is an indication that we still lack power, or it betrays ill-humour at this defect in us; it brings with it new dangers and uncertainties as to the power we already possess, and clouds our horizon by the prospect of revenge, scorn, punishment and failure. Perhaps only those most susceptible to the sense of power, and eager for it, will prefer to impress the seal of power on the resisting individual,—those to whom the sight of the already subjugated person as the object of benevolence is a burden and a tedium. It is a question how a person is accustomed to season his life; it is a matter of taste whether a person would rather have the slow or the sudden, the safe or the dangerous and daring increase of power,—he seeks this or that seasoning always according to his temperament. An easy booty is something contemptible to proud natures; they have an agreeable sensation only at the sight of men of unbroken spirit who could be enemies to them, and similarly, also, at the sight of all not easily accessible possession; they are often hard toward the sufferer, for he is not worthy of their effort or their pride,—but they show themselves so much the more courteous towards their equals, with whom strife and struggle would in any case be full of honour, if at any time an occasion for it should present itself. It is under the agreeable feelings of this perspective that the members of the knightly caste have habituated themselves to exquisite courtesy toward one another.—Pity is the most pleasant feeling in those who have not much pride, and have no prospect of great conquests: the easy booty—and that is what every sufferer is—is for them an enchanting thing. Pity is said to be the virtue of the gay lady.

The Theory of the Sense of Power. We exercise our power over others by doing them good or harm. That is all we care about! We do harm to those who need to feel our power. Pain is a far more sensitive means of doing this than pleasure. Pain always asks about its cause, while pleasure tends to stay within itself and not look back. We do good and show kindness to those who are already dependent on us in some way. That is, they are used to thinking of us as their reason for being. We want to increase their power because, in doing so, we increase our own. Or we want to show them the advantage of being under our power. They then become more content with their position. They also become more hostile to the enemies of our power and more ready to fight them. If we make sacrifices while doing good or harm, that does not change the ultimate value of our actions. We may even risk our lives for the cause, as martyrs for our church. Still, we sacrifice ourselves to our longing for power, or to preserve our sense of power. When a person in these circumstances feels that he "is in possession of truth," how many possessions will he give up to preserve that feeling! What will he not throw overboard to keep himself "up," that is, above the others who lack the "truth"! Certainly, the state we are in when we do harm is seldom as pleasant, as purely pleasant, as when we show kindness. It is a sign that we still lack power, or it reveals our bad mood over this lack. Doing harm brings new dangers and uncertainties for the power we already have. It clouds our horizon with the prospect of revenge, scorn, punishment, and failure. Perhaps only those most sensitive to the feeling of power and most eager for it will prefer to stamp it on a person who resists. For them, the sight of someone already subdued as the object of their kindness is a burden and a bore. It depends on how a person is used to seasoning his life. It is a matter of taste whether he prefers a slow or sudden increase in power, a safe one or one that is dangerous and daring. He always seeks one seasoning or another according to his temperament. Proud natures despise easy prey. They feel pleasure only at the sight of people with unbroken spirits who could be their enemies. They feel the same at the sight of any possession that is hard to obtain. They are often hard on those who suffer, because such people are not worthy of their effort or their pride. But they are all the more courteous to their equals. A fight or struggle with an equal would be full of honor, if the occasion ever arose. The pleasant feelings inspired by this prospect have led members of the knightly caste to develop exquisite courtesy toward one another. Pity is the most pleasant feeling for those who have little pride and no prospect of great conquests. Easy prey, and that is what every sufferer is, delights them. Pity is said to be the virtue of the gay lady.

What is called Love.—The lust of property and love: what different associations each of these ideas evoke!—and yet it might be the same impulse twice named: on the one occasion disparaged from the standpoint of those already possessing (in whom the impulse has attained something of repose, and who are now apprehensive for the safety of their "possession"); on the other occasion viewed from the standpoint of the unsatisfied and thirsty, and therefore glorified as "good." Our love of our neighbour,—is it not a striving after new property? And similarly our love of knowledge, of truth; and in general all the striving after novelties? We gradually become satiated with the old, the securely possessed, and again stretch out our hands; even the finest landscape in which we live for three months is no longer certain of our love, and any kind of more distant coast excites our covetousness: the possession for the most part becomes smaller through possessing. Our pleasure in ourselves seeks to maintain itself, by always transforming something new into ourselves,—that is just possessing. To become satiated with a possession, that is to become satiated with ourselves. (One can also suffer from excess,—even the desire to cast away, to share out, can assume the honourable name of "love.") When we see any one suffering, we willingly utilise the opportunity then afforded to take possession of him; the beneficent and sympathetic man, for example, does this; he also calls the desire for new possession awakened in him, by the name of "love," and has enjoyment in it, as in a new acquisition suggesting itself to him. The love of the sexes, however, betrays itself most plainly as the striving after possession: the lover wants the unconditioned, sole possession of the person longed for by him; he wants just as absolute power over her soul as over her body; he wants to be loved solely, and to dwell and rule in the other soul as what is highest and most to be desired. When one considers that this means precisely to exclude all the world from a precious possession, a happiness, and an enjoyment; when one considers that the lover has in view the impoverishment and privation of all other rivals, and would like to become the dragon of his golden hoard, as the most inconsiderate and selfish of all "conquerors" and exploiters; when one considers finally that to the lover himself, the whole world besides appears indifferent, colourless, and worthless, and that he is ready to make every sacrifice, disturb every arrangement, and put every other interest behind his own,—one is verily surprised that this ferocious lust of property and injustice of sexual love should have been glorified and deified to such an extent at all times; yea, that out of this love the conception of love as the antithesis of egoism should have been derived, when it is perhaps precisely the most unqualified expression of egoism. Here, evidently, the non-possessors and desirers have determined the usage of language,—there were, of course, always too many of them. Those who have been favoured with much possession and satiety, have, to be sure, dropped a word now and then about the "raging demon," as, for instance, the most lovable and most beloved of all the Athenians—Sophocles; but Eros always laughed at such revilers,—they were always his greatest favourites.—There is, of course, here and there on this terrestrial sphere a kind of sequel to love, in which that covetous longing of two persons for one another has yielded to a new desire and covetousness, to a common, higher thirst for a superior ideal standing above them: but who knows this love? Who has experienced it? Its right name is friendship.

What Is Called Love. The desire to possess and love: what different associations these ideas evoke! Yet they might be two names for the same impulse. Those who already possess something disparage it as the desire to possess. Their impulse has grown somewhat calmer, and they now fear for the safety of their "possession". But those who are unsatisfied and thirsty see it differently and glorify it as "good". Is our love of our neighbor not a desire for new property? And is the same not true of our love of knowledge and truth, and of every desire for novelty? We gradually grow tired of what is old and securely possessed, and reach out again. Even the finest landscape may lose our love after we have lived in it for three months. And any more distant coast excites our desire to possess it. For the most part, a possession grows smaller through being possessed. Our pleasure in ourselves seeks to sustain itself by constantly transforming something new into ourselves. That is what possession means. To grow tired of a possession is to grow tired of ourselves. (We can also suffer from having too much. Even the desire to cast things away and share them out can take the honorable name of "love".) When we see someone suffering, we readily use the opportunity to take possession of that person. The helpful and sympathetic person, for example, does this. He too calls the desire for a new possession awakened in him "love". And he takes pleasure in it, as in a new acquisition offered to him. The love between the sexes, however, reveals itself most plainly as a desire to possess. The lover wants unconditional and exclusive possession of the person he longs for. He wants absolute power over her soul as well as her body. He wants to be loved by her alone. He wants to dwell and rule in her soul as the highest and most desirable thing. Consider what this means. It means excluding all the world from a precious possession, a happiness, and a pleasure. Consider that the lover intends to deprive and impoverish all his rivals. He would like to become the dragon guarding his golden hoard, the most inconsiderate and selfish of all "conquerors" and exploiters. Finally, consider how the whole world besides appears to the lover: indifferent, colorless, and worthless. He is ready to make every sacrifice, disrupt every arrangement, and put every other interest behind his own. It is truly surprising, then, that this ferocious desire to possess and injustice of sexual love have always been so glorified and deified. It is even more surprising that this love gave rise to the idea of love as the opposite of selfishness. For it is perhaps the most unqualified expression of selfishness. Evidently, those who do not possess but desire have determined how the word is used. There were, of course, always too many of them. Those blessed with abundant possessions and satisfaction have sometimes said a word about the "raging demon". So did Sophocles, for example, the most lovable and most beloved of all the Athenians. But Eros always laughed at such critics. They were always his greatest favorites. Of course, here and there on this earthly sphere, love has a kind of sequel. In it, the desire of two people to possess each other has given way to a new desire and longing. They share a higher thirst for a superior ideal that stands above them both. But who knows this love? Who has experienced it? Its proper name is friendship.

Out of the Distance.—This mountain makes the whole district which it dominates charming in every way, and full of significance: after we have said this to ourselves for the hundredth time, we are so irrationally and so gratefully disposed towards it, as the giver of this charm, that we fancy it must itself be the most charming thing in the district—and so we climb it, and are undeceived. All of a sudden, it itself, and the whole landscape around and under us, is as it were disenchanted; we had forgotten that many a greatness, like many a goodness, wants only to be seen at a certain distance, and entirely from below, not from above,—it is thus only that it operates. Perhaps you know men in your neighbourhood who can only look at themselves from a certain distance to find themselves at all endurable, or attractive and enlivening; they are to be dissuaded from self-knowledge.

Out of the Distance. This mountain makes the whole district it overlooks charming in every way and full of meaning. After telling ourselves this for the hundredth time, we feel grateful to the mountain for giving the district its charm. So irrationally grateful are we that we imagine the mountain must be the most charming thing in the district. So we climb it, and discover our mistake. Suddenly, the mountain itself and the whole landscape around and below us seem to lose their magic. We had forgotten that many a great thing, like many a good thing, must be seen from a certain distance. It must be seen entirely from below, not from above. Only then does it have its effect. Perhaps you know men in your neighborhood who can find themselves bearable only when they see themselves from a distance. Only then can they find themselves attractive and enlivening. They should be discouraged from knowing themselves.

Across the Plank.—One must be able to dissimulate in intercourse with persons who are ashamed of their feelings; they experience a sudden aversion towards anyone who surprises them in a state of tender, or enthusiastic and high-running feeling, as if he had seen their secrets. If one wants to be kind to them in such moments one should make them laugh, or say some kind of cold, playful wickedness:—their feeling thereby congeals, and they are again self-possessed. But I give the moral before the story.—We were once on a time so near one another in the course of our lives, that nothing more seemed to hinder our friendship and fraternity, and there was merely a small plank between us. While you were just about to step on it, I asked you: "Do you want to come across the plank to me?" But then you did not want to come any longer; and when I again entreated, you were silent. Since then mountains and torrents, and whatever separates and alienates, have interposed between us, and even if we wanted to come to one another, we could no longer do so! When, however, you now remember that small plank, you have no longer words,—but merely sobs and amazement.

Across the Plank. One must know how to hide one's feelings when dealing with people who are ashamed of theirs. They suddenly feel aversion toward anyone who catches them feeling tender, enthusiastic, or intensely emotional, as if he had discovered their secrets. If you want to be kind to them at such moments, make them laugh or say something cold and playfully wicked. Their feelings then freeze, and they regain their composure. But I am giving the moral before the story. Once, our lives brought us so close that nothing seemed to stand in the way of our friendship and brotherhood. Only a small plank lay between us. Just as you were about to step onto it, I asked you: "Do you want to come across the plank to me?" But then you no longer wanted to come, and when I begged you again, you were silent. Since then, mountains and torrents, and everything else that separates and estranges people, have come between us. Even if we wanted to reach each other, we could no longer do so! Yet now, when you remember that small plank, you have no words, only sobs and amazement.

Motivation of Poverty.—We cannot, to be sure, by any artifice make a rich and richly-flowing virtue out of a poor one, but we can gracefully enough reinterpret its poverty into necessity, so that its aspect no longer gives pain to us, and we do not make any reproachful faces at fate on account of it. It is thus that the wise gardener does, who puts the tiny streamlet of his garden into the arms of a fountain-nymph, and thus motivates the poverty:—and who would not like him need the nymphs!

Explaining Poverty. We cannot use any trick to turn a poor virtue into a rich, abundant one. But we can gracefully reinterpret its poverty as a necessity. Then its appearance no longer pains us, and we no longer make reproachful faces at fate on its account. That is what the wise gardener does. He places the tiny stream in his garden in the arms of a fountain nymph, thus giving its poverty a reason. And who would not, like him, need the nymphs!

Ancient Pride.—The ancient savour of nobility is lacking in us, because the ancient slave is lacking in our sentiment. A Greek of noble descent found such immense intermediate stages, and such a distance betwixt his elevation and that ultimate baseness, that he could hardly even see the slave plainly: even Plato no longer saw him entirely. It is otherwise with us, accustomed as we are to the doctrine of the equality of men, although not to the equality itself. A being who has not the free disposal of himself and has not got leisure,—that is not regarded by us as anything contemptible; there is perhaps too much of this kind of slavishness in each of us, in accordance with the conditions of our social order and activity, which are fundamentally different from those of the ancients.—The Greek philosopher went through life with the secret feeling that there were many more slaves than people supposed—that is to say, that every one was a slave who was not a philosopher. His pride was puffed up when he considered that even the mightiest of the earth were thus to be looked upon as slaves. This pride is also unfamiliar to us, and impossible; the word "slave" has not its full force for us even in simile.

Ancient Pride. The ancient sense of nobility is missing in us because we lack the ancient sense of the slave. A Greek of noble descent saw so many ranks between his own high position and that lowest condition. The distance was so great that he could hardly see the slave clearly. Even Plato no longer saw him entirely. It is different for us. We are used to the doctrine of human equality, although not to equality itself. We do not look down on someone who cannot live freely and has no leisure. Perhaps there is too much of this kind of slavishness in each of us. It comes from the conditions of our social order and activity, which are fundamentally different from those of the ancients. The Greek philosopher went through life secretly feeling that there were many more slaves than people supposed. That is, everyone who was not a philosopher was a slave. His pride swelled when he reflected that even the most powerful people on earth were therefore slaves. This pride is also unfamiliar and impossible to us. The word "slave" does not have its full force for us, even as a comparison.

Evil.—Test the life of the best and most productive men and nations, and ask yourselves whether a tree which is to grow proudly heavenward can dispense with bad weather and tempests: whether disfavour and opposition from without, whether every kind of hatred, jealousy, stubbornness, distrust, severity, greed, and violence do not belong to the favouring circumstances without which a great growth even in virtue is hardly possible? The poison by which the weaker nature is destroyed is strengthening to the strong individual—and he does not call it poison.

Evil. Examine the lives of the best and most productive men and nations. Ask yourselves whether a tree can grow proudly toward the sky without bad weather and storms. And ask whether outside hostility and opposition are not among the favouring circumstances needed for great growth, even in virtue. Are hatred, jealousy, stubbornness, distrust, harshness, greed, and violence of every kind not also among them? Without such circumstances, great growth is hardly possible. The poison that destroys a weaker nature strengthens a strong individual, and he does not call it poison.

Dignity of Folly.—Several millenniums further on in the path of the last century!—and in everything that man does the highest prudence will be exhibited: but just thereby prudence will have lost all its dignity. It will then, sure enough, be necessary to be prudent, but it will also be so usual and common, that a more fastidious taste will feel this necessity as vulgarity. And just as a tyranny of truth and science would be in a position to raise the value of falsehood, a tyranny of prudence could force into prominence a new species of nobleness. To be noble—that might then mean, perhaps, to be capable of follies.

The Dignity of Folly. Imagine several thousand more years of progress along the path of the last century! Everything people do will show the utmost prudence. But precisely because of this, prudence will have lost all its dignity. Being prudent will still be necessary, of course. But it will also be so usual and common that a more refined taste will find this necessity vulgar. A tyranny of truth and science could raise the value of falsehood. In the same way, a tyranny of prudence could bring a new kind of nobility to prominence. To be noble might then mean, perhaps, being capable of follies.

To the Teachers of Unselfishness.—The virtues of a man are called good, not in respect of the results they have for himself, but in respect of the results which we expect therefrom for ourselves and for society:—we have all along had very little unselfishness, very little "non-egoism" in our praise of the virtues! For otherwise it could not but have been seen that the virtues (such as diligence, obedience, chastity, piety, justice) are mostly injurious to their possessors, as impulses which rule in them too vehemently and ardently, and do not want to be kept in co-ordination with the other impulses by the reason. If you have a virtue, an actual, perfect virtue (and not merely a kind of impulse towards virtue!)—you are its victim! But your neighbour praises your virtue precisely on that account! One praises the diligent man though he injures his sight, or the originality and freshness of his spirit, by his diligence; the youth is honoured and regretted who has "worn himself out by work," because one passes the judgment that "for society as a whole the loss of the best individual is only a small sacrifice! A pity that this sacrifice should be necessary! A much greater pity, it is true, if the individual should think differently, and regard his preservation and development as more important than his work in the service of society!" And so one regrets this youth, not on his own account, but because a devoted instrument, regardless of self—a so-called "good man," has been lost to society by his death. Perhaps one further considers the question, whether it would not have been more advantageous for the interests of society if he had laboured with less disregard of himself, and had preserved himself longer,—indeed, one readily admits an advantage therefrom, but one esteems the other advantage, namely, that a sacrifice has been made, and that the disposition of the sacrificial animal has once more been obviously endorsed—as higher and more enduring. It is accordingly, on the one part, the instrumental character in the virtues which is praised when the virtues are praised, and on the other part, the blind, ruling impulse in every virtue, which refuses to let itself be kept within bounds by the general advantage to the individual; in short, what is praised is the unreason in the virtues, in consequence of which the individual allows himself to be transformed into a function of the whole. The praise of the virtues is the praise of something which is privately injurious to the individual; it is praise of impulses which deprive man of his noblest self-love, and the power to take the best care of himself. To be sure, for the teaching and embodying of virtuous habits a series of effects of virtue are displayed, which make it appear that virtue and private advantage are closely related,—and there is in fact such a relationship! Blindly furious diligence, for example, the typical virtue of an instrument, is represented as the way to riches and honour, and as the most beneficial antidote to tedium and passion: but people are silent concerning its danger, its greatest dangerousness. Education proceeds in this manner throughout: it endeavours, by a series of enticements and advantages, to determine the individual to a certain mode of thinking and acting, which, when it has become habit, impulse and passion, rules in him and over him, in opposition to his ultimate advantage, but "for the general good." How often do I see that blindly furious diligence does indeed create riches and honours, but at the same time deprives the organs of the refinement by virtue of which alone an enjoyment of riches and honours is possible; so that really the main expedient for combating tedium and passion, simultaneously blunts the senses and makes the spirit refractory towards new stimuli! (The busiest of all ages—our age—does not know how to make anything out of its great diligence and wealth, except always more and more wealth, and more and more diligence; there is even more genius needed for laying out wealth than for acquiring it!—Well, we shall have our "grandchildren"!) If the education succeeds, every virtue of the individual is a public utility, and a private disadvantage in respect to the highest private end,—probably some psycho-æsthetic stunting, or even premature dissolution. One should consider successively from the same standpoint the virtues of obedience, chastity, piety, and justice. The praise of the unselfish, self-sacrificing, virtuous person—he, consequently, who does not expend his whole energy and reason for his own conservation, development, elevation, furtherance and augmentation of power, but lives as regards himself unassumingly and thoughtlessly, perhaps even indifferently or ironically,—this praise has in any case not originated out of the spirit of unselfishness! The "neighbour" praises unselfishness because he profits by it! If the neighbour were "unselfishly" disposed himself, he would reject that destruction of power, that injury for his advantage, he would thwart such inclinations in their origin, and above all he would manifest his unselfishness just by not giving it a good name! The fundamental contradiction in that morality which at present stands in high honour is here indicated: the motives to such a morality are in antithesis to its principle! That with which this morality wishes to prove itself, refutes it out of its criterion of what is moral! The maxim, "Thou shalt renounce thyself and offer thyself as a sacrifice," in order not to be inconsistent with its own morality, could only be decreed by a being who himself renounced his own advantage thereby, and who perhaps in the required self-sacrifice of individuals brought about his own dissolution. As soon, however, as the neighbour (or society) recommended altruism on account of its utility, the precisely antithetical proposition, "Thou shalt seek thy advantage even at the expense of everybody else," was brought into use: accordingly, "thou shalt," and "thou shalt not," are preached in one breath!

To the Teachers of Unselfishness. A person’s virtues are called good because of what we expect them to do for us and society, not because of their effects on the person. There has been very little unselfishness, very little "non-egoism" in our praise of virtues! Otherwise, we could not have failed to see that virtues are mostly harmful to those who possess them. Diligence, obedience, chastity, piety, and justice are examples. These impulses rule their possessors too fiercely and passionately. They refuse to let reason keep them in balance with the other impulses. If you have a virtue, a real, perfect virtue (not merely an impulse toward virtue!), you are its victim! But your neighbor praises your virtue for precisely that reason! People praise a diligent man even though his diligence damages his eyesight or the originality and freshness of his spirit. A young man who has "worn himself out by work" is honored and mourned. For people judge that "for society as a whole, the loss of the best individual is only a small sacrifice! What a pity that this sacrifice is necessary! But it would be a much greater pity if the individual thought otherwise. He might regard his own preservation and development as more important than his work in society’s service!" So people mourn this young man not for his own sake. They mourn him because his death has deprived society of a devoted instrument, heedless of himself, a so-called "good man." Perhaps they also ask whether society would have benefited more if he had worked with less disregard for himself. Then he might have preserved himself longer. Indeed, they readily admit that this would have been an advantage. But they value the other advantage more, and consider it more lasting: a sacrifice has been made. And the attitude of the sacrificial animal has once again been openly endorsed. So when people praise virtues, they praise them partly because they make people useful as instruments. But they also praise the blind, ruling impulse in every virtue. This impulse refuses to be kept within the limits of the individual’s overall advantage. In short, they praise the unreason in virtues. Because of this unreason, the individual allows himself to be turned into a function of the whole. Praise of virtues is praise of something privately harmful to the individual. It is praise of impulses that rob a person of his noblest self-love and his ability to care for himself best. Of course, to teach and instill virtuous habits, people point to effects that make virtue and personal advantage seem closely connected. And there really is such a connection! Blindly furious diligence, for example, is the typical virtue of an instrument. People present it as the path to riches and honor, and as the best antidote to boredom and passion. But they say nothing about its danger, its greatest danger. Education works this way throughout. It uses enticements and advantages to lead the individual toward a certain way of thinking and acting. Once this way becomes a habit, an impulse, and a passion, it rules in and over him. It does so against his ultimate advantage, but "for the general good." How often I see blindly furious diligence create riches and honors! But at the same time, it deprives the senses of their refinement. Only with that refinement can anyone enjoy riches and honors. So this chief remedy for boredom and passion also dulls the senses and makes the spirit unresponsive to new stimuli! (The busiest of all ages, our own age, knows what to make of its great diligence and wealth. But it can make only more and more wealth, and more and more diligence. It takes even more genius to spend wealth than to acquire it! Well, we shall have our "grandchildren"!) If education succeeds, every virtue of the individual serves the public. But it harms the individual in relation to his highest personal goal. It probably stunts his mind and aesthetic sense, or even brings about his premature destruction. One should consider the virtues of obedience, chastity, piety, and justice in turn from the same standpoint. Consider the praise of the unselfish, self-sacrificing, virtuous person. He does not devote all his energy and reason to his own preservation, development, elevation, advancement, and increase in power. Instead, he lives modestly and thoughtlessly as far as he himself is concerned, perhaps even indifferently or ironically. In any case, this praise did not arise from a spirit of unselfishness! The "neighbor" praises unselfishness because he profits from it! If the neighbor were himself "unselfishly" inclined, he would reject this destruction of power and injury for his benefit. He would stop such inclinations as soon as they arose. Above all, he would show his unselfishness by not giving it a good name! This reveals the fundamental contradiction in the morality now held in high esteem. The motives for this morality are opposed to its principle! What this morality offers as proof of itself actually refutes it by its own standard of what is moral! The maxim, "You shall renounce yourself and offer yourself as a sacrifice," must not contradict its own morality. So only a being who gave up his own advantage by doing so could decree it. Perhaps, by demanding that individuals sacrifice themselves, he would bring about his own destruction. But as soon as the neighbor (or society) recommended altruism because it was useful, he put the exact opposite principle into practice: "You shall seek your own advantage even at everyone else’s expense." So "you shall" and "you shall not" are preached in the same breath!

L'Ordre du Jour pour le Roi.—The day commences: let us begin to arrange for this day the business and fêtes of our most gracious lord, who at present is still pleased to repose. His Majesty has bad weather to-day: we shall be careful not to call it bad; we shall not speak of the weather,—but we shall go through to-day's business somewhat more ceremoniously and make the fêtes somewhat more festive than would otherwise be necessary. His Majesty may perhaps even be sick: we shall give the last good news of the evening at breakfast, the arrival of M. Montaigne, who knows how to joke so pleasantly about his sickness,—he suffers from stone. We shall receive several persons (persons!—what would that old inflated frog, who will be among them, say, if he heard this word! "I am no person," he would say, "but always the thing itself")—and the reception will last longer than is pleasant to anybody; a sufficient reason for telling about the poet who wrote over his door, "He who enters here will do me an honour; he who does not—a favour."—That is, forsooth, saying a discourteous thing in a courteous manner! And perhaps this poet is quite justified on his part in being discourteous; they say that the rhymes are better than the rhymester. Well, let him still make many of them, and withdraw himself as much as possible from the world: and that is doubtless the significance of his well-bred rudeness! A prince, on the other hand, is always of more value than his "verse," even when—but what are we about? We gossip, and the whole court believes that we have already been at work and racked our brains: there is no light to be seen earlier than that which burns in our window.—Hark! Was that not the bell? The devil! The day and the dance commence, and we do not know our rounds! We must then improvise,—all the world improvises its day. To-day, let us for once do like all the world!—And therewith vanished my wonderful morning dream, probably owing to the violent strokes of the tower-clock, which just then announced the fifth hour with all the importance which is peculiar to it. It seems to me that, on this occasion, the God of dreams wanted to make merry over my habits,—it is my habit to commence the day by arranging it properly, to make it endurable for myself, and it is possible that I may often have done this too formally, and too much like a prince.

L'Ordre du Jour pour le Roi. The day begins. Let us plan the business and festivities for our most gracious lord, who is still pleased to sleep. His Majesty has bad weather today. We shall be careful not to call it bad. We shall not speak of the weather at all. Instead, we shall conduct today's business with a little more ceremony and make the festivities more festive than usual. His Majesty may even be ill. At breakfast, we shall share the latest good news from last night: M. Montaigne has arrived. He knows how to joke so pleasantly about his illness. He suffers from kidney stones. We shall receive several people. People! What would that pompous old frog, who will be among them, say if he heard that word? "I am no person," he would say, "but always the thing itself." The reception will last longer than anyone finds pleasant. That is reason enough to tell the story of the poet who wrote above his door, "He who enters here will do me an honour; he who does not, a favour." Surely, that is a polite way of saying something rude! And perhaps the poet is quite right to be rude. They say his rhymes are better than the man who writes them. Well, let him write many more and keep away from the world as much as possible. No doubt that is what his well-mannered rudeness means! A prince, on the other hand, is always worth more than his "verse," even when... But what are we doing? We are gossiping, and the whole court thinks we have already been hard at work, racking our brains. No light is seen earlier than the one burning in our window. Listen! Was that not the bell? The devil! The day and the dance are beginning, and we don't know our steps! We must improvise, then. Everyone improvises their day. Today, let us do as everyone else does, just this once! And with that, my wonderful morning dream vanished. It was probably the loud strikes of the tower clock that ended it. Just then, the clock had announced the fifth hour with all its usual self-importance. It seems to me that, on this occasion, the God of dreams wanted to make fun of my habits. I usually start the day by arranging it properly, so as to make it bearable for myself. And perhaps I have often done this too formally, and too much like a prince.

The Characteristics of Corruption.—Let us observe the following characteristics in that condition of society from time to time necessary, which is designated by the word "corruption." Immediately upon the appearance of corruption anywhere, a motley superstition gets the upper hand, and the hitherto universal belief of a people becomes colourless and impotent in comparison with it; for superstition is freethinking of the second rank,—he who gives himself over to it selects certain forms and formulæ which appeal to him, and permits himself a right of choice. The superstitious man is always much more of a "person," in comparison with the religious man, and a superstitious society will be one in which there are many individuals, and a delight in individuality. Seen from this standpoint superstition always appears as a progress in comparison with belief, and as a sign that the intellect becomes more independent and claims to have its rights. Those who reverence the old religion and the religious disposition then complain of corruption,—they have hitherto also determined the usage of language, and have given a bad repute to superstition, even among the freest spirits. Let us learn that it is a symptom of enlightenment.—Secondly, a society in which corruption takes a hold is blamed for effeminacy: for the appreciation of war, and the delight in war perceptibly diminish in such a society, and the conveniences of life are now just as eagerly sought after as were military and gymnastic honours formerly. But one is accustomed to overlook the fact that the old national energy and national passion, which acquired a magnificent splendour in war and in the tourney, has now transferred itself into innumerable private passions, and has merely become less visible; indeed in periods of "corruption" the quantity and quality of the expended energy of a people is probably greater than ever, and the individual spends it lavishly, to such an extent as could not be done formerly—he was not then rich enough to do so! And thus it is precisely in times of "effeminacy" that tragedy runs at large in and out of doors, it is then that ardent love and ardent hatred are born, and the flame of knowledge flashes heavenward in full blaze.—Thirdly, as if in amends for the reproach of superstition and effeminacy, it is customary to say of such periods of corruption that they are milder, and that cruelty has then greatly diminished in comparison with the older, more credulous, and stronger period. But to this praise I am just as little able to assent as to that reproach: I only grant so much—namely, that cruelty now becomes more refined, and its older forms are henceforth counter to the taste; but the wounding and torturing by word and look reaches its highest development in times of corruption,—it is now only that wickedness is created, and the delight in wickedness. The men of the period of corruption are witty and calumnious; they know that there are yet other ways of murdering than by the dagger and the ambush—they know also that all that is well said is believed in.—Fourthly, it is when "morals decay" that those beings whom one calls tyrants first make their appearance; they are the forerunners of the individual, and as it were early matured firstlings. Yet a little while, and this fruit of fruits hangs ripe and yellow on the tree of a people,—and only for the sake of such fruit did this tree exist! When the decay has reached its worst, and likewise the conflict of all sorts of tyrants, there always arises the Cæsar, the final tyrant, who puts an end to the exhausted struggle for sovereignty, by making the exhaustedness work for him. In his time the individual is usually most mature, and consequently the "culture" is highest and most fruitful, but not on his account nor through him: although the men of highest culture love to flatter their Cæsar by pretending that they are his creation. The truth, however, is that they need quietness externally, because internally they have disquietude and labour. In these times bribery and treason are at their height: for the love of the ego, then first discovered, is much more powerful than the love of the old, used-up, hackneyed "fatherland"; and the need to be secure in one way or other against the frightful fluctuations of fortune, opens even the nobler hands, as soon as a richer and more powerful person shows himself ready to put gold into them. There is then so little certainty with regard to the future; people live only for the day: a condition of mind which enables every deceiver to play an easy game,—people of course only let themselves be misled and bribed "for the present," and reserve for themselves futurity and virtue. The individuals, as is well known, the men who only live for themselves, provide for the moment more than do their opposites, the gregarious men, because they consider themselves just as incalculable as the future; and similarly they attach themselves willingly to despots, because they believe themselves capable of activities and expedients, which can neither reckon on being understood by the multitude, nor on finding favour with them,—but the tyrant or the Cæsar understands the rights of the Individual even in his excesses, and has an interest in speaking on behalf of a bolder private morality, and even in giving his hand to it. For he thinks of himself, and wishes people to think of him what Napoleon once uttered in his classical style—"I have the right to answer by an eternal 'thus I am' to everything about which complaint is brought against me. I am apart from all the world, I accept conditions from nobody. I wish people also to submit to my fancies, and to take it quite as a simple matter, if I should indulge in this or that diversion." Thus spoke Napoleon once to his wife, when she had reasons for calling in question the fidelity of her husband.—The times of corruption are the seasons when the apples fall from the tree: I mean the individuals, the seed-bearers of the future, the pioneers of the spiritual colonisation and of a new construction of national and social unions. Corruption is only an abusive term for the harvest time of a people.

The Characteristics of Corruption. Let us observe the following characteristics of a social condition that is necessary from time to time. We call this condition "corruption." As soon as corruption appears anywhere, a colorful variety of superstition gains the upper hand. Beside it, the belief once shared by a whole people becomes colorless and powerless. For superstition is a second-rate form of freethinking. A person who embraces it chooses the forms and formulas that appeal to him, claiming the right to choose. The superstitious man is always much more of a "person" than the religious man. A superstitious society will have many individuals and will delight in individuality. From this standpoint, superstition always appears as progress compared with belief. It is a sign that the intellect is becoming more independent and claiming its rights. Those who revere the old religion and the religious outlook then complain of corruption. Until now, they have also shaped the use of language. They have given superstition a bad reputation, even among the freest spirits. Let us learn that it is a symptom of enlightenment. Secondly, a society in which corruption takes hold is blamed for effeminacy. In such a society, respect for war and delight in it noticeably decline. People now seek the comforts of life as eagerly as they once sought military and athletic honors. But people usually overlook the old national energy and passion. These shone magnificently in war and tournaments, but have now moved into countless private passions. They have merely become less visible. Indeed, in periods of "corruption," a people probably spend more energy, and energy of greater quality, than ever. The individual spends it lavishly, to an extent he could not have managed before. He was not rich enough then! And so it is precisely in times of "effeminacy" that tragedy runs loose inside and outside the home. Then ardent love and ardent hatred are born, and the flame of knowledge blazes toward heaven. Thirdly, people commonly say that such periods of corruption are milder. They say that cruelty has greatly diminished compared with the older, more credulous, and stronger period. This praise seems to make up for the accusations of superstition and effeminacy. But I can agree with the praise no more than with the accusations. I grant only this: cruelty now becomes more refined, and its older forms offend people's taste. But hurting and torturing with words and looks reaches its highest development in times of corruption. Only now are wickedness and the delight in wickedness created. The men of the period of corruption are witty and slanderous. They know that there are other ways to murder besides the dagger and the ambush. They also know that everything well said is believed. Fourthly, it is when "morals decay" that the beings we call tyrants first appear. They are the forerunners of the individual, the first fruits, as it were, to ripen early. A little later, this fruit of fruits hangs ripe and yellow on the tree of a people. And that tree existed only for the sake of such fruit! When decay has reached its worst, and the struggle among all kinds of tyrants has too, a Cæsar always appears. He is the final tyrant, who ends the exhausted struggle for power by making that exhaustion work for him. In his time, the individual is usually most mature, and consequently "culture" is highest and most fruitful. But this is not because of him or through him. The most cultured men nevertheless love to flatter their Cæsar by pretending that they are his creation. In truth, they need peace around them because they have unrest and labor within. In these times, bribery and treason are at their height. For love of the ego, only now discovered, is much stronger than love of the old, worn-out, hackneyed "fatherland." People also need some security against the terrifying changes of fortune. So even nobler people open their hands when a richer, more powerful person offers to fill them with gold. There is so little certainty about the future that people live only for the day. This state of mind makes things easy for every deceiver. People, of course, let themselves be misled and bribed only "for the present." They keep the future and virtue in reserve. Individuals, the men who live only for themselves, are known to provide for the moment more than their opposites do. Their opposites are the gregarious men. Individuals do this because they regard themselves as just as unpredictable as the future. For similar reasons, they willingly attach themselves to despots. For they believe themselves capable of actions and expedients that cannot count on the crowd's understanding or approval. But the tyrant or the Cæsar understands the rights of the Individual, even in his excesses. He has an interest in speaking for a bolder private morality and even lending it a hand. For he thinks of himself as Napoleon once expressed it in his classical style. And he wants others to think the same of him: "I have the right to answer every complaint against me with an eternal 'this is how I am.' I stand apart from all the world, and I accept conditions from nobody. I also want people to submit to my whims. If I indulge in this or that amusement, they should take it as a perfectly simple matter." Napoleon once said this to his wife, when she had reason to question her husband's fidelity. Times of corruption are the seasons when the apples fall from the tree. By apples I mean individuals, the seed-bearers of the future. They are the pioneers of spiritual colonization and of new national and social unions. Corruption is only an abusive term for a people's harvest time.

Different Dissatisfactions.—The feeble and as it were feminine dissatisfied people have ingenuity for beautifying and deepening life; the strong dissatisfied people—the masculine persons among them, to continue the metaphor—have the ingenuity for improving and safeguarding life. The former show their weakness and feminine character by willingly letting themselves be temporarily deceived, and perhaps even by putting up with a little ecstasy and enthusiasm on a time, but on the whole they are never to be satisfied, and suffer from the incurability of their dissatisfaction; moreover they are the patrons of all those who manage to concoct opiate and narcotic comforts, and just on that account averse to those who value the physician higher than the priest,—they thereby encourage the continuance of actual distress! If there had not been a surplus of dissatisfied persons of this kind in Europe since the time of the Middle Ages, the remarkable capacity of Europeans for constant transformation would perhaps not have originated at all; for the claims of the strong dissatisfied persons are too gross, and really too modest to resist being finally quieted down. China is an instance of a country in which dissatisfaction on a grand scale and the capacity for transformation have died out for many centuries; and the Socialists and state-idolaters of Europe could easily bring things to Chinese conditions and to a Chinese "happiness," with their measures for the amelioration and security of life, provided that they could first of all root out the sicklier, tenderer, more feminine dissatisfaction and Romanticism which are still very abundant among us. Europe is an invalid who owes her best thanks to her incurability and the eternal transformations of her sufferings; these constant new situations, these equally constant new dangers, pains, and make-shifts, have at last generated an intellectual sensitiveness which is almost equal to genius, and is in any case the mother of all genius.

Different Dissatisfactions. The weak, dissatisfied people, who are, so to speak, feminine, are ingenious at making life more beautiful and profound. The strong, dissatisfied people, the masculine ones in this metaphor, are ingenious at improving and protecting life. The first group shows its weakness and feminine character by willingly accepting temporary illusions. They may even put up with a little ecstasy and enthusiasm now and then. But on the whole, they can never be satisfied, and they suffer from their incurable dissatisfaction. They also support everyone who manages to concoct soothing, narcotic comforts. For that very reason, they dislike those who value the physician more than the priest. In this way, they encourage the continuance of real distress! If Europe had not had an excess of dissatisfied people of this kind since the Middle Ages, Europeans might never have developed their remarkable capacity for constant transformation. For the demands of the strong, dissatisfied people are too crude and really too modest to resist being satisfied in the end. China is an example of a country where widespread dissatisfaction and the capacity for transformation have died out for many centuries. The Socialists and state worshippers of Europe could easily produce Chinese conditions and Chinese "happiness" with their measures to improve and protect life. But first they would have to root out the sicklier, more tender, more feminine dissatisfaction and Romanticism that are still abundant among us. Europe is an invalid who has her incurable condition and the endless changes in her suffering to thank for her best qualities. There are constantly new situations, and just as constantly new dangers, pains, and makeshifts. These have finally produced an intellectual sensitivity that is almost equal to genius. In any case, it is the mother of all genius.

Not Pre-ordained to Knowledge.—There is a purblind humility not at all rare, and when a person is afflicted with it, he is once for all unqualified for being a disciple of knowledge. It is this in fact: the moment a man of this kind perceives anything striking, he turns as it were on his heel, and says to himself: "You have deceived yourself! Where have your wits been! This cannot be the truth!"—and then, instead of looking at it and listening to it with more attention, he runs out of the way of the striking object as if intimidated, and seeks to get it out of his head as quickly as possible. For his fundamental rule runs thus: "I want to see nothing that contradicts the usual opinion concerning things! Am I created for the purpose of discovering new truths? There are already too many of the old ones."

Not Destined for Knowledge. There is a kind of shortsighted humility that is not at all rare. Anyone afflicted with it is permanently unfit to be a disciple of knowledge. It works like this: the moment such a person notices something striking, he turns on his heel, so to speak. He says to himself: "You have fooled yourself! Where was your mind? This cannot be true!" Instead of looking and listening more carefully, he runs away from the striking thing as if frightened. He tries to get it out of his head as quickly as possible. For his basic rule is this: "I want to see nothing that contradicts the usual opinion about things! Was I created to discover new truths? There are already too many old ones."

What is Living?—Living—that is to continually eliminate from ourselves what is about to die; Living—that is to be cruel and inexorable towards all that becomes weak and old in ourselves, and not only in ourselves. Living—that means, therefore, to be without piety toward the dying, the wretched and the old? To be continually a murderer?—And yet old Moses said: "Thou shalt not kill!"

What is Living? Living means constantly getting rid of what is about to die within us. Living means being cruel and merciless toward everything that grows weak and old, both in ourselves and in others. Does living therefore mean having no compassion for the dying, the miserable, and the old? Does it mean constantly being a murderer? And yet old Moses said: "You shall not kill!"

The Self-Renouncer.—What does the self-renouncer do? He strives after a higher world, he wants to fly longer and further and higher than all men of affirmation—he throws away many things that would burden his flight, and several things among them that are not valueless, that are not unpleasant to him: he sacrifices them to his desire for elevation. Now this sacrificing, this casting away, is the very thing which becomes visible in him: on that account one calls him the self-renouncer, and as such he stands before us, enveloped in his cowl, and as the soul of a hair-shirt. With this effect, however, which he makes upon us he is well content: he wants to keep concealed from us his desire, his pride, his intention of flying above us.—Yes! He is wiser than we thought, and so courteous towards us—this affirmer! For that is what he is, like us, even in his self-renunciation.

The Self-Renouncer. What does the self-renouncer do? He strives for a higher world. He wants to fly longer, farther, and higher than all those who affirm life. He throws away many things that would weigh him down in flight. Some of them are not worthless or unpleasant to him. He sacrifices them to his desire to rise. Now, what we see in him is this sacrificing, this casting away. That is why we call him the self-renouncer. So he stands before us, wrapped in his cowl, the very soul of a hair-shirt. But he is quite content with the effect he has on us. He wants to hide his desire, his pride, his intention to fly above us. Yes! He is wiser than we thought, and so courteous to us, this affirmer! For that is what he is, like us, even in his self-renunciation.

Injuring with one's best Qualities.—Our strong points sometimes drive us so far forward that we cannot any longer endure our weaknesses, and we perish by them: we also perhaps see this result beforehand, but nevertheless do not want it to be otherwise. We then become hard towards that which would fain be spared in us, and our pitilessness is also our greatness. Such an experience, which must in the end cost us our life, is a symbol of the collective effect of great men upon others and upon their epoch:—it is just with their best abilities, with that which only they can do, that they destroy much that is weak, uncertain, evolving, and willing, and are thereby injurious. Indeed, the case may happen in which, taken on the whole, they only do injury, because their best is accepted and drunk up as it were solely by those who lose their understanding and their egoism by it, as by too strong a beverage; they become so intoxicated that they go breaking their limbs on all the wrong roads where their drunkenness drives them.

Injuring Others with One's Best Qualities. Our strengths sometimes drive us so far that we can no longer tolerate our weaknesses. And those weaknesses destroy us. We may even foresee this outcome, but still not want it to be otherwise. We then become hard on the parts of ourselves that would like to be spared. Our ruthlessness is also our greatness. Such an experience must ultimately cost us our lives. It symbolizes the overall effect great men have on others and on their age. It is through their best abilities, through what only they can do, that they destroy much. They destroy what is weak, uncertain, developing, and willing. In this way, they do harm. Indeed, it may happen that, on the whole, they do nothing but harm. For their best may be embraced and absorbed only by people who lose their understanding and self-interest through it. It affects them like a drink that is too strong. They become so intoxicated that they break their limbs on all the wrong paths their drunkenness leads them down.

Adventitious Liars.—When people began to combat the unity of Aristotle in France, and consequently also to defend it, there was once more to be seen that which has been seen so often, but seen so unwillingly:—people imposed false reasons on themselves on account of which those laws ought to exist, merely for the sake of not acknowledging to themselves that they had accustomed themselves to the authority of those laws, and did not want any longer to have things otherwise. And people do so in every prevailing morality and religion, and have always done so: the reasons and intentions behind the habit, are only added surreptitiously when people begin to combat the habit, and ask for reasons and intentions. It is here that the great dishonesty of the conservatives of all times hides:—they are adventitious liars.

Accidental Liars. When people in France began to challenge Aristotle's unity, others began to defend it. Once again, something was seen that has often been seen, but always unwillingly. People gave themselves false reasons why those laws should exist. They did so simply to avoid admitting that they had grown accustomed to the authority of those laws. They no longer wanted things to be otherwise. People do the same in every prevailing morality and religion, and have always done so. The reasons and intentions behind a habit are slipped in only when people begin to challenge it and ask for reasons and intentions. Here lies the great dishonesty of conservatives in all ages: they are accidental liars.

The Comedy of Celebrated Men.—Celebrated men who need their fame, as, for instance, all politicians, no longer select their associates and friends without after-thoughts: from the one they want a portion of the splendour and reflection of his virtues; from the other they want the fear-inspiring power of certain dubious qualities in him, of which everybody is aware; from another they steal his reputation for idleness and basking in the sun, because it is advantageous for their own ends to be regarded temporarily as heedless and lazy:—it conceals the fact that they lie in ambush; they now use the visionaries, now the experts, now the brooders, now the pedants in their neighbourhood, as their actual selves for the time, but very soon they do not need them any longer! And thus while their environment and outside die off continually, everything seems to crowd into this environment, and wants to become a "character" of it; they are like great cities in this respect. Their repute is continually in process of mutation, like their character, for their changing methods require this change, and they show and exhibit sometimes this and sometimes that actual or fictitious quality on the stage; their friends and associates, as we have said, belong to these stage properties. On the other hand, that which they aim at must remain so much the more steadfast, and burnished and resplendent in the distance,—and this also sometimes needs its comedy and its stage-play.

The Comedy of Celebrated Men. Celebrated men who need their fame, such as all politicians, no longer choose associates and friends without ulterior motives. From one they want some reflected glory from his virtues. From another they want the fearsome power of certain questionable qualities he possesses, qualities everyone knows about. From yet another they steal his reputation for idleness and basking in the sun. For their own purposes, it is useful to seem careless and lazy for a time. This conceals the fact that they lie in ambush. They use the visionaries, experts, brooding thinkers, and pedants around them in turn, as their own selves for the moment. But before long they no longer need them! And so, as their surroundings and outward appearance constantly fall away, everything seems to crowd into their surroundings. Everything wants to become a "character" there. In this respect, they are like great cities. Their reputation is constantly changing, like their character, because their changing methods require it. On stage, they show and exhibit first one quality, then another, whether real or invented. Their friends and associates, as we have said, are among these stage props. On the other hand, their goal must remain all the more steadfast, polished and resplendent in the distance. This too sometimes calls for comedy and stage-play.

Commerce and Nobility.—Buying and selling is now regarded as something ordinary, like the art of reading and writing; everyone is now trained to it even when he is not a tradesman, exercising himself daily in the art; precisely as formerly in the period of uncivilised humanity, everyone was a hunter and exercised himself day by day in the art of hunting. Hunting was then something common: but just as this finally became a privilege of the powerful and noble, and thereby lost the character of the commonplace and the ordinary—by ceasing to be necessary and by becoming an affair of fancy and luxury:—so it might become the same some day with buying and selling. Conditions of society are imaginable in which there will be no selling and buying, and in which the necessity for this art will become quite lost; perhaps it may then happen that individuals who are less subjected to the law of the prevailing condition of things will indulge in buying and selling as a luxury of sentiment. It is then only that commerce would acquire nobility, and the noble would then perhaps occupy themselves just as readily with commerce as they have done hitherto with war and politics: while on the other hand the valuation of politics might then have entirely altered. Already even politics ceases to be the business of a gentleman; and it is possible that one day it may be found to be so vulgar as to be brought, like all party literature and daily literature, under the rubric: "Prostitution of the intellect."

Commerce and Nobility. Buying and selling are now regarded as ordinary, like reading and writing. Everyone is trained in commerce, even if they are not a tradesperson, and practices it daily. In the past, when humanity was uncivilized, everyone was a hunter and practiced hunting every day. Hunting was then commonplace. But it eventually became a privilege of the powerful and noble. It was no longer necessary, but a matter of pleasure and luxury. Hunting thus lost its ordinary, commonplace character. The same might one day happen to buying and selling. We can imagine a society in which there is no buying or selling, and no need for the art of commerce. Perhaps some people would then be less bound by the rules of the prevailing order. They might indulge in buying and selling as a luxury of sentiment. Only then would commerce acquire nobility. The noble might then take up commerce as readily as they have so far taken up war and politics. Meanwhile, the value placed on politics might have changed entirely. Already, politics is ceasing to be a gentleman’s business. One day it may be found so vulgar that it is classified, like all party literature and daily literature, as “Prostitution of the intellect.”

Undesirable Disciples.—What shall I do with these two youths! called out a philosopher dejectedly, who "corrupted" youths, as Socrates had once corrupted them,—they are unwelcome disciples to me. One of them cannot say "Nay," and the other says "Half and half" to everything. Provided they grasped my doctrine, the former would suffer too much, for my mode of thinking requires a martial soul, willingness to cause pain, delight in denying, and a hard skin,—he would succumb by open wounds and internal injuries. And the other will choose the mediocre in everything he represents, and thus make a mediocrity of the whole,—I should like my enemy to have such a disciple.

Undesirable Disciples. “What am I to do with these two young men!” a philosopher cried out in despair. He “corrupted” young men, just as Socrates once had. “They are unwelcome disciples. One cannot say ‘No,’ and the other says ‘Half and half’ to everything. If they understood my doctrine, the first would suffer too much. My way of thinking requires a fighting spirit, a willingness to cause pain, a delight in saying no, and a thick skin. He would die from open wounds and internal injuries. The other will choose the mediocre in everything he represents, and so make the whole thing mediocre. I would like my enemy to have such a disciple.”

Outside the Lecture-room.—"In order to prove that man after all belongs to the good-natured animals, I would remind you how credulous he has been for so long a time. It is now only, quite late, and after an immense self-conquest, that he has become a distrustful animal,—yes! man is now more wicked than ever."—I do not understand this; why should man now be more distrustful and more wicked?—"Because he now has science,—because he needs to have it!"—

Outside the Lecture Room. "To show that man is, after all, a good-natured animal, consider how long he has been gullible. Only now, very late and after immense self-conquest, has he become a distrustful animal. Yes! Man is now more wicked than ever." I don't understand this. Why should man now be more distrustful and more wicked? "Because he now has science, because he needs it!"

Historia abscondita.—Every great man has a power which operates backward; all history is again placed on the scales on his account, and a thousand secrets of the past crawl out of their lurking-places—into his sunlight. There is absolutely no knowing what history may be some day. The past is still perhaps undiscovered in its essence! There are yet so many retroactive powers needed!

Historia abscondita. Every great man has a power that reaches backward. Because of him, all history is weighed again, and a thousand secrets of the past crawl from their hiding places into his sunlight. There is no knowing what history may someday become. The true nature of the past may still be undiscovered! So many more powers that reach backward are still needed!

Heresy and Witchcraft.—To think otherwise than is customary—that is by no means so much the activity of a better intellect, as the activity of strong, wicked inclinations,—severing, isolating, refractory, mischief-loving, malicious inclinations. Heresy is the counterpart of witchcraft, and is certainly just as little a merely harmless affair, or a thing worthy of honour in itself. Heretics and sorcerers are two kinds of bad men; they have it in common that they also feel themselves wicked; their unconquerable delight is to attack and injure whatever rules,—whether it be men or opinions. The Reformation, a kind of duplication of the spirit of the Middle Ages at a time when it had no longer a good conscience, produced both of these kinds of people in the greatest profusion.

Heresy and Witchcraft. Thinking differently from what is customary is by no means chiefly a sign of superior intelligence. It is more a sign of strong, wicked impulses: impulses to separate and isolate oneself, to resist, to cause trouble, and to do harm. Heresy is the counterpart of witchcraft. It is certainly just as far from being merely harmless or worthy of honor in itself. Heretics and sorcerers are two kinds of bad people. Both also feel themselves to be wicked. Their irresistible delight is to attack and harm whatever holds power, whether people or opinions. The Reformation brought forth both kinds of people in great abundance. It was a kind of doubling of the spirit of the Middle Ages, at a time when that spirit no longer had a clear conscience.

Last Words.—It will be recollected that the Emperor Augustus, that terrible man, who had himself as much in his own power, and who could be silent as well as any wise Socrates, became indiscreet about himself in his last words; for the first time he let his mask fall, when he gave to understand that he had carried a mask and played a comedy,—he had played the father of his country and wisdom on the throne well, even to the point of illusion! Plaudite amici, comoedia finita est!—The thought of the dying Nero: qualis artifex pereo! was also the thought of the dying Augustus: histrionic conceit! histrionic loquacity! And the very counterpart to the dying Socrates!—But Tiberius died silently, that most tortured of all self-torturers,—he was genuine and not a stage-player! What may have passed through his head in the end! Perhaps this: "Life—that is a long death. I am a fool, who shortened the lives of so many! Was I created for the purpose of being a benefactor? I should have given them eternal life: and then I could have seen them dying eternally. I had such good eyes for that: qualis spectator pereo!" When he seemed once more to regain his powers after a long death-struggle, it was considered advisable to smother him with pillows,—he died a double death.

Last Words. People will remember the Emperor Augustus, that terrible man. He had great control over himself and could keep silent as well as any wise Socrates. Yet in his last words, he revealed too much about himself. For the first time, he let his mask fall. He suggested that he had worn a mask and acted in a comedy. He had played the father of his country and wisdom on the throne so well that the illusion was convincing! Plaudite amici, comoedia finita est! The dying Augustus shared the thought of the dying Nero: qualis artifex pereo! An actor’s vanity! An actor’s talkativeness! And the very opposite of the dying Socrates! But Tiberius died silently. He was the most tormented of all self-tormentors. He was genuine, not an actor! What might have passed through his head at the end! Perhaps this: “Life is a long death. I am a fool, for I shortened so many lives! Was I born to be a benefactor? I should have given them eternal life. Then I could have watched them die eternally. I had such good eyes for that: qualis spectator pereo!” After a long struggle with death, he seemed to regain his strength. So it was thought best to smother him with pillows. He died a double death.

Owing to three Errors.—Science has been furthered during recent centuries, partly because it was hoped that God's goodness and wisdom would be best understood therewith and thereby—the principal motive in the soul of great Englishmen (like Newton); partly because the absolute utility of knowledge was believed in, and especially the most intimate connection of morality, knowledge, and happiness—the principal motive in the soul of great Frenchmen (like Voltaire); and partly because it was thought that in science there was something unselfish, harmless, self-sufficing, lovable, and truly innocent to be had, in which the evil human impulses did not at all participate—the principal motive in the soul of Spinoza, who felt himself divine, as a knowing being:—it is consequently owing to three errors that science has been furthered.

Because of Three Errors. Science has advanced in recent centuries partly because people hoped it would help them understand God’s goodness and wisdom. This was the main motive of great Englishmen like Newton. Science also advanced partly because people believed knowledge was absolutely useful. They believed, above all, that morality, knowledge, and happiness were intimately connected. This was the main motive of great Frenchmen like Voltaire. Finally, science advanced partly because people thought it offered something unselfish, harmless, self-sufficient, lovable, and truly innocent. They thought evil human impulses played no part in it. This was the main motive of Spinoza, who felt divine as a knowing being. Science has therefore advanced because of three errors.

Explosive People.—When one considers how ready are the forces of young men for discharge, one does not wonder at seeing them decide so unfastidiously and with so little selection for this or that cause: that which attracts them is the sight of eagerness about any cause, as it were the sight of the burning match—not the cause itself. The more ingenious seducers on that account operate by holding out the prospect of an explosion to such persons, and do not urge their cause by means of reasons; these powder-barrels are not won over by means of reasons!

Explosive People. When you consider how ready young men are to release their energy, their choices are no surprise. They choose one cause or another so readily and with so little care. What attracts them is the sight of eagerness for any cause, like the sight of a burning match. It is not the cause itself. That is why the more ingenious seducers offer such people the prospect of an explosion instead of arguing for their cause. You cannot win over these powder barrels with reasons!

Altered Taste.—The alteration of the general taste is more important than the alteration of opinions; opinions, with all their proving, refuting, and intellectual masquerade, are merely symptoms of altered taste, and are certainly not what they are still so often claimed to be, the causes of the altered taste. How does the general taste alter? By the fact of individuals, the powerful and influential persons, expressing and tyrannically enforcing without any feeling of shame, their hoc est ridiculum, hoc est absurdum; the decisions, therefore, of their taste and their disrelish:—they thereby lay a constraint upon many people, out of which there gradually grows a habituation for still more, and finally a necessity for all. The fact, however, that these individuals feel and "taste" differently, has usually its origin in a peculiarity of their mode of life, nourishment, or digestion, perhaps in a surplus or deficiency of the inorganic salts in their blood and brain, in short in their physis; they have, however, the courage to avow their physical constitution, and to lend an ear even to the most delicate tones of its requirements: their æsthetic and moral judgments are those "most delicate tones" of their physis.

Changed Taste. Changes in general taste matter more than changes in opinion. Opinions, with all their arguments, refutations, and intellectual disguises, are merely symptoms of changed taste. They are certainly not its causes, though they are still often claimed to be. How does general taste change? Powerful and influential individuals express their hoc est ridiculum, hoc est absurdum without shame and tyrannically impose these judgments on others. These are the judgments of their taste and distaste. In this way, they put pressure on many people. Gradually, still more people grow accustomed to these judgments, and finally they become a necessity for all. But why do these individuals feel and "taste" differently? The reason usually lies in some peculiarity of their way of life, their diet, or their digestion. Perhaps it lies in a surplus or shortage of inorganic salts in their blood and brain. In short, the reason lies in their physis. But they have the courage to acknowledge their physical constitution and listen to its most delicate demands. Their aesthetic and moral judgments are those "most delicate tones" of their physis.

The Lack of a noble Presence.—Soldiers and their leaders have always a much higher mode of comportment toward one another than workmen and their employers. At present at least, all militarily established civilisation still stands high above all so-called industrial civilisation; the latter, in its present form, is in general the meanest mode of existence that has ever been. It is simply the law of necessity that operates here: people want to live, and have to sell themselves; but they despise him who exploits their necessity, and purchases the workman. It is curious that the subjection to powerful, fear-inspiring, and even dreadful individuals, to tyrants and leaders of armies, is not at all felt so painfully as the subjection to such undistinguished and uninteresting persons as the captains of industry; in the employer the workman usually sees merely a crafty, blood-sucking dog of a man, speculating on every necessity, whose name, form, character, and reputation are altogether indifferent to him. It is probable that the manufacturers and great magnates of commerce have hitherto lacked too much all those forms and attributes of a superior race, which alone make persons interesting; if they had had the nobility of the nobly-born in their looks and bearing, there would perhaps have been no socialism in the masses of the people. For these are really ready for slavery of every kind, provided that the superior class above them constantly shows itself legitimately superior, and born to command—by its noble presence! The commonest man feels that nobility is not to be improvised, and that it is his part to honour it as the fruit of protracted race-culture,—but the absence of superior presence, and the notorious vulgarity of manufacturers with red, fat hands, brings up the thought to him that it is only chance and fortune that has here elevated the one above the other; well then—so he reasons with himself—let us in our turn tempt chance and fortune! Let us in our turn throw the dice!—and socialism commences.

The Lack of a Noble Presence. Soldiers and their leaders have always treated one another far more honorably than workers and their employers. At present, at least, all civilizations organized along military lines still stand high above all so-called industrial civilizations. Industrial civilization, in its present form, is generally the meanest way of life there has ever been. The law of necessity is simply at work here. People want to live, and they have to sell themselves. But they despise the man who exploits their need and buys the worker. It is curious that submission to powerful, fearsome, even dreadful individuals, to tyrants and army leaders, is not felt nearly so painfully. Submission to such unremarkable and uninteresting people as the captains of industry is more painful. The worker usually sees his employer as nothing more than a crafty, blood-sucking dog of a man, who profits from every need. The employer’s name, appearance, character, and reputation mean nothing to him. Manufacturers and great commercial magnates have probably lacked too many of the forms and qualities of a superior race. Only those qualities make people interesting. Perhaps there would have been no socialism among the masses if these men had shown the nobility of the nobly born in their appearance and bearing. For the masses are truly ready for slavery of every kind. But the class above them must constantly show itself to be legitimately superior and born to command, through its noble presence! Even the most ordinary man feels that nobility cannot be invented on the spot. He feels it is his place to honor nobility as the fruit of long cultivation of a race. But manufacturers lack a superior presence, and their vulgarity, with their red, fat hands, is notorious. This makes the ordinary man think that only chance and fortune have raised one man above another. Well then, he reasons, let us try our luck with chance and fortune! Let us throw the dice in our turn! And socialism begins.

Against Remorse.—The thinker sees in his own actions attempts and questionings to obtain information about something or other; success and failure are answers to him first and foremost. To vex himself, however, because something does not succeed, or to feel remorse at all—he leaves that to those who act because they are commanded to do so, and expect to get a beating when their gracious master is not satisfied with the result.

Against Remorse. The thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions meant to reveal something. Success and failure are, above all, answers to him. But he does not torment himself when something fails, or feel remorse at all. He leaves that to those who act on orders and expect a beating when their gracious master is dissatisfied with the result.

Work and Ennui.—In respect to seeking work for the sake of the pay, almost all men are alike at present in civilised countries; to all of them work is a means, and not itself the end; on which account they are not very select in the choice of the work, provided it yields an abundant profit. But still there are rarer men who would rather perish than work without delight in their labour: the fastidious people, difficult to satisfy, whose object is not served by an abundant profit, unless the work itself be the reward of all rewards. Artists and contemplative men of all kinds belong to this rare species of human beings; and also the idlers who spend their life in hunting and travelling, or in love affairs and adventures. They all seek toil and trouble in so far as these are associated with pleasure, and they want the severest and hardest labour, if it be necessary. In other respects, however, they have a resolute indolence, even should impoverishment, dishonour, and danger to health and life be associated therewith. They are not so much afraid of ennui as of labour without pleasure; indeed they require much ennui, if their work is to succeed with them. For the thinker and for all inventive spirits ennui is the unpleasant "calm" of the soul which precedes the happy voyage and the dancing breezes; he must endure it, he must await the effect it has on him:—it is precisely this which lesser natures cannot at all experience! It is common to scare away ennui in every way, just as it is common to labour without pleasure. It perhaps distinguishes the Asiatics above the Europeans, that they are capable of a longer and profounder repose; even their narcotics operate slowly and require patience, in contrast to the obnoxious suddenness of the European poison, alcohol.

Work and Ennui. In civilized countries today, almost all men are alike in seeking work for the pay. For all of them, work is a means, not an end in itself. So they are not very particular about their choice of work, provided it pays well. But there are rarer men who would rather die than work without delight in their labor. They are particular people, hard to satisfy. Good pay is not enough for them unless the work itself is the greatest reward. Artists and contemplative men of all kinds belong to this rare species of human beings. So do the idlers who spend their lives hunting and traveling, or pursuing love affairs and adventures. They all seek toil and trouble when these go with pleasure. They even want the most demanding and difficult work, if it is necessary. Otherwise, however, they are determined to remain idle, even if poverty, dishonor, and danger to health and life result. They fear work without pleasure more than they fear ennui. Indeed, they need a great deal of ennui if their work is to succeed. For thinkers and all inventive spirits, ennui is the unpleasant "calm" of the soul. It comes before the happy voyage and the dancing breezes. A thinker must endure ennui and wait for its effect. Lesser natures cannot experience precisely this at all! It is common to chase away ennui by every means, just as it is common to work without pleasure. Perhaps what sets Asiatics above Europeans is their capacity for longer and deeper rest. Even their narcotics act slowly and require patience. This contrasts with the unpleasant suddenness of the European poison, alcohol.

What the Laws Betray.—One makes a great mistake when one studies the penal laws of a people, as if they were an expression of its character; the laws do not betray what a people is, but what appears to them foreign, strange, monstrous, and outlandish. The laws concern themselves with the exceptions to the morality of custom; and the severest punishments fall on acts which conform to the customs of the neighbouring peoples. Thus among the Wahabites, there are only two mortal sins: having another God than the Wahabite God, and—smoking (it is designated by them as "the disgraceful kind of drinking"). "And how is it with regard to murder and adultery?"—asked the Englishman with astonishment on learning these things. "Well, God is gracious and pitiful!" answered the old chief.—Thus among the ancient Romans there was the idea that a woman could only sin mortally in two ways: by adultery on the one hand, and—by wine-drinking on the other. Old Cato pretended that kissing among relatives had only been made a custom in order to keep women in control on this point; a kiss meant: did her breath smell of wine? Wives had actually been punished by death who were surprised taking wine: and certainly not merely because women under the influence of wine sometimes unlearn altogether the art of saying No; the Romans were afraid above all things of the orgiastic and Dionysian spirit with which the women of Southern Europe at that time (when wine was still new in Europe) were sometimes visited, as by a monstrous foreignness which subverted the basis of Roman sentiments; it seemed to them treason against Rome, as the embodiment of foreignness.

What the Laws Betray. It is a great mistake to study a people’s penal laws as expressions of their character. These laws reveal not what a people is, but what seems foreign, strange, monstrous, and outlandish to them. Laws deal with exceptions to customary morality. The harshest punishments fall on acts that conform to the customs of neighboring peoples. Thus, among the Wahabites, there are only two mortal sins: having a god other than the Wahabite God, and smoking. They call smoking "the disgraceful kind of drinking". "And what about murder and adultery?" asked the astonished Englishman when he learned this. "Well, God is gracious and merciful!" answered the old chief. Similarly, the ancient Romans believed that a woman could commit only two mortal sins: adultery and drinking wine. Old Cato claimed that relatives had adopted the custom of kissing solely to keep women in check on this point. A kiss meant: did her breath smell of wine? Wives caught drinking wine were in fact put to death. This was certainly not just because women under the influence of wine sometimes completely forget how to say No. Above all, the Romans feared the orgiastic and Dionysian spirit that sometimes came over the women of Southern Europe. This was at a time when wine was still new in Europe. To the Romans, this spirit was a monstrous foreign force that undermined the foundations of Roman feeling. It seemed to them a betrayal of Rome, the embodiment of foreignness.

The Believed Motive.—However important it may be to know the motives according to which mankind has really acted hitherto, perhaps the belief in this or that motive, and therefore that which mankind has assumed and imagined to be the actual mainspring of its activity hitherto, is something still more essential for the thinker to know. For the internal happiness and misery of men have always come to them through their belief in this or that motive,—not however, through that which was actually the motive! All about the latter has an interest of secondary rank.

The Believed Motive. Knowing the motives that have actually driven humanity so far may be important. But knowing what motives people believed drove them may be even more essential for the thinker. For people’s inner happiness and misery have always come from their belief in one motive or another. They have not come from the motives that actually drove them! Everything about those actual motives is of secondary interest.

Epicurus.—Yes, I am proud of perceiving the character of Epicurus differently from anyone else perhaps, and of enjoying the happiness of the afternoon of antiquity in all that I hear and read of him:—I see his eye gazing out on a broad whitish sea, over the shore-rocks on which the sunshine rests, while great and small creatures play in its light, secure and calm like this light and that eye itself. Such happiness could only have been devised by a chronic sufferer, the happiness of an eye before which the sea of existence has become calm, and which can no longer tire of gazing at the surface and at the variegated, tender, tremulous skin of this sea. Never previously was there such a moderation of voluptuousness.

Epicurus. Yes, I am proud that I see Epicurus’s character differently, perhaps from anyone else. In everything I hear and read about him, I enjoy the happiness of antiquity’s afternoon. I see his eye gazing over a broad, whitish sea, past sunlit rocks on the shore. Large and small creatures play in the sunlight, as safe and calm as the light and his eye. Only someone who suffered constantly could have imagined such happiness. It is the happiness of an eye before which the sea of existence has grown calm. That eye never tires of gazing at the sea’s surface, its colorful, delicate, trembling skin. Never before had there been such restraint in the enjoyment of pleasure.

Our Astonishment.—There is a profound and fundamental satisfaction in the fact that science ascertains things that hold their ground, and again furnish the basis for new researches:—it could certainly be otherwise. Indeed, we are so much convinced of all the uncertainty and caprice of our judgments, and of the everlasting change of all human laws and conceptions, that we are really astonished how persistently the results of science hold their ground! In earlier times people knew nothing of this changeability of all human things; the custom of morality maintained the belief that the whole inner life of man was bound to iron necessity by eternal fetters:—perhaps people then felt a similar voluptuousness of astonishment when they listened to tales and fairy stories. The wonderful did so much good to those men, who might well get tired sometimes of the regular and the eternal. To leave the ground for once! To soar! To stray! To be mad!—that belonged to the paradise and the revelry of earlier times; while our felicity is like that of the shipwrecked man who has gone ashore, and places himself with both feet on the old, firm ground—in astonishment that it does not rock.

Our Astonishment. There is a deep and fundamental satisfaction in the fact that science establishes things that hold up. These findings then provide a basis for new research. It could certainly be otherwise. Indeed, we are deeply convinced that all our judgments are uncertain and unpredictable. We are equally convinced that all human laws and ideas are constantly changing. So we are truly astonished at how persistently scientific findings hold up! In earlier times, people knew nothing of this changeability in all human things. Moral customs upheld the belief that all of a person’s inner life was bound by eternal chains to an iron necessity. Perhaps people then felt a similar pleasure in their astonishment when they listened to tales and fairy stories. The marvelous did those people so much good, since they might well grow tired of the regular and the eternal. To leave the ground for once! To soar! To wander! To be mad! These were part of the paradise and revelry of earlier times. Our happiness, by contrast, is like that of a shipwrecked person who has come ashore. He plants both feet on the old, firm ground, astonished that it does not rock.

The Suppression of the Passions.—When one continually prohibits the expression of the passions as something to be left to the "vulgar," to coarser, bourgeois, and peasant natures—that is, when one does not want to suppress the passions themselves, but only their language and demeanour, one nevertheless realises therewith just what one does not want: the suppression of the passions themselves, or at least their weakening and alteration,—as the court of Louis XIV. (to cite the most instructive instance), and all that was dependent on it, experienced. The generation that followed, trained in suppressing their expression, no longer possessed the passions themselves, but had a pleasant, superficial, playful disposition in their place,—a generation which was so permeated with the incapacity to be ill-mannered, that even an injury was not taken and retaliated, except with courteous words. Perhaps our own time furnishes the most remarkable counterpart to this period: I see everywhere (in life, in the theatre, and not least in all that is written) satisfaction at all the coarser outbursts and gestures of passion; a certain convention of passionateness is now desired,—only not the passion itself! Nevertheless it will thereby be at last reached, and our posterity will have a genuine savagery, and not merely a formal savagery and unmannerliness.

The Suppression of the Passions. When people continually forbid the expression of passions, they leave it to the "vulgar", to coarser bourgeois and peasant natures. They do not want to suppress the passions themselves, only their language and behavior. Yet by doing so, they achieve just what they do not want: they suppress the passions themselves, or at least weaken and change them. The court of Louis XIV. and everything dependent on it experienced this. It is the most instructive example. The following generation was trained to suppress the expression of passion. It no longer had passions, but instead had a pleasant, superficial, playful disposition. Its members were so incapable of bad manners that they responded to an insult only with courteous words, even when taking revenge. Perhaps our own time offers the most striking contrast to that period. Everywhere I see pleasure in all the coarser outbursts and gestures of passion. I see it in life, in the theatre, and not least in everything written. People now want a certain conventional display of passion, but not passion itself! Yet in this way they will finally arrive at passion, and our descendants will have a genuine savagery, not merely a show of savagery and bad manners.

Knowledge of Distress.—Perhaps there is nothing by which men and periods are so much separated from one another, as by the different degrees of knowledge of distress which they possess; distress of the soul as well as of the body. With respect to the latter, owing to lack of sufficient self-experience, we men of the present day (in spite of our deficiencies and infirmities), are perhaps all of us blunderers and visionaries in comparison with the men of the age of fear—the longest of all ages,—when the individual had to protect himself against violence, and for that purpose had to be a man of violence himself. At that time a man went through a long schooling of corporeal tortures and privations, and found even in a certain kind of cruelty toward himself, in a voluntary use of pain, a necessary means for his preservation; at that time a person trained his environment to the endurance of pain; at that time a person willingly inflicted pain, and saw the most frightful things of this kind happen to others, without having any other feeling than for his own security. As regards the distress of the soul, however, I now look at every man with respect to whether he knows it by experience or by description; whether he still regards it as necessary to simulate this knowledge, perhaps as an indication of more refined culture; or whether, at the bottom of his heart, he does not at all believe in great sorrows of soul, and at the naming of them has in his mind a similar experience as at the naming of great corporeal sufferings, such as tooth-aches, and stomach-aches. It is thus, however, that it seems to be with most people at present. Owing to the universal inexperience of both kinds of pain, and the comparative rarity of the spectacle of a sufferer, an important consequence results: people now hate pain far more than earlier man did, and calumniate it worse than ever; indeed people nowadays can hardly endure the thought of pain, and make out of it an affair of conscience and a reproach to collective existence. The appearance of pessimistic philosophies is not at all the sign of great and dreadful miseries; for these interrogative marks regarding the worth of life appear in periods when the refinement and alleviation of existence already deem the unavoidable gnat-stings of the soul and body as altogether too bloody and wicked; and in the poverty of actual experiences of pain, would now like to make painful general ideas appear as suffering of the worst kind.—There might indeed be a remedy for pessimistic philosophies and the excessive sensibility which seems to me the real "distress of the present":—but perhaps this remedy already sounds too cruel, and would itself be reckoned among the symptoms owing to which people at present conclude that "existence is something evil." Well! the remedy for "the distress" is distress.

Knowledge of Distress. Perhaps nothing separates people and eras more than their different degrees of knowledge of distress. This includes distress of both the soul and the body. When it comes to bodily distress, we modern men perhaps all lack experience of our own. Despite our shortcomings and infirmities, we are perhaps all blunderers and dreamers compared with people from the age of fear. That was the longest of all ages. Individuals had to protect themselves against violence, and to do so they had to be violent themselves. Back then, a man underwent a long training in bodily torture and deprivation. He even found that a certain cruelty toward himself, a voluntary use of pain, was necessary for his survival. People trained those around them to endure pain. They willingly inflicted pain and saw the most terrible things of this kind happen to others. They felt nothing but concern for their own safety. When it comes to distress of the soul, however, I now look at every man to see how he knows it. Does he know it from experience or only from descriptions? Does he still think it necessary to pretend to know it, perhaps as a sign of more refined culture? Or, deep down, does he not believe in great sorrows of the soul at all? When he hears them mentioned, does he think of an experience like a great bodily suffering, such as a toothache or stomachache? That, however, seems to be how most people are today. Most people have so little experience of either kind of pain, and so rarely see anyone suffering, that an important consequence follows. People now hate pain far more than earlier people did, and speak worse of it than ever. Indeed, people today can hardly bear the thought of pain. They make it a matter of conscience and a reproach against existence as a whole. The appearance of pessimistic philosophies is not at all a sign of great and dreadful suffering. These question marks over the value of life appear in periods when existence has already become more refined and less painful. In such periods, people regard the unavoidable gnat bites of soul and body as far too bloody and wicked. And because they have so little actual experience of pain, they now want to make painful general ideas seem like the worst kind of suffering. There might indeed be a remedy for pessimistic philosophies and the excessive sensitivity that seems to me the real "distress of the present". But perhaps this remedy already sounds too cruel. Perhaps people would count it among the very symptoms that lead them to conclude that "existence is something evil." Well! The remedy for "the distress" is distress.

Magnanimity and allied Qualities.—Those paradoxical phenomena, such as the sudden coldness in the demeanour of good-natured men, the humour of the melancholy, and above all magnanimity, as a sudden renunciation of revenge or of the gratification of envy—appear in men in whom there is a powerful inner impulsiveness, in men of sudden satiety and sudden disgust. Their satisfactions are so rapid and violent that satiety, aversion, and flight into the antithetical taste, immediately follow upon them: in this contrast the convulsion of feeling liberates itself, in one person by sudden coldness, in another by laughter, and in a third by tears and self-sacrifice. The magnanimous person appears to me—at least that kind of magnanimous person who has always made most impression—as a man with the strongest thirst for vengeance, to whom a gratification presents itself close at hand, and who already drinks it off in imagination so copiously, thoroughly, and to the last drop, that an excessive, rapid disgust follows this rapid licentiousness;—he now elevates himself "above himself," as one says, and forgives his enemy, yea, blesses and honours him. With this violence done to himself, however, with this mockery of his impulse to revenge, even still so powerful, he merely yields to the new impulse, the disgust which has become powerful, and does this just as impatiently and licentiously, as a short time previously he forestalled, and as it were exhausted, the joy of revenge with his fantasy. In magnanimity there is the same amount of egoism as in revenge, but a different quality of egoism.

Magnanimity and related qualities. These paradoxical traits appear in people with powerful inner impulses, who quickly feel satisfied and then disgusted. They include sudden coldness in good-natured people, humor in melancholy people, and above all magnanimity. By magnanimity, I mean a sudden renunciation of revenge or the satisfaction of envy. Such people feel satisfaction so quickly and intensely that they immediately grow tired of it, feel disgust, and turn to its opposite. This contrast releases their convulsion of feeling. In one person it emerges as sudden coldness, in another as laughter, and in a third as tears and self-sacrifice. The magnanimous person seems to me to have the strongest thirst for revenge. At least, this is true of the kind of magnanimous person who has always impressed me most. An opportunity for satisfaction presents itself within easy reach. He already drinks it in imagination, so deeply, thoroughly, and to the last drop that this swift indulgence is followed by swift and excessive disgust. He now rises "above himself," as people say, and forgives his enemy. He even blesses and honors him. Yet by doing this violence to himself and mocking his still powerful urge for revenge, he merely gives in to a new impulse, the disgust that has become powerful. He does so just as impatiently and indulgently as he had, shortly before, anticipated and all but exhausted the joy of revenge in his imagination. Magnanimity contains just as much selfishness as revenge, but a different kind of selfishness.

The Argument of Isolation.—The reproach of conscience, even in the most conscientious, is weak against the feeling: "This and that are contrary to the good morals of your society." A cold glance or a wry mouth, on the part of those among whom and for whom one has been educated, is still feared even by the strongest. What is really feared there? Isolation! as the argument which demolishes even the best arguments for a person or cause!—It is thus that the gregarious instinct speaks in us.

The Argument of Isolation. Even in the most conscientious people, a guilty conscience is weak against this feeling: "This or that goes against the good morals of your society." Even the strongest still fear a cold glance or a twisted mouth from those among whom and for whom they were raised. What are they really afraid of? Isolation! It is the argument that defeats even the best arguments for a person or a cause! This is how the herd instinct speaks in us.

Sense for Truth.—Commend me to all scepticism where I am permitted to answer: "Let us put it to the test!" But I don't wish to hear anything more of things and questions which do not admit of being tested. That is the limit of my "sense for truth": for bravery has there lost its right.

Sense for Truth. I welcome all skepticism that lets me answer: "Let us put it to the test!" But I don't want to hear any more about things and questions that cannot be tested. That is the limit of my "sense for truth": beyond it, courage has no right to speak.

What others Know of us.—That which we know of ourselves and have in our memory is not so decisive for the happiness of our life as is generally believed. One day it flashes upon our mind what others know of us (or think they know)—and then we acknowledge that it is the more powerful. We get on with our bad conscience more easily than with our bad reputation.

What Others Know About Us. What we know and remember about ourselves matters less to our happiness than people generally believe. One day, we suddenly realize what others know about us (or think they know). Then we acknowledge that their knowledge has more power. We can live with a guilty conscience more easily than with a bad reputation.

Where Goodness Begins.—Where bad eyesight can no longer see the evil impulse as such, on account of its refinement,—there man sets up the kingdom of goodness; and the feeling of having now gone over into the kingdom of goodness brings all those impulses (such as the feelings of security, of comfortableness, of benevolence) into simultaneous activity, which were threatened and confined by the evil impulses. Consequently, the duller the eye so much the further does goodness extend! Hence the eternal cheerfulness of the populace and of children! Hence the gloominess and grief (allied to the bad conscience) of great thinkers.

Where Goodness Begins. Where poor eyesight can no longer recognize an evil impulse because it has become so refined, people establish the kingdom of goodness. The feeling of having entered this kingdom brings other impulses into action all at once. These include feelings of security, comfort, and benevolence, which the evil impulses had threatened and held back. So the duller the eye, the farther goodness extends! This explains the lasting cheerfulness of ordinary people and children! It also explains the gloom and grief of great thinkers, so close to a guilty conscience.

The Consciousness of Appearance.—How wonderfully and novelly, and at the same time how awfully and ironically, do I feel myself situated with respect to collective existence, with my knowledge! I have discovered for myself that the old humanity and animality, yea, the collective primeval age, and the past of all sentient being, continues to meditate, love, hate, and reason in me,—I have suddenly awoke in the midst of this dream, but merely to the consciousness that I just dream, and that I must dream on in order not to perish; just as the sleep-walker must dream on in order not to tumble down. What is it that is now "appearance" to me! Verily, not the antithesis of any kind of essence,—what knowledge can I assert of any kind of essence whatsoever, except merely the predicates of its appearance! Verily not a dead mask which one could put upon an unknown X, and which to be sure one could also remove! Appearance is for me the operating and living thing itself; which goes so far in its self-mockery as to make me feel that here there is appearance, and Will o' the Wisp, and spirit-dance, and nothing more,—that among all these dreamers, I also, the "thinker," dance my dance, that the thinker is a means of prolonging further the terrestrial dance, and in so far is one of the masters of ceremony of existence, and that the sublime consistency and connectedness of all branches of knowledge is perhaps, and will perhaps, be the best means for maintaining the universality of the dreaming, the complete, mutual understandability of all those dreamers, and thereby the duration of the dream.

The Consciousness of Appearance. How wonderfully new, yet how terrible and ironic, is my position in relation to all existence, given what I know! I have discovered for myself that ancient humanity and animal life still think, love, hate, and reason within me. Indeed, the whole primeval age and the past of every feeling being live on in me. I have suddenly awakened in the middle of this dream. But I have awakened only to realize that I am dreaming, and that I must keep dreaming to avoid perishing. A sleepwalker, too, must keep dreaming to avoid falling. What, then, is "appearance" to me now? Surely it is not the opposite of some essence. What can I claim to know of any essence, except the qualities of its appearance? Nor is appearance a dead mask that one could put on an unknown X and then remove. For me, appearance is the active, living thing itself. In its self-mockery, it goes so far as to make me feel that there is nothing here but appearance, Will o' the Wisp, and a dance of spirits. Among all these dreamers, I too, the "thinker," dance my dance. The thinker helps prolong the earthly dance and, in that sense, is one of the masters of ceremony of existence. The sublime consistency and connection among all branches of knowledge may be, and may continue to be, the best means of maintaining universal dreaming. They may help all the dreamers understand one another completely, and thereby ensure the duration of the dream.

The Ultimate Nobility of Character.—What then makes a person "noble"? Certainly not that he makes sacrifices; even the frantic libertine makes sacrifices. Certainly not that he generally follows his passions; there are contemptible passions. Certainly not that he does something for others and without selfishness; perhaps the effect of selfishness is precisely at its greatest in the noblest persons.—But that the passion which seizes the noble man is a peculiarity, without his knowing that it is so: the use of a rare and singular measuring-rod, almost a frenzy: the feeling of heat in things which feel cold to all other persons: a divining of values for which scales have not yet been invented: a sacrificing on altars which are consecrated to an unknown God: a bravery without the desire for honour: a self-sufficiency which has superabundance, and imparts to men and things. Hitherto, therefore, it has been the rare in man, and the unconsciousness of this rareness, that has made men noble. Here, however, let us consider that everything ordinary, immediate, and indispensable, in short, what has been most preservative of the species, and generally the rule in mankind hitherto, has been judged unreasonable and calumniated in its entirety by this standard, in favour of the exceptions. To become the advocate of the rule—that may perhaps be the ultimate form and refinement in which nobility of character will reveal itself on earth.

The Ultimate Nobility of Character. What, then, makes a person "noble"? Certainly not making sacrifices. Even the most frenzied libertine makes sacrifices. Certainly not generally following one's passions. Some passions are contemptible. Certainly not doing something for others without selfishness. Perhaps selfishness has its greatest effect in the noblest people. What makes a person noble is a passion that seizes him and sets him apart, without his knowing it. It is the use of a rare and singular measure, almost a frenzy. It is feeling heat in things that feel cold to everyone else. It is sensing values for which no scales have yet been invented. It is making sacrifices on altars consecrated to an unknown God. It is bravery without the desire for honor. It is a self-sufficiency that has more than enough and gives to people and things. Until now, then, what has made people noble is what is rare in them, and their unawareness of that rarity. But let us consider what this standard has done in favor of exceptions. It has condemned as unreasonable and maligned everything ordinary, immediate, and indispensable. In short, it has condemned what has best preserved the species and has generally been the rule among humans until now. Becoming an advocate for the rule may perhaps be the ultimate form and refinement of nobility of character on earth.

The Desire for Suffering.—When I think of the desire to do something, how it continually tickles and stimulates millions of young Europeans, who cannot endure themselves and all their ennui,—I conceive that there must be a desire in them to suffer something, in order to derive from their suffering a worthy motive for acting, for doing something. Distress is necessary! Hence the cry of the politicians, hence the many false, trumped-up, exaggerated "states of distress" of all possible kinds, and the blind readiness to believe in them. This young world desires that there should arrive or appear from the outside—not happiness—but misfortune; and their imagination is already busy beforehand to form a monster out of it, so that they may afterwards be able to fight with a monster. If these distress-seekers felt the power to benefit themselves, to do something for themselves from internal sources, they would also understand how to create a distress of their own, specially their own, from internal sources. Their inventions might then be more refined, and their gratifications might sound like good music: while at present they fill the world with their cries of distress, and consequently too often with the feeling of distress in the first place! They do not know what to make of themselves—and so they paint the misfortune of others on the wall; they always need others! And always again other others!—Pardon me, my friends, I have ventured to paint my happiness on the wall.

The Desire for Suffering. When I think about the desire to do something, I see how it constantly stirs and drives millions of young Europeans. They cannot stand themselves or all their boredom. So I suppose they must desire to suffer, in order to find in their suffering a worthy reason to act, to do something. Distress is necessary! That is why politicians raise the alarm. That is why there are so many false, contrived, exaggerated "states of distress" of every possible kind, and such blind readiness to believe in them. These young people want something to come or appear from the outside, not happiness, but misfortune. Their imaginations are already busy turning it into a monster, so that they can fight a monster later. If these seekers of distress felt able to benefit themselves and do something for themselves from within, they would also know how to create a distress of their own, a distress that was especially their own, from within. Their creations might then be more refined, and their satisfactions might sound like good music. Instead, they fill the world with their cries of distress, and in doing so, they too often create the feeling of distress in the first place! They do not know what to do with themselves, so they paint the misfortune of others on the wall. They always need others! And always new others again! Pardon me, my friends, I have dared to paint my happiness on the wall.