Book 2

To the Realists.—Ye sober beings, who feel yourselves armed against passion and fantasy, and would gladly make a pride and an ornament out of your emptiness, ye call yourselves realists and give to understand that the world is actually constituted as it appears to you; before you alone reality stands unveiled, and ye yourselves would perhaps be the best part of it,—oh, ye dear images of Sais! But are not ye also in your unveiled condition still extremely passionate and dusky beings compared with the fish, and still all too like an enamoured artist?⁸—and what is "reality" to an enamoured artist! Ye still carry about with you the valuations of things which had their origin in the passions and infatuations of earlier centuries! There is still a secret and ineffaceable drunkenness embodied in your sobriety! Your love of "reality," for example—oh, that is an old, primitive "love"! In every feeling, in every sense-impression, there is a portion of this old love: and similarly also some kind of fantasy, prejudice, irrationality, ignorance, fear, and whatever else has become mingled and woven into it. There is that mountain! There is that cloud! What is "real" in them? Remove the phantasm and the whole human element therefrom, ye sober ones! Yes, if ye could do that! If ye could forget your origin, your past, your preparatory schooling,—your whole history as man and beast! There is no "reality" for us—nor for you either, ye sober ones,—we are far from being so alien to one another as ye suppose, and perhaps our good-will to get beyond drunkenness is just as respectable as your belief that ye are altogether incapable of drunkenness.

To the Realists. You sober beings feel armed against passion and fantasy. You would gladly wear your emptiness as a badge of pride. You call yourselves realists and imply that the world really is as it appears to you. You claim that reality stands unveiled before you alone. Perhaps you even think you are the best part of it. Oh, you dear images of Sais! But even unveiled, aren't you still extremely passionate and murky beings compared with fish? Aren't you still far too much like an artist in love?⁸ And what is "reality" to an artist in love! You still carry judgments about things that arose from the passions and infatuations of earlier centuries! Your sobriety still contains a secret drunkenness that can never be erased! Take your love of "reality," for example. Oh, that is an old, primitive "love"! Every feeling and every sense impression contains a portion of this old love. Each also contains some kind of fantasy, prejudice, irrationality, ignorance, fear, and whatever else has been mixed and woven into it. There is that mountain! There is that cloud! What is "real" in them? Remove the illusion and the whole human element from them, you sober ones! Yes, if only you could do that! If only you could forget your origins, your past, your early training, your whole history as human and animal! There is no "reality" for us, or for you either, you sober ones. We are far less different from one another than you suppose. Perhaps our willingness to move beyond drunkenness is just as respectable as your belief that you are altogether incapable of drunkenness.

Only as Creators!—It has caused me the greatest trouble, and for ever causes me the greatest trouble, to perceive that unspeakably more depends upon what things are called, than on what they are. The reputation, the name and appearance, the importance, the usual measure and weight of things—each being in origin most frequently an error and arbitrariness thrown over the things like a garment, and quite alien to their essence and even to their exterior—have gradually, by the belief therein and its continuous growth from generation to generation, grown as it were on-and-into things and become their very body; the appearance at the very beginning becomes almost always the essence in the end, and operates as the essence! What a fool he would be who would think it enough to refer here to this origin and this nebulous veil of illusion, in order to annihilate that which virtually passes for the world—namely, so-called "reality"! It is only as creators that we can annihilate!—But let us not forget this: it suffices to create new names and valuations and probabilities, in order in the long run to create new "things."

Only as Creators! It has always troubled me greatly, and still does, to realize something. What things are called matters unspeakably more than what they are. Their reputation, name, appearance, importance, and usual measure and weight are most often errors and arbitrary judgments. They are thrown over things like a garment, quite foreign to their essence and even their outward form. But people have believed in them, and that belief has grown from generation to generation. Gradually, these judgments have grown onto and into things and become their very body. What begins as appearance almost always becomes the essence in the end, and acts as the essence! What a fool someone would be to think that exposing this origin and this hazy veil of illusion is enough. That alone cannot destroy what effectively passes for the world, namely, so-called "reality"! Only as creators can we destroy! But let us not forget this: creating new names, values, and probabilities is enough to create new "things" in the long run.

We Artists!—When we love a woman we have readily a hatred against nature, on recollecting all the disagreeable natural functions to which every woman is subject; we prefer not to think of them at all, but if once our soul touches on these things it twitches impatiently, and glances, as we have said, contemptuously at nature:—we are hurt; nature seems to encroach upon our possessions, and with the profanest hands. We then shut our ears against all physiology, and we decree in secret that "we will hear nothing of the fact that man is something else than soul and form!" "The man under the skin" is an abomination and monstrosity, a blasphemy of God and of love to all lovers.—Well, just as the lover still feels with respect to nature and natural functions, so did every worshipper of God and his "holy omnipotence" formerly feel: in all that was said of nature by astronomers, geologists, physiologists, and physicians, he saw an encroachment on his most precious possession, and consequently an attack,—and moreover also an impertinence of the assailant! The "law of nature" sounded to him as blasphemy against God; in truth he would too willingly have seen the whole of mechanics traced back to moral acts of volition and arbitrariness:—but because nobody could render him this service, he concealed nature and mechanism from himself as best he could, and lived in a dream. Oh, those men of former times understood how to dream, and did not need first to go to sleep!—and we men of the present day also still understand it too well, with all our good-will for wakefulness and daylight! It suffices to love, to hate, to desire, and in general to feel,—immediately the spirit and the power of the dream come over us, and we ascend, with open eyes and indifferent to all danger, the most dangerous paths, to the roofs and towers of fantasy, and without any giddiness, as persons born for climbing—we the night-walkers by day! We artists! We concealers of naturalness! We moon-struck and God-struck ones! We dead-silent, untiring wanderers on heights which we do not see as heights, but as our plains, as our places of safety!

We Artists! When we love a woman, we easily come to hate nature. We remember all the unpleasant natural functions to which every woman is subject. We would rather not think of them at all. But once our soul touches on these things, it recoils impatiently and, as we have said, looks contemptuously at nature. We are hurt. Nature seems to intrude on what belongs to us, and with the most profane hands. We then shut our ears to all physiology, and secretly decree that "we will hear nothing of the fact that man is anything other than soul and form!" To all lovers, "the man under the skin" is an abomination and a monstrosity, a blasphemy against God and love. Well, the lover still feels this way about nature and natural functions. And every worshipper of God and his "holy omnipotence" once felt the same way. In everything astronomers, geologists, physiologists, and doctors said about nature, he saw an intrusion on his most precious possession. He saw it as an attack and, what is more, as an insult from the attacker! The "law of nature" sounded to him like blasphemy against God. In truth, he would gladly have seen all mechanics traced back to moral acts of will and whim. But because no one could do this for him, he hid nature and mechanism from himself as best he could, and lived in a dream. Oh, those people of former times knew how to dream, and did not even need to fall asleep first! And we people of today still know how to dream all too well, despite our desire for wakefulness and daylight! We need only love, hate, desire, or feel anything at all. Immediately the spirit and power of the dream come over us. With open eyes and indifferent to all danger, we climb the most dangerous paths to the roofs and towers of fantasy. We never feel dizzy, as if we were born to climb. We are the sleepwalkers of the day! We artists! We concealers of nature! We moon-struck and God-struck ones! We silent, tireless wanderers on heights we do not see as heights, but as our plains, our places of safety!

Women and their Effect in the Distance.—Have I still ears? Am I only ear, and nothing else besides? Here I stand in the midst of the surging of the breakers, whose white flames fork up to my feet;—from all sides there is howling, threatening, crying, and screaming at me, while in the lowest depths the old earth-shaker sings his aria, hollow like a roaring bull; he beats such an earth-shaker's measure thereto, that even the hearts of these weathered rock-monsters tremble at the sound. Then, suddenly, as if born out of nothingness, there appears before the portal of this hellish labyrinth, only a few fathoms distant,—a great sailing-ship gliding silently along like a ghost. Oh, this ghostly beauty! With what enchantment it seizes me! What? Has all the repose and silence in the world embarked here? Does my happiness itself sit in this quiet place, my happier ego, my second immortalised self? Still not dead, yet also no longer living? As a ghost-like, calm, gazing, gliding, sweeping, neutral being? Similar to the ship, which, with its white sails, like an immense butterfly, passes over the dark sea! Yes! Passing over existence! That is it! That would be it!——It seems that the noise here has made me a visionary? All great noise causes one to place happiness in the calm and the distance. When a man is in the midst of his hubbub, in the midst of the breakers of his plots and plans, he there sees perhaps calm, enchanting beings glide past him, for whose happiness and retirement he longs—they are women. He almost thinks that there with the women dwells his better self; that in these calm places even the loudest breakers become still as death, and life itself a dream of life. But still! But still! My noble enthusiast, there is also in the most beautiful sailing-ship so much noise and bustling, and alas, so much petty, pitiable bustling! The enchantment and the most powerful effect of women is, to use the language of philosophers, an effect at a distance, an actio in distans; there belongs thereto, however, primarily and above all,—distance!

Women and Their Effect at a Distance. Do I still have ears? Am I nothing but an ear? I stand here amid the surging breakers, their white flames leaping up to my feet. From every side they howl, threaten, cry, and scream at me. Deep below, the old earth-shaker sings his aria, hollow as a roaring bull. He beats a rhythm worthy of an earth-shaker. Even the hearts of these weathered rock monsters tremble at the sound. Then, suddenly, as if out of nothing, a great sailing ship appears at the entrance to this hellish maze. Only a few fathoms away, it glides silently past like a ghost. Oh, what ghostly beauty! How it enchants me! What? Has all the peace and silence in the world come aboard this ship? Does my happiness itself sit in this quiet place, my happier ego, my second, immortalized self? Still not dead, yet no longer alive? A ghostlike, calm, gazing, gliding, sweeping, neutral being? Like the ship, which passes over the dark sea with its white sails, like an immense butterfly! Yes! Passing over existence! That is it! That would be it! Has the noise here made me a visionary? All great noise makes us place happiness in calm and distance. When a man is in the middle of his own noise, amid the breakers of his schemes and plans, he may see calm, enchanting beings glide past. He longs for their happiness and seclusion. They are women. He almost thinks that his better self lives there with the women. He almost thinks that in these calm places even the loudest breakers grow still as death, and life itself becomes a dream of life. But wait! But wait! My noble enthusiast, even the most beautiful sailing ship holds plenty of noise and bustle. And alas, so much of that bustle is petty and pitiable! The enchantment and the most powerful effect of women are, in the language of philosophers, an effect at a distance, an actio in distans. But above all, this effect requires distance!

In Honour of Friendship.—That the sentiment of friendship was regarded by antiquity as the highest sentiment, higher even than the most vaunted pride of the self-sufficient and wise, yea as it were its sole and still holier brotherhood, is very well expressed by the story of the Macedonian king who made the present of a talent to a cynical Athenian philosopher from whom he received it back again. "What?" said the king, "has he then no friend?" He therewith meant to say, "I honour this pride of the wise and independent man, but I should have honoured his humanity still higher if the friend in him had gained the victory over his pride. The philosopher has lowered himself in my estimation, for he showed that he did not know one of the two highest sentiments—and in fact the higher of them!"

In Honour of Friendship. In antiquity, friendship was regarded as the highest sentiment. It was valued even above the celebrated pride of the self-sufficient, wise person. It was, as it were, the only sentiment equal to that pride, yet still more sacred. A story about a Macedonian king expresses this very well. The king gave a talent to an Athenian Cynic philosopher, who returned it. "What?" said the king, "does he have no friend?" He meant: "I honour the pride of a wise and independent man. But I would have honoured his humanity even more if the friend in him had overcome his pride. The philosopher has fallen in my estimation. He showed that he did not know one of the two highest sentiments, and the higher one at that!"

Love.—Love pardons even the passion of the beloved.

Love. Love forgives even the passion of the person it loves.

Woman in Music.—How does it happen that warm and rainy winds bring the musical mood and the inventive delight in melody with them? Are they not the same winds that fill the churches and give women amorous thoughts?

Woman in Music. Why do warm, rainy winds bring a musical mood and the creative pleasure of making melodies? Aren't these the same winds that fill churches and give women thoughts of love?

Sceptics.—I fear women who have become old are more sceptical in the secret recesses of their hearts than any of the men are; they believe in the superficiality of existence as in its essence, and all virtue and profundity is to them only the disguising of this "truth," the very desirable disguising of a pudendum,—an affair, therefore, of decency and of modesty, and nothing more!

Skeptics. I fear that older women are, deep down, more skeptical than any men. They believe that existence is superficial at its core. To them, all virtue and depth merely disguise this "truth." It is a very desirable disguise for a pudendum, a private part. So virtue and depth are matters of decency and modesty, and nothing more!

Devotedness.—There are noble women with a certain poverty of spirit, who, in order to express their profoundest devotedness, have no other alternative but to offer their virtue and modesty: it is the highest thing they have. And this present is often accepted without putting the recipient under such deep obligation as the giver supposed,—a very melancholy story!

Devotion. There are noble women with a certain poverty of spirit. To express their deepest devotion, they have no choice but to offer their virtue and modesty. These are the highest things they possess. Yet their gift is often accepted without creating as deep an obligation as the giver supposed. A very sad story!

The Strength of the Weak.—Women are all skilful in exaggerating their weaknesses, indeed they are inventive in weaknesses, so as to seem quite fragile ornaments to which even a grain of dust does harm; their existence is meant to bring home to man's mind his coarseness, and to appeal to his conscience. They thus defend themselves against the strong and all "rights of might."

The Strength of the Weak. Women are all skilled at exaggerating their weaknesses. They even invent weaknesses, so they seem like fragile ornaments that a grain of dust could harm. Their existence is meant to make men aware of their own coarseness and appeal to their conscience. In this way, women defend themselves against the strong and all "rights of might."

Self-dissembling.—She loves him now and has since been looking forth with as quiet confidence as a cow; but alas! It was precisely his delight that she seemed so fitful and absolutely incomprehensible! He had rather too much steady weather in himself already! Would she not do well to feign her old character? to feign indifference? Does not—love itself advise her to do so? Vivat comœdia!

Self-disguise. She loves him now, and ever since she fell in love, she has looked ahead with the calm confidence of a cow. But alas! What delighted him was precisely how changeable and utterly incomprehensible she seemed! He already had rather too much steady weather in himself! Wouldn't she do well to pretend to be her old self? To pretend to be indifferent? Doesn't love itself tell her to do so? Long live comedy!

Will and Willingness.—Some one brought a youth to a wise man and said, "See, this is one who is being corrupted by women!" The wise man shook his head and smiled. "It is men," he called out, "who corrupt women; and everything that women lack should be atoned for and improved in men,—for man creates for himself the ideal of woman, and woman moulds herself according to this ideal."—"You are too tender-hearted towards women," said one of the bystanders, "you do not know them!" The wise man answered: "Man's attribute is will, woman's attribute is willingness,—such is the law of the sexes, verily! a hard law for woman! All human beings are innocent of their existence, women, however, are doubly innocent; who could have enough of salve and gentleness for them!"—"What about salve! What about gentleness!" called out another person in the crowd, "we must educate women better!"—"We must educate men better," said the wise man, and made a sign to the youth to follow him.—The youth, however, did not follow him.

Will and Willingness. Someone brought a young man to a wise man and said, "Look, women are corrupting him!" The wise man shook his head and smiled. "It is men," he cried, "who corrupt women. Men should make up for and correct in themselves everything that women lack. For man creates his own ideal of woman, and woman shapes herself according to that ideal." "You are too softhearted toward women," said a bystander. "You don't know them!" The wise man answered: "Man's quality is will, woman's is willingness. That is truly the law of the sexes! A hard law for woman! All human beings are innocent of their own existence, but women are doubly innocent. Who could have enough healing balm and gentleness for them!" "Forget balm! Forget gentleness!" called out another person in the crowd. "We must educate women better!" "We must educate men better," said the wise man, and motioned for the young man to follow him. But the young man did not follow him.

Capacity for Revenge.—That a person cannot and consequently will not defend himself, does not yet cast disgrace upon him in our eyes; but we despise the person who has neither the ability nor the good-will for revenge—whether it be a man or a woman. Would a woman be able to captivate us (or, as people say, to "fetter" us) whom we did not credit with knowing how to employ the dagger (any kind of dagger) skilfully against us under certain circumstances? Or against herself; which in a certain case might be the severest revenge (the Chinese revenge).

Capacity for Revenge. A person who cannot defend himself, and therefore will not, is not disgraced in our eyes. But we despise anyone who lacks both the ability and the will to take revenge, whether man or woman. Could a woman captivate us (or, as people say, "fetter" us) if we did not believe she could use a dagger skillfully against us under certain circumstances? It could be any kind of dagger. Or could she use it against herself? In one case, that might be the harshest revenge (the Chinese revenge).

The Mistresses of the Masters.—A powerful contralto voice, as we occasionally hear it in the theatre, raises suddenly for us the curtain on possibilities in which we usually do not believe; all at once we are convinced that somewhere in the world there may be women with high, heroic, royal souls, capable and prepared for magnificent remonstrances, resolutions, and self-sacrifices, capable and prepared for domination over men, because in them the best in man, superior to sex, has become a corporeal ideal. To be sure, it is not the intention of the theatre that such voices should give such a conception of women; they are usually intended to represent the ideal male lover, for example, a Romeo; but, to judge by my experience, the theatre regularly miscalculates here, and the musician also, who expects such effects from such a voice. People do not believe in these lovers; these voices still contain a tinge of the motherly and housewifely character, and most of all when love is in their tone.

The Mistresses of the Masters. A powerful contralto voice, heard occasionally in the theater, suddenly reveals possibilities we usually do not believe in. We become convinced that somewhere in the world there may be women with noble, heroic, royal souls. Such women are capable and ready to make magnificent protests, decisions, and sacrifices. They are capable and ready to rule men, because the best in man, rising above sex, has become a living ideal in them. Of course, the theater does not intend such voices to give us this idea of women. Usually, they are meant to represent the ideal male lover, Romeo, for example. But in my experience, the theater regularly miscalculates here. So does the musician who expects such effects from such a voice. People do not believe in these lovers. These voices still have a touch of the mother and the housewife, especially when love is in their tone.

On Female Chastity.—There is something quite astonishing and extraordinary in the education of women of the higher class; indeed, there is perhaps nothing more paradoxical. All the world is agreed to educate them with as much ignorance as possible in eroticis, and to inspire their soul with a profound shame of such things, and the extremest impatience and horror at the suggestion of them. It is really here only that all the "honour" of woman is at stake; what would one not forgive them in other respects! But here they are intended to remain ignorant to the very backbone:—they are intended to have neither eyes, ears, words, nor thoughts for this, their "wickedness"; indeed knowledge here is already evil. And then! To be hurled as with an awful thunderbolt into reality and knowledge with marriage—and indeed by him whom they most love and esteem: to have to encounter love and shame in contradiction, yea, to have to feel rapture, abandonment, duty, sympathy, and fright at the unexpected proximity of God and animal, and whatever else besides! all at once!—There, in fact, a psychic entanglement has been effected which is quite unequalled! Even the sympathetic curiosity of the wisest discerner of men does not suffice to divine how this or that woman gets along with the solution of this enigma and the enigma of this solution; what dreadful, far-reaching suspicions must awaken thereby in the poor unhinged soul; and forsooth, how the ultimate philosophy and scepticism of the woman casts anchor at this point!—Afterwards the same profound silence as before: and often even a silence to herself, a shutting of her eyes to herself.—Young wives on that account make great efforts to appear superficial and thoughtless; the most ingenious of them simulate a kind of impudence.—Wives easily feel their husbands as a question-mark to their honour, and their children as an apology or atonement,—they require children, and wish for them in quite another spirit than a husband wishes for them.—In short, one cannot be gentle enough towards women!

On Female Chastity. There is something astonishing and extraordinary about the education of upper-class women. Perhaps nothing is more paradoxical. Everyone agrees to educate them with as much ignorance as possible about sex. They are taught to feel deep shame about such things, and extreme impatience and horror at any mention of them. It is really only here that a woman's "honour" is at stake. What would people not forgive women in other respects! But here, women are meant to remain ignorant to the very core. They are meant to have no eyes, ears, words, or thoughts for this, their "wickedness". Indeed, knowledge of it is already evil. And then! Marriage hurls them into reality and knowledge like a terrible thunderbolt, and by the man they most love and respect. They must face the conflict between love and shame. They must feel rapture, surrender, duty, sympathy, and fear at the unexpected closeness of God and animal, and whatever else besides. All at once! The result is a psychological tangle like no other. Even the sympathetic curiosity of the wisest judge of human nature cannot guess how each woman solves this riddle, or the riddle of her solution. What dreadful, far-reaching suspicions must awaken in the poor, unsettled soul! And how, indeed, a woman's deepest philosophy and scepticism come to rest at this point! Afterward comes the same deep silence as before. Often she is silent even with herself, closing her eyes to herself. Young wives therefore try hard to seem superficial and thoughtless. The cleverest of them put on a kind of bold shamelessness. Wives easily come to feel that their husbands put their honour in question, and that their children are an apology or atonement. They need children, and want them in quite a different spirit from their husbands. In short, one cannot be gentle enough toward women!

Mothers.—Animals think differently from men with respect to females; with them the female is regarded as the productive being. There is no paternal love among them, but there is such a thing as love of the children of a beloved, and habituation to them. In the young, the females find gratification for their lust of dominion; the young are a property, an occupation, something quite comprehensible to them, with which they can chatter: all this conjointly is maternal love,—it is to be compared to the love of the artist for his work. Pregnancy has made the females gentler, more expectant, more timid, more submissively inclined; and similarly intellectual pregnancy engenders the character of the contemplative, who are allied to women in character:—they are the masculine mothers.—Among animals the masculine sex is regarded as the beautiful sex.

Mothers. Animals think differently from humans about females. Among animals, the female is regarded as the one who produces offspring. Animals have no paternal love, but they can love the children of a beloved and grow accustomed to them. Females satisfy their desire to dominate through their young. The young are property, an occupation, something females can fully understand and chatter with. All of this together is maternal love. It can be compared to an artist’s love for his work. Pregnancy has made females gentler, more expectant, more timid, and more inclined to submit. Similarly, intellectual pregnancy shapes the character of contemplative men. Their character is akin to that of women. They are masculine mothers. Among animals, the male is regarded as the beautiful sex.

Saintly Cruelty.—A man holding a newly born child in his hands came to a saint. "What should I do with the child," he asked, "it is wretched, deformed, and has not even enough of life to die." "Kill it," cried the saint with a dreadful voice, "kill it, and then hold it in thy arms for three days and three nights to brand it on thy memory:—thus wilt thou never again beget a child when it is not the time for thee to beget."—When the man had heard this he went away disappointed; and many found fault with the saint because he had advised cruelty, for he had advised to kill the child. "But is it not more cruel to let it live?" asked the saint.

Saintly Cruelty. A man came to a saint, holding a newborn child in his hands. "What should I do with the child?" he asked. "It is miserable and deformed, and it does not even have enough life in it to die." "Kill it," cried the saint in a terrible voice. "Kill it, and then hold it in your arms for three days and three nights. Burn it into your memory. Then you will never again father a child when the time is not right for you." When the man heard this, he went away disappointed. Many people criticized the saint for advising cruelty, because he had advised killing the child. "But is it not more cruel to let it live?" asked the saint.

The Unsuccessful.—Those poor women always fail of success who become agitated and uncertain, and talk too much in presence of him whom they love; for men are most successfully seduced by a certain subtle and phlegmatic tenderness.

The Unsuccessful. Those poor women always fail who become nervous and uncertain and talk too much around the man they love. For men are most easily seduced by a certain subtle, calm tenderness.

The Third Sex.—"A small man is a paradox, but still a man,—but the small woman seems to me to be of another sex in comparison with well-grown ones"—said an old dancing-master. A small woman is never beautiful—said old Aristotle.

The Third Sex. "A short man is a paradox, but he is still a man. But a short woman seems to me to be a different sex from a fully grown woman," said an old dance teacher. A short woman is never beautiful, said old Aristotle.

The greatest Danger.—Had there not at all times been a larger number of men who regarded the cultivation of their mind—their "rationality"—as their pride, their obligation, their virtue, and were injured or shamed by all play of fancy and extravagance of thinking—as lovers of "sound common sense":—mankind would long ago have perished! Incipient insanity has hovered, and hovers continually over mankind as its greatest danger: that is precisely the breaking out of inclination in feeling, seeing, and hearing; the enjoyment of the unruliness of the mind; the delight in human unreason. It is not truth and certainty that is the antithesis of the world of the insane, but the universality and all-obligatoriness of a belief, in short, non-voluntariness in forming opinions. And the greatest labour of human beings hitherto has been to agree with one another regarding a great many things, and to impose upon themselves a law of agreement—indifferent whether these things are true or false. This is the discipline of the mind which has preserved mankind;—but the counter-impulses are still so powerful that one can really speak of the future of mankind with little confidence. The ideas of things still continually shift and move, and will perhaps alter more than ever in the future; it is continually the most select spirits themselves who strive against universal obligatoriness—the investigators of truth above all! The accepted belief, as the belief of all the world, continually engenders a disgust and a new longing in the more ingenious minds; and already the slow tempo which it demands for all intellectual processes (the imitation of the tortoise, which is here recognised as the rule) makes the artists and poets runaways:—it is in these impatient spirits that a downright delight in delirium breaks out, because delirium has such a joyful tempo! Virtuous intellects, therefore, are needed—ah! I want to use the least ambiguous word,—virtuous stupidity is needed, imperturbable conductors of the slow spirits are needed, in order that the faithful of the great collective belief may remain with one another and dance their dance further: it is a necessity of the first importance that here enjoins and demands. We others are the exceptions and the danger,—we eternally need protection!—Well, there can actually be something said in favour of the exceptions provided that they never want to become the rule.

The Greatest Danger. If there had not always been more men who took pride in cultivating their minds, humanity would have perished long ago! These men regarded their "rationality" as their duty and their virtue. As lovers of "sound common sense," they felt hurt or ashamed by any play of fancy or extravagant thinking. The beginnings of insanity have always hovered over humanity, and still do, as its greatest danger. This means letting personal impulses break out in feeling, seeing, and hearing. It means enjoying the mind's unruliness and taking delight in human unreason. The opposite of the world of the insane is not truth and certainty. It is a belief that is universal and binding on everyone. In short, it is having no choice in forming opinions. Until now, the greatest task of human beings has been to agree with one another about a great many things. They have had to impose on themselves a law of agreement, whether those things were true or false. This discipline of the mind has preserved humanity. But the opposing impulses are still so powerful that we can speak of humanity's future with little confidence. Our ideas about things are still constantly shifting, and perhaps they will change more than ever in the future. The finest minds themselves are constantly resisting beliefs that bind everyone, especially the seekers of truth! An accepted belief, simply because everyone believes it, constantly disgusts the more ingenious minds and awakens new longing in them. Accepted belief also demands a slow tempo for all intellectual activity. Here, the rule is to imitate the tortoise. This alone drives artists and poets to run away. These impatient spirits take outright delight in delirium because delirium has such a joyful tempo! So we need virtuous intellects. Ah! I want to use the least ambiguous word. We need virtuous stupidity. We need unshakable leaders of slow minds. Only then can those who share the great collective belief stay together and go on dancing their dance. A need of the first importance commands and demands this. We others are the exceptions and the danger. We always need protection! Well, something can indeed be said in favor of the exceptions, provided that they never want to become the rule.

The Animal with good Conscience.—It is not unknown to me that there is vulgarity in everything that pleases Southern Europe—whether it be Italian opera (for example, Rossini's and Bellini's), or the Spanish adventure-romance (most readily accessible to us in the French garb of Gil Blas)—but it does not offend me, any more than the vulgarity which one encounters in a walk through Pompeii, or even in the reading of every ancient book: what is the reason of this? Is it because shame is lacking here, and because the vulgar always comes forward just as sure and certain of itself as anything noble, lovely, and passionate in the same kind of music or romance? "The animal has its rights like man, so let it run about freely; and you, my dear fellow-man, are still this animal, in spite of all!"—that seems to me the moral of the case, and the peculiarity of southern humanity. Bad taste has its rights like good taste, and even a prerogative over the latter when it is the great requisite, the sure satisfaction, and as it were a universal language, an immediately intelligible mask and attitude; the excellent, select taste on the other hand has always something of a seeking, tentative character, not fully certain that it understands,—it is never, and has never been popular! The masque is and remains popular! So let all this masquerade run along in the melodies and cadences, in the leaps and merriment of the rhythm of these operas! Quite the ancient life! What does one understand of it, if one does not understand the delight in the masque, the good conscience of all masquerade! Here is the bath and the refreshment of the ancient spirit:—and perhaps this bath was still more necessary for the rare and sublime natures of the ancient world than for the vulgar.—On the other hand, a vulgar turn in northern works, for example in German music, offends me unutterably. There is shame in it, the artist has lowered himself in his own sight, and could not even avoid blushing: we are ashamed with him, and are so hurt because we surmise that he believed he had to lower himself on our account.

The Animal with a Good Conscience. I know that there is vulgarity in everything that pleases Southern Europe. This includes Italian opera, such as Rossini's and Bellini's, and the Spanish adventure romance. The latter is most accessible to us in the French dress of Gil Blas. But this vulgarity does not offend me. Neither does the vulgarity one encounters while walking through Pompeii, or even while reading every ancient book. Why is that? Is it because there is no shame here? Is it because vulgarity presents itself just as confidently as anything noble, lovely, or passionate in the same music or romance? "The animal has its rights, just like man, so let it run about freely. And you, my dear fellow-man, are still this animal, in spite of everything!" That seems to me the moral of the matter and the distinctive feature of southern humanity. Bad taste has its rights, just like good taste. It even has an advantage over good taste when it is a great need and a sure source of satisfaction. Then it is, as it were, a universal language, a mask and manner that everyone immediately understands. Excellent, refined taste, on the other hand, always has something searching and tentative about it. It is not entirely sure that it understands. It is not, and never has been, popular! The masque is popular and remains so! So let all this masquerade run its course in the melodies and cadences, in the leaps and cheerful rhythms of these operas! This is ancient life itself! What can one understand of ancient life without understanding the delight in the masque and the good conscience of all masquerade? Here the ancient spirit bathes and refreshes itself. Perhaps this bath was even more necessary for the rare and sublime natures of the ancient world than for the vulgar. On the other hand, a vulgar turn in northern works, for example in German music, offends me beyond words. There is shame in it. The artist has lowered himself in his own eyes and could not even help blushing. We feel ashamed with him, and we are so hurt because we suspect he believed he had to lower himself for our sake.

What we should be Grateful for.—It is only the artists, and especially the theatrical artists who have furnished men with eyes and ears to hear and see with some pleasure what everyone is in himself, what he experiences and aims at: it is only they who have taught us how to estimate the hero that is concealed in each of these common-place men, and the art of looking at ourselves from a distance as heroes, and as it were simplified and transfigured,—the art of "putting ourselves on the stage" before ourselves. It is thus only that we get beyond some of the paltry details in ourselves! Without that art we should be nothing but fore-ground, and would live absolutely under the spell of the perspective which makes the closest and the commonest seem immensely large and like reality in itself.—Perhaps there is merit of a similar kind in the religion which commanded us to look at the sinfulness of every individual man with a magnifying-glass, and to make a great, immortal criminal out of the sinner; in that it put eternal perspectives around man, it taught him to see himself from a distance, and as something past, something entire.

What We Should Be Grateful For. Only artists, especially theater artists, have given us eyes and ears to see and hear ourselves with some pleasure. They have helped us appreciate what each of us is, experiences, and aims for. Only they have taught us to value the hero hidden in every ordinary person. They have taught us to look at ourselves from a distance as heroes, simplified and transformed, as it were. This is the art of "putting ourselves on the stage" before ourselves. Only in this way can we get beyond some of our petty details! Without that art, we would be nothing but foreground. We would live entirely under the spell of a perspective that makes the nearest and most familiar things seem enormous. It makes them seem like reality itself. Perhaps religion has a similar merit. It commanded us to look at each person's sinfulness through a magnifying glass and make the sinner into a great, immortal criminal. By placing eternal perspectives around us, religion taught us to see ourselves from a distance, as something past and complete.

The Charm of Imperfection.—I see here a poet, who, like so many men, exercises a higher charm by his imperfections than by all that is rounded off and takes perfect shape under his hands,—indeed, he derives his advantage and reputation far more from his actual limitations than from his abundant powers. His work never expresses altogether what he would really like to express, what he would like to have seen: he appears to have had the foretaste of a vision and never the vision itself:—but an extraordinary longing for this vision has remained in his soul; and from this he derives his equally extraordinary eloquence of longing and craving. With this he raises those who listen to him above his work and above all "works," and gives them wings to rise higher than hearers have ever risen before, thus making them poets and seers themselves; they then show an admiration for the originator of their happiness, as if he had led them immediately to the vision of his holiest and ultimate verities, as if he had reached his goal, and had actually seen and communicated his vision. It is to the advantage of his reputation that he has not really arrived at his goal.

The Charm of Imperfection. I see a poet who, like so many men, is more charming in his imperfections than in everything he brings to a polished, perfect form. Indeed, his advantages and reputation come far more from his actual limitations than from his abundant powers. His work never fully expresses what he really wants to express, what he would like to have seen. He seems to have had a foretaste of a vision, but never the vision itself. Yet an extraordinary longing for this vision has remained in his soul. From that longing comes his equally extraordinary eloquence of longing and desire. With this eloquence, he lifts his listeners above his own work and above all "works." He gives them wings to rise higher than listeners have ever risen before. In doing so, he makes them poets and seers themselves. They then admire the source of their happiness as if he had led them directly to a vision of his holiest and ultimate truths. They admire him as if he had reached his goal and had actually seen and communicated his vision. His reputation benefits from the fact that he has not really reached his goal.

Art and Nature.—The Greeks (or at least the Athenians) liked to hear good talking: indeed they had an eager inclination for it, which distinguished them more than anything else from non-Greeks. And so they required good talking even from passion on the stage, and submitted to the unnaturalness of dramatic verse with delight:—in nature, forsooth, passion is so sparing of words! so dumb and confused! Or if it finds words, so embarrassed and irrational and a shame to itself! We have now, all of us, thanks to the Greeks, accustomed ourselves to this unnaturalness on the stage, as we endure that other unnaturalness, the singing passion, and willingly endure it, thanks to the Italians.—It has become a necessity to us, which we cannot satisfy out of the resources of actuality, to hear men talk well and in full detail in the most trying situations: it enraptures us at present when the tragic hero still finds words, reasons, eloquent gestures, and on the whole a bright spirituality, where life approaches the abysses, and where the actual man mostly loses his head, and certainly his fine language. This kind of deviation from nature is perhaps the most agreeable repast for man's pride: he loves art generally on account of it, as the expression of high, heroic unnaturalness and convention. One rightly objects to the dramatic poet when he does not transform everything into reason and speech, but always retains a remnant of silence:—just as one is dissatisfied with an operatic musician who cannot find a melody for the highest emotion, but only an emotional, "natural" stammering and crying. Here nature has to be contradicted! Here the common charm of illusion has to give place to a higher charm! The Greeks go far, far in this direction—frightfully far! As they constructed the stage as narrow as possible and dispensed with all the effect of deep backgrounds, as they made pantomime and easy motion impossible to the actor, and transformed him into a solemn, stiff, masked bogey, so they have also deprived passion itself of its deep background, and have dictated to it a law of fine talk; indeed, they have really done everything to counteract the elementary effect of representations that inspire pity and terror: they did not want pity and terror,—with due deference, with the highest deference to Aristotle! but he certainly did not hit the nail, to say nothing of the head of the nail, when he spoke about the final aim of Greek tragedy! Let us but look at the Grecian tragic poets with respect to what most excited their diligence, their inventiveness, and their emulation,—certainly it was not the intention of subjugating the spectators by emotion! The Athenian went to the theatre to hear fine talking! And fine talking was arrived at by Sophocles!—pardon me this heresy!—It is very different with serious opera: all its masters make it their business to prevent their personages being understood. "An occasional word picked up may come to the assistance of the inattentive listener; but on the whole the situation must be self-explanatory,—the talking is of no account!"—so they all think, and so they have all made fun of the words. Perhaps they have only lacked courage to express fully their extreme contempt for words: a little additional insolence in Rossini, and he would have allowed la-la-la-la to be sung throughout—and it might have been the rational course! The personages of the opera are not meant to be believed "in their words," but in their tones! That is the difference, that is the fine unnaturalness on account of which people go to the opera! Even the recitativo secco is not really intended to be heard as words and text: this kind of half-music is meant rather in the first place to give the musical ear a little repose (the repose from melody, as from the sublimest, and on that account the most straining enjoyment of this art),—but very soon something different results, namely, an increasing impatience, an increasing resistance, a new longing for entire music, for melody.—How is it with the art of Richard Wagner as seen from this standpoint? Is it perhaps the same? Perhaps otherwise? It would often seem to me as if one needed to have learned by heart both the words and the music of his creations before the performances; for without that—so it seemed to me—one may hear neither the words, nor even the music.

Art and Nature. The Greeks, or at least the Athenians, loved to hear people speak well. They had a keen appetite for it, which distinguished them from non-Greeks more than anything else. So they demanded fine speech even from passion on the stage. They delighted in the unnaturalness of dramatic verse. In nature, after all, passion has so few words! It is so mute and confused! Or if it finds words, it is so embarrassed and irrational, so ashamed of itself! Thanks to the Greeks, we have all grown used to this unnaturalness on the stage. And thanks to the Italians, we willingly accept that other unnaturalness, singing passion. We now need to hear people speak well and at length in the most trying situations. Reality cannot satisfy this need. We are delighted when a tragic hero still finds words, reasons, eloquent gestures, and a bright, lively spirit as life approaches the abyss. In such moments, a real person mostly loses his head, and certainly loses his fine language. This kind of departure from nature is perhaps the most pleasing feast for human pride. It is generally why man loves art, as an expression of lofty, heroic unnaturalness and convention. We rightly object when a playwright fails to turn everything into reason and speech, but always leaves something silent. We are likewise dissatisfied with an opera composer who cannot find a melody for the strongest emotion. Instead, he offers only emotional, "natural" stammering and crying. Here nature must be contradicted! Here the ordinary charm of illusion must give way to a higher charm! The Greeks go very, very far in this direction, frighteningly far! They built the stage as narrow as possible and gave up all the effects of deep backgrounds. They made mime and easy movement impossible for the actor, turning him into a solemn, stiff, masked scarecrow. They also stripped passion itself of its deep background and ordered it to speak beautifully. Indeed, they really did everything to counter the basic effect of portrayals that inspire pity and terror. They did not want pity and terror, with all due respect, with the greatest respect to Aristotle! But he certainly missed the nail, let alone its head, when he spoke of the ultimate aim of Greek tragedy! Just look at what most stirred the Greek tragic poets to work, invent, and compete. It was certainly not the aim of overwhelming spectators with emotion! The Athenian went to the theatre to hear fine speech! And Sophocles achieved fine speech! Forgive me this heresy! Things are very different with serious opera. All its masters make it their business to keep their characters from being understood. "An occasional word picked up may help the inattentive listener. But on the whole, the situation must explain itself. The words do not matter!" That is what they all think, and that is how they have all made fun of words. Perhaps they have only lacked the courage to express their utter contempt for words fully. With a little more insolence, Rossini would have had them sing la-la-la-la throughout, and that might have been the rational course! We are not meant to believe opera characters because of "their words," but because of their tones! That is the difference, the fine unnaturalness that draws people to the opera! Even the recitativo secco is not really meant to be heard as words and text. This kind of half-music is meant first of all to give the musical ear a little rest. It is a rest from melody, the most sublime and therefore the most demanding pleasure this art offers. But very soon it produces something else: growing impatience, growing resistance, and a renewed longing for complete music, for melody. How does Richard Wagner's art look from this standpoint? Is it perhaps the same? Or perhaps different? It has often seemed to me that one must learn both the words and the music of his works by heart before a performance. Without that, so it seemed to me, one may hear neither the words nor even the music.

Grecian Taste.—"What is beautiful in it?"—asked a certain geometrician, after a performance of the Iphigenia—"there is nothing proved in it!" Could the Greeks have been so far from this taste? In Sophocles at least "everything is proved."

Grecian Taste. "What is beautiful in it?" a mathematician asked after a performance of Iphigenia. "Nothing is proved in it!" Could the Greeks have been so far from sharing his taste? In Sophocles, at least, "everything is proved."

Esprit Un-Grecian.—The Greeks were exceedingly logical and plain in all their thinking; they did not get tired of it, at least during their long flourishing period, as is so often the case with the French; who too willingly made a little excursion into the opposite, and in fact endure the spirit of logic only when it betrays its sociable courtesy, its sociable self-renunciation, by a multitude of such little excursions into its opposite. Logic appears to them as necessary as bread and water, but also like these as a kind of prison-fare, as soon as it is to be taken pure and by itself. In good society one must never want to be in the right absolutely and solely, as all pure logic requires; hence, the little dose of irrationality in all French esprit.—The social sense of the Greeks was far less developed than that of the French in the present and the past; hence, so little esprit in their cleverest men, hence, so little wit, even in their wags, hence—alas! But people will not readily believe these tenets of mine, and how much of the kind I have still on my soul!—Est res magna tacere—says Martial, like all garrulous people.

Esprit Un-Grecian. The Greeks were remarkably logical and clear in all their thinking. They did not grow tired of it, at least during their long period of flourishing. The French, by contrast, often grow tired of logic. They are all too ready to stray briefly into its opposite. In fact, they tolerate the spirit of logic only when it shows sociable courtesy by yielding to its opposite in many small ways. Logic seems as necessary to them as bread and water. But when served plain and alone, it also seems like prison food. In good society, one must never insist on being absolutely and exclusively right, as pure logic always requires. That is why there is a small dose of irrationality in all French esprit. The Greeks had a far less developed social sense than the French, both past and present. That is why even their cleverest men had so little esprit, and even their jokers had so little wit. That is why, alas! But people will not readily believe these claims of mine. And how many more such claims I still have on my conscience! Est res magna tacere, says Martial, like all talkative people.

Translations.—One can estimate the amount of the historical sense which an age possesses by the way in which it makes translations and seeks to embody in itself past periods and literatures. The French of Corneille, and even the French of the Revolution, appropriated Roman antiquity in a manner for which we would no longer have the courage—owing to our superior historical sense. And Roman antiquity itself: how violently, and at the same time how naïvely, did it lay its hand on everything excellent and elevated belonging to the older Grecian antiquity! How they translated these writings into the Roman present! How they wiped away intentionally and unconcernedly the wing-dust of the butterfly moment! It is thus that Horace now and then translated Alcæus or Archilochus, it is thus that Propertius translated Callimachus and Philetas (poets of equal rank with Theocritus, if we be allowed to judge): of what consequence was it to them that the actual creator experienced this and that, and had inscribed the indication thereof in his poem!—as poets they were averse to the antiquarian, inquisitive spirit which precedes the historical sense; as poets they did not respect those essentially personal traits and names, nor anything peculiar to city, coast, or century, such as its costume and mask, but at once put the present and the Roman in its place. They seem to us to ask: "Should we not make the old new for ourselves, and adjust ourselves to it? Should we not be allowed to inspire this dead body with our soul? for it is dead indeed: how loathsome is everything dead!"—They did not know the pleasure of the historical sense; the past and the alien was painful to them, and as Romans it was an incitement to a Roman conquest. In fact, they conquered when they translated,—not only in that they omitted the historical: no, they added also allusions to the present; above all, they struck out the name of the poet and put their own in its place—not with the feeling of theft, but with the very best conscience of the imperium Romanum.

Translations. One can measure an age's historical sense by how it makes translations. One can also measure it by how the age tries to absorb past periods and literatures. The French of Corneille's time, and even the French of the Revolution, took over Roman antiquity in a way we would no longer dare. Our superior historical sense prevents us. And what about Roman antiquity itself? How violently, yet how naïvely, the Romans seized everything excellent and elevated from the older Grecian antiquity! How they translated those writings into the Roman present! How deliberately and carelessly they brushed away the wing-dust of the butterfly moment! That is how Horace sometimes translated Alcæus or Archilochus. It is how Propertius translated Callimachus and Philetas. These poets were equal in rank to Theocritus, if we are allowed to judge. What did it matter to the Roman poets that the original creator had experienced this or that? What did it matter that he had marked those experiences in his poem? As poets, they disliked the antiquarian curiosity that comes before the historical sense. As poets, they had no respect for those deeply personal traits and names. Nor did they respect anything peculiar to a city, coast, or century, such as its costume and mask. They immediately put the present and the Roman in their place. They seem to ask us: "Shouldn't we make the old new for ourselves and adapt ourselves to it? Shouldn't we be allowed to breathe our soul into this dead body? For it really is dead. How loathsome everything dead is!" They did not know the pleasure of the historical sense. The past and the foreign were painful to them, and as Romans, they saw them as an invitation to Roman conquest. In fact, they conquered when they translated. They did more than leave out the historical details. They also added references to the present. Above all, they struck out the poet's name and put their own in its place. They did this without feeling that they were stealing. Their consciences were as clear as those of the imperium Romanum itself.

The Origin of Poetry.—The lovers of the fantastic in man, who at the same time represent the doctrine of instinctive morality, draw this conclusion: "Granted that utility has been honoured at all times as the highest divinity, where then in all the world has poetry come from?—this rhythmising of speech which thwarts rather than furthers plainness of communication, and which, nevertheless, has sprung up everywhere on the earth, and still springs up, as a mockery of all useful purpose! The wildly beautiful irrationality of poetry refutes you, ye utilitarians! The wish to get rid of utility in some way—that is precisely what has elevated man, that is what has inspired him to morality and art!" Well, I must here speak for once to please the utilitarians,—they are so seldom in the right that it is pitiful! In the old times which called poetry into being, people had still utility in view with respect to it, and a very important utility—at the time when rhythm was introduced into speech, the force which arranges all the particles of the sentence anew, commands the choosing of the words, recolours the thought, and makes it more obscure, more foreign, and more distant: to be sure a superstitious utility! It was intended that a human entreaty should be more profoundly impressed upon the Gods by virtue of rhythm, after it had been observed that men could remember a verse better than an unmetrical speech. It was likewise thought that people could make themselves audible at greater distances by the rhythmical beat; the rhythmical prayer seemed to come nearer to the ear of the Gods. Above all, however, people wanted to have the advantage of the elementary conquest which man experiences in himself when he hears music: rhythm is a constraint; it produces an unconquerable desire to yield, to join in; not only the step of the foot, but also the soul itself follows the measure,—probably the soul of the Gods also, as people thought! They attempted, therefore, to constrain the Gods by rhythm and to exercise a power over them; they threw poetry around the Gods like a magic noose. There was a still more wonderful idea, and it has perhaps operated most powerfully of all in the originating of poetry. Among the Pythagoreans it made its appearance as a philosophical doctrine and as an artifice of teaching: but long before there were philosophers music was acknowledged to possess the power of unburdening the emotions, of purifying the soul, of soothing the ferocia animi—and this was owing to the rhythmical element in music. When the proper tension and harmony of the soul were lost a person had to dance to the measure of the singer,—that was the recipe of this medical art. By means of it Terpander quieted a tumult, Empedocles calmed a maniac, Damon purged a love-sick youth; by means of it even the maddened, revengeful Gods were treated for the purpose of a cure. First of all, it was by driving the frenzy and wantonness of their emotions to the highest pitch, by making the furious mad, and the revengeful intoxicated with vengeance:—all the orgiastic cults seek to discharge the ferocia of a deity all at once and thus make an orgy, so that the deity may feel freer and quieter afterwards, and leave man in peace. Melos, according to its root, signifies a soothing means, not because the song is gentle itself, but because its after-effect makes gentle.—And not only in the religious song, but also in the secular song of the most ancient times the prerequisite is that the rhythm should exercise a magical influence; for example, in drawing water, or in rowing: the song is for the enchanting of the spirits supposed to be active thereby; it makes them obliging, involuntary, and the instruments of man. And as often as a person acts he has occasion to sing, every action is dependent on the assistance of spirits: magic song and incantation appear to be the original form of poetry. When verse also came to be used in oracles—the Greeks said that the hexameter was invented at Delphi,—the rhythm was here also intended to exercise a compulsory influence. To make a prophecy—that means originally (according to what seems to me the probable derivation of the Greek word) to determine something; people thought they could determine the future by winning Apollo over to their side: he who, according to the most ancient idea, is far more than a foreseeing deity. According as the formula is pronounced with literal and rhythmical correctness, it determines the future: the formula, however, is the invention of Apollo, who as the God of rhythm, can also determine the goddesses of fate.—Looked at and investigated as a whole, was there ever anything more serviceable to the ancient superstitious species of human being than rhythm? People could do everything with it: they could make labour go on magically; they could compel a God to appear, to be near at hand, and listen to them; they could arrange the future for themselves according to their will; they could unburden their own souls of any kind of excess (of anxiety, of mania, of sympathy, of revenge), and not only their own soul, but the souls of the most evil spirits,—without verse a person was nothing, by means of verse a person became almost a God. Such a fundamental feeling no longer allows itself to be fully eradicated,—and even now, after millenniums of long labour in combating such superstition, the very wisest of us occasionally becomes the fool of rhythm, be it only that one perceives a thought to be truer when it has a metrical form and approaches with a divine hopping. Is it not a very funny thing that the most serious philosophers, however anxious they are in other respects for strict certainty, still appeal to poetical sayings in order to give their thoughts force and credibility?—and yet it is more dangerous to a truth when the poet assents to it than when he contradicts it! For, as Homer says, "The singers speak much falsehood!"—

The Origin of Poetry. Those who love the fantastic side of humanity and believe in instinctive morality draw this conclusion: "Suppose utility has always been honored as the highest divinity. Then where in the world did poetry come from? Its rhythms make speech less clear rather than clearer. Yet poetry has appeared everywhere on earth and still appears, mocking every useful purpose! The wildly beautiful irrationality of poetry proves you utilitarians wrong! The wish to get rid of utility somehow is precisely what elevated humanity and inspired morality and art!" Well, for once I must speak in favor of the utilitarians. They are so seldom right that it is pitiful! In the old days when poetry arose, people did have a use for it in mind. It was a very important use, though a superstitious one! Rhythm was introduced into speech, rearranging every part of a sentence, dictating the choice of words, and changing the color of thought. It also made thought more obscure, more strange, and more distant. People had noticed that a verse was easier to remember than ordinary speech. So they meant rhythm to impress human prayers more deeply on the Gods. They also thought the beat of rhythm could make their voices heard farther away. A rhythmic prayer seemed to reach closer to the ears of the Gods. Above all, however, people wanted to take advantage of the basic power that music has over us. Rhythm is a force of compulsion. It creates an irresistible desire to give way and join in. Not only our feet but our very souls follow the beat. And people thought the souls of the Gods probably did too! So they tried to compel the Gods through rhythm and gain power over them. They cast poetry around the Gods like a magic noose. There was an even more remarkable idea. Perhaps it played the greatest part of all in the origin of poetry. Among the Pythagoreans, it appeared as a philosophical doctrine and a teaching technique. But long before philosophers existed, people believed music could release the emotions, purify the soul, and soothe the ferocia animi, the fierceness of the spirit. They believed music had this power because of its rhythm. When the soul lost its proper tension and harmony, a person had to dance to the singer's rhythm. That was the prescription of this healing art. With it, Terpander quieted a tumult, Empedocles calmed a madman, and Damon cured a lovesick youth. Even the maddened, vengeful Gods were treated this way to cure them. First, people drove the frenzy and excess of the Gods' emotions to their highest pitch. They drove the furious mad and made the vengeful drunk with revenge. All orgiastic cults seek to release a deity's ferocia all at once and so create an orgy. Then the deity may feel freer and calmer afterward and leave humanity in peace. Melos, according to its root, means a soothing remedy. This is not because the song itself is gentle, but because its aftereffect makes things gentle. Rhythm was supposed to have a magical effect not only in religious songs but also in the secular songs of the earliest times. People sang, for example, while drawing water or rowing. The song enchanted the spirits believed to be active in these tasks. It made them willing, powerless to resist, and into instruments of human beings. And whenever a person acted, there was an occasion to sing. Every action depended on the help of spirits. Magic songs and incantations seem to have been the original form of poetry. When verse also came to be used in oracles, rhythm was meant to have a compelling power there too. The Greeks said that the hexameter was invented at Delphi. To make a prophecy originally meant to determine something, judging by what seems to me the likely origin of the Greek word. People thought they could determine the future by winning Apollo over to their side. In the oldest conception, he was far more than a god who could foresee events. If the formula was spoken with the exact words and rhythm, it determined the future. But Apollo invented the formula. As the God of rhythm, he can also determine what the goddesses of fate will do. Looking at the whole matter, was anything ever more useful to the superstitious people of ancient times than rhythm? They could do everything with it. They could make work proceed by magic. They could compel a God to appear, stay near, and listen to them. They could arrange the future to suit their wishes. They could rid their souls of any kind of excess, whether anxiety, mania, sympathy, or revenge. And they could do the same for the souls of the most evil spirits. Without verse, a person was nothing. With verse, a person became almost a God. Such a deep-rooted feeling can never be completely erased. Even now, after thousands of years spent fighting this superstition, the wisest of us occasionally falls under the spell of rhythm. At the very least, we feel a thought is truer when it takes a metrical form and comes hopping along like a god. Isn't it very funny that the most serious philosophers still appeal to poetical sayings to give their thoughts force and credibility? In other matters, they are so concerned with strict certainty. Yet it is more dangerous for a truth when a poet agrees with it than when he contradicts it! For, as Homer says, "The singers speak much falsehood!"

The Good and the Beautiful.—Artists glorify continually—they do nothing else,—and indeed they glorify all those conditions and things that have a reputation, so that man may feel himself good or great, or intoxicated, or merry, or pleased and wise by it. Those select things and conditions whose value for human happiness is regarded as secure and determined, are the objects of artists: they are ever lying in wait to discover such things, to transfer them into the domain of art. I mean to say that they are not themselves the valuers of happiness and of the happy ones, but they always press close to these valuers with the greatest curiosity and longing, in order immediately to use their valuations advantageously. As besides their impatience, they have also the big lungs of heralds and the feet of runners, they are likewise always among the first to glorify the new excellency, and often seem to be those who first of all called it good and valued it as good. This, however, as we have said, is an error; they are only faster and louder than the actual valuers:—And who then are these?—They are the rich and the leisurely.

The Good and the Beautiful. Artists constantly glorify. They do nothing else. They glorify all the things and conditions with a reputation for making people feel good, great, intoxicated, cheerful, pleased, or wise. Artists focus on those select things and conditions whose value for human happiness is regarded as settled and certain. They are always looking for such things, so they can bring them into art. I mean that artists do not themselves judge what happiness is or who is happy. Instead, they follow those who make these judgments with great curiosity and longing. They want to put these judgments to use as soon as they can. Besides being impatient, artists have the powerful lungs of heralds and the feet of runners. So they are always among the first to glorify a new excellence. They often seem to be the first to call it good and judge it good. But, as we have said, this is a mistake. They are only faster and louder than the people who actually make these judgments. And who are these people? They are the rich and those with leisure.

The Theatre.—This day has given me once more strong and elevated sentiments, and if I could have music and art in the evening, I know well what music and art I should not like to have; namely, none of that which would fain intoxicate its hearers and excite them to a crisis of strong and high feeling,—those men with commonplace souls, who in the evening are not like victors on triumphal cars, but like tired mules to whom life has rather too often applied the whip. What would those men at all know of "higher moods," unless there were expedients for causing ecstasy and idealistic strokes of the whip!—and thus they have their inspirers as they have their wines. But what is their drink and their drunkenness to me! Does the inspired one need wine? He rather looks with a kind of disgust at the agency and the agent which are here intended to produce an effect without sufficient reason,—an imitation of the high tide of the soul! What? One gives the mole wings and proud fancies—before going to sleep, before he creeps into his hole? One sends him into the theatre and puts great magnifying-glasses to his blind and tired eyes? Men, whose life is not "action" but business, sit in front of the stage and look at strange beings to whom life is more than business? "This is proper," you say, "this is entertaining, this is what culture wants!"—Well then! culture is too often lacking in me, for this sight is too often disgusting to me. He who has enough of tragedy and comedy in himself surely prefers to remain away from the theatre; or, as the exception, the whole procedure—theatre and public and poet included—becomes for him a truly tragic and comic play, so that the performed piece counts for little in comparison. He who is something like Faust and Manfred, what does it matter to him about the Fausts and Manfreds of the theatre!—while it certainly gives him something to think about that such figures are brought into the theatre at all. The strongest thoughts and passions before those who are not capable of thought and passion—but of intoxication only! And those as a means to this end! And theatre and music the hashish-smoking and betel-chewing of Europeans! Oh, who will narrate to us the whole history of narcotics!—It is almost the history of "culture," the so-called higher culture!

The Theatre. Today has once again given me strong and elevated feelings. If I could have music and art this evening, I know what kind I would not want. I would not want art that tries to intoxicate its listeners and excite them to a peak of intense and lofty feeling. Such art is for people with ordinary souls. In the evening, they are not like victors riding in triumphal chariots. They are more like tired mules that life has whipped a little too often. What would such people know of "higher moods" without devices to produce ecstasy and idealistic lashes of the whip? So they have their inspirers, just as they have their wines. But what are their drink and their drunkenness to me? Does an inspired person need wine? Rather, he looks with a kind of disgust at the means and the person meant to produce an effect without sufficient cause. It is an imitation of the soul at high tide! What? Give the mole wings and proud dreams before he goes to sleep, before he creeps into his hole? Send him to the theatre and put powerful magnifying glasses before his blind and tired eyes? People whose lives are not "action" but business sit before the stage. They watch strange beings for whom life is more than business. "This is proper," you say, "this is entertaining, this is what culture wants!" Well then! Too often, I lack culture, for too often I find this sight disgusting. Anyone who has enough tragedy and comedy within himself surely prefers to stay away from the theatre. Or, exceptionally, the whole affair becomes a truly tragic and comic play for him. That includes the theatre, the audience, and the poet. The play being performed counts for little by comparison. If someone is something like Faust or Manfred, what do the theatre's Fausts and Manfreds matter to him? Though it certainly gives him something to think about that such figures are brought into the theatre at all. The strongest thoughts and passions are presented to people incapable of thought and passion, capable only of intoxication! And those thoughts and passions are used to achieve that end! Theatre and music are the Europeans' hashish-smoking and betel-chewing! Oh, who will tell us the whole history of narcotics? It is almost the history of "culture," the so-called higher culture!

The Conceit of Artists.—I think artists often do not know what they can do best, because they are too conceited, and have set their minds on something loftier than those little plants appear to be, which can grow up to perfection on their soil, fresh, rare, and beautiful. The final value of their own garden and vineyard is superciliously underestimated by them, and their love and their insight are not of the same quality. Here is a musician, who, more than any one else, has the genius for discovering the tones peculiar to suffering, oppressed, tortured souls, and who can endow even dumb animals with speech. No one equals him in the colours of the late autumn, in the indescribably touching happiness of a last, a final, and all too short enjoyment; he knows a chord for those secret and weird midnights of the soul when cause and effect seem out of joint, and when every instant something may originate "out of nothing." He draws his resources best of all out of the lower depths of human happiness, and so to speak, out of its drained goblet, where the bitterest and most nauseous drops have ultimately, for good or for ill, commingled with the sweetest. He knows the weary shuffling along of the soul which can no longer leap or fly, yea, not even walk; he has the shy glance of concealed pain, of understanding without comfort, of leave-taking without avowal; yea, as the Orpheus of all secret misery, he is greater than anyone; and in fact much has been added to art by him which was hitherto inexpressible and not even thought worthy of art, and which was only to be scared away, by words, and not grasped—many small and quite microscopic features of the soul: yes, he is the master of miniature. But he does not wish to be so! His character is more in love with large walls and daring frescoes! He fails to see that his spirit has a different taste and inclination, and prefers to sit quietly in the corners of ruined houses:—concealed in this way, concealed even from himself, he there paints his proper masterpieces, all of which are very short, often only one bar in length,—there only does he become quite good, great, and perfect, perhaps there only.—But he does not know it! He is too conceited to know it.

The Conceit of Artists. I think artists often do not know what they do best because they are too conceited. They set their minds on something loftier than the little plants that can grow to perfection in their soil, fresh, rare, and beautiful. They look down on the true value of their own garden and vineyard. Their love and their insight are not of the same quality. Consider a musician who has, more than anyone else, a genius for discovering the tones of suffering, oppressed, and tortured souls. He can even give speech to animals that cannot speak. No one equals him in the colors of late autumn, or in the indescribably moving happiness of a last, final, and all too brief pleasure. He knows a chord for those secret, strange midnights of the soul when cause and effect seem out of joint. At such times, something may come "out of nothing" at any moment. He draws his best material from the lowest depths of human happiness, from its drained goblet, so to speak. There, for good or ill, the bitterest and most nauseating drops have finally mingled with the sweetest. He knows the weary shuffle of a soul that can no longer leap or fly, or even walk. He knows the shy glance of hidden pain, of understanding without comfort, of parting without saying so. As the Orpheus of all secret misery, he is greater than anyone. He has, in fact, added much to art that could not be expressed before and was not even thought worthy of art. These things were only meant to be driven away with words, not understood. They include many small, even microscopic features of the soul. Yes, he is the master of miniature. But he does not wish to be one! His character is more in love with large walls and daring frescoes! He fails to see that his spirit has different tastes and inclinations. It prefers to sit quietly in the corners of ruined houses. Hidden there, even from himself, he paints his true masterpieces. They are all very short, often only one bar long. Only there does he become truly good, great, and perfect, perhaps only there. But he does not know it! He is too conceited to know it.

Earnestness for the Truth.—Earnest for the truth! What different things men understand by these words! Just the same opinions, and modes of demonstration and testing which a thinker regards as a frivolity in himself, to which he has succumbed with shame at one time or other,—just the same opinions may give to an artist, who comes in contact with them and accepts them temporarily, the consciousness that the profoundest earnestness for the truth has now taken hold of him, and that it is worthy of admiration that, although an artist, he at the same time exhibits the most ardent desire for the antithesis of the apparent. It is thus possible that a person may, just by his pathos of earnestness, betray how superficially and sparingly his intellect has hitherto operated in the domain of knowledge.—And is not everything that we consider important our betrayer? It shows where our motives lie, and where our motives are altogether lacking.

Earnestness for the Truth. Earnest about truth! How differently people understand those words! A thinker may regard certain opinions and methods of proof and testing as frivolous in himself. He may have given in to them at one time or another, and felt ashamed. Yet an artist who encounters these same opinions and methods and accepts them temporarily may feel that the deepest earnestness for truth has taken hold of him. He may feel it is admirable that, although he is an artist, he also has the strongest desire for the opposite of appearances. Thus, a person may reveal, just by his passionate earnestness, how superficially and sparingly his intellect has worked in the realm of knowledge until then. And doesn't everything we consider important betray us? It shows where our motives lie, and where we have no motives at all.

Now and Formerly.—Of what consequence is all our art in artistic products, if that higher art, the art of the festival, be lost by us? Formerly all artistic products were exhibited on the great festive path of humanity, as tokens of remembrance, and monuments of high and happy moments. One now seeks to allure the exhausted and sickly from the great suffering path of humanity for a wanton moment by means of works of art; one furnishes them with a little ecstasy and insanity.

Now and Then. What good is all the art we put into works of art if we lose the higher art of celebration? In the past, all works of art stood along humanity’s great path of celebration. They were reminders and monuments of exalted and happy moments. Now, works of art seek to lure the exhausted and sickly away from humanity’s great path of suffering for a moment of abandon. They offer them a little ecstasy and madness.

Lights and Shades.—Books and writings are different with different thinkers. One writer has collected together in his book all the rays of light which he could quickly plunder and carry home from an illuminating experience; while another gives only the shadows, and the grey and black replicas of that which on the previous day had towered up in his soul.

Lights and Shades. Books and writings differ from one thinker to another. One writer gathers all the rays of light he can quickly seize and carry home from an illuminating experience. Another offers only the shadows, the gray and black copies of what towered in his soul the day before.

Precaution.—Alfieri, as is well known, told a great many falsehoods when he narrated the history of his life to his astonished contemporaries. He told falsehoods owing to the despotism toward himself which he exhibited, for example, in the way in which he created his own language, and tyrannised himself into a poet:—he finally found a rigid form of sublimity into which he forced his life and his memory; he must have suffered much in the process.—I would also give no credit to a history of Plato's life written by himself, as little as to Rousseau's, or to the Vita nuova of Dante.

Precaution. As is well known, Alfieri told many lies when he told his life story to his astonished contemporaries. He lied because he was a tyrant to himself. He showed this, for example, by creating his own language and forcing himself to become a poet. In the end, he found a rigid ideal of sublimity into which he forced his life and his memory. He must have suffered greatly in the process. I would no more trust Plato’s account of his own life than Rousseau’s, or Dante’s Vita nuova.

Prose and Poetry.—Let it be observed that the great masters of prose have almost always been poets as well, whether openly, or only in secret and for the "closet"; and in truth one only writes good prose in view of poetry! For prose is an uninterrupted, polite warfare with poetry; all its charm consists in the fact that poetry is constantly avoided, and contradicted; every abstraction wants to have a gibe at poetry, and wishes to be uttered with a mocking voice; all dryness and coolness is meant to bring the amiable goddess into an amiable despair; there are often approximations and reconciliations for the moment, and then a sudden recoil and a burst of laughter; the curtain is often drawn up and dazzling light let in just while the goddess is enjoying her twilights and dull colours; the word is often taken out of her mouth and chanted to a melody while she holds her fine hands before her delicate little ears—and so there are a thousand enjoyments of the warfare, the defeats included, of which the unpoetic, the so-called prose-men know nothing at all:—they consequently write and speak only bad prose! Warfare is the father of all good things, it is also the father of good prose!—There have been four very singular and truly poetical men in this century who have arrived at mastership in prose, for which otherwise this century is not suited, owing to lack of poetry, as we have indicated. Not to take Goethe into account, for he is reasonably claimed by the century that produced him, I look only on Giacomo Leopardi, Prosper Mérimée, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Walter Savage Landor, the author of Imaginary Conversations, as worthy to be called masters of prose.

Prose and Poetry. Notice that the great masters of prose have almost always been poets too. Some were poets openly, others only in secret and for the "closet". In truth, one writes good prose only with poetry in mind! For prose is a continuous, polite war with poetry. All its charm lies in the constant avoidance and contradiction of poetry. Every abstraction wants to take a jab at poetry and be spoken in a mocking voice. All dryness and coolness are meant to drive the lovely goddess to a lovely despair. Often the two draw close and briefly make peace, only for prose to recoil suddenly and burst into laughter. Often the curtain is raised, letting in dazzling light just as the goddess is enjoying her twilight and muted colors. Often prose takes the word from her mouth and sings it to a tune. Meanwhile, she holds her fine hands over her delicate little ears. And so there are a thousand pleasures in this war, including its defeats. The unpoetic, the so-called prose writers, know nothing of these pleasures. As a result, they write and speak only bad prose! War is the father of all good things. It is also the father of good prose! In this century, four very unusual and truly poetic men have become masters of prose. Otherwise, this century is not suited to prose mastery because it lacks poetry, as we have noted. I leave Goethe out of account, since the century that produced him can reasonably claim him. I regard only Giacomo Leopardi, Prosper Mérimée, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Walter Savage Landor, the author of Imaginary Conversations, as worthy of being called masters of prose.

But why, then, do you Write?—A: I do not belong to those who think with the wet pen in hand; and still less to those who yield themselves entirely to their passions before the open ink-bottle, sitting on their chair and staring at the paper. I am always vexed and abashed by writing; writing is a necessity for me,—even to speak of it in a simile is disagreeable. B: But why, then, do you write? A: Well, my dear Sir, to tell you in confidence, I have hitherto found no other means of getting rid of my thoughts. B: And why do you wish to get rid of them? A: Why I wish? Do I really wish! I must.—B: Enough! Enough!

But Why, Then, Do You Write? A: I am not one of those who think with a pen in hand. Still less am I one of those who surrender completely to their passions while sitting and staring at paper, with an open bottle of ink before them. Writing always frustrates and embarrasses me. It is a necessity for me. Even describing it with a metaphor is unpleasant. B: But why, then, do you write? A: Well, my dear sir, between you and me, I have found no other way to get rid of my thoughts. B: And why do you want to get rid of them? A: Why do I want to? Do I really want to? I must. B: Enough! Enough!

Growth after Death.—Those few daring words about moral matters which Fontenelle threw into his immortal Dialogues of the Dead, were regarded by his age as paradoxes and amusements of a not unscrupulous wit; even the highest judges of taste and intellect saw nothing more in them,—indeed, Fontenelle himself perhaps saw nothing more. Then something incredible takes place: these thoughts become truths! Science proves them! The game becomes serious! And we read those dialogues with a feeling different from that with which Voltaire and Helvetius read them, and we involuntarily raise their originator into another and much higher class of intellects than they did.—Rightly? Wrongly?

Growth after Death. Fontenelle included a few daring words about morality in his immortal Dialogues of the Dead. His age regarded them as paradoxes and amusements from a wit not overly concerned with scruples. Even the finest judges of taste and intellect saw nothing more in them. Indeed, perhaps Fontenelle himself saw nothing more. Then something incredible happens: these thoughts become truths! Science proves them! The game becomes serious! We read those dialogues with a different feeling than Voltaire and Helvetius did. And without intending to, we place their author in a different and much higher class of intellects than they did. Rightly? Wrongly?

Chamfort.—That such a judge of men and of the multitude as Chamfort should side with the multitude, instead of standing apart in philosophical resignation and defence—I am at a loss to explain, except as follows:—There was an instinct in him stronger than his wisdom, and it had never been gratified: the hatred against all noblesse of blood; perhaps his mother's old and only too explicable hatred, which was consecrated in him by love of her,—an instinct of revenge from his boyhood, which waited for the hour to avenge his mother. But then the course of his life, his genius, and alas! most of all, perhaps, the paternal blood in his veins, had seduced him to rank and consider himself equal to the noblesse—for many, many years! In the end, however, he could not endure the sight of himself, the "old man" under the old régime, any longer; he got into a violent, penitential passion, and in this state he put on the raiment of the populace as his special kind of hair-shirt! His bad conscience was the neglect of revenge.—If Chamfort had then been a little more of the philosopher, the Revolution would not have had its tragic wit and its sharpest sting; it would have been regarded as a much more stupid affair, and would have had no such seductive influence on men's minds. But Chamfort's hatred and revenge educated an entire generation; and the most illustrious men passed through his school. Let us but consider that Mirabeau looked up to Chamfort as to his higher and older self, from whom he expected (and endured) impulses, warnings, and condemnations,—Mirabeau, who as a man belongs to an entirely different order of greatness, as the very foremost among the statesman-geniuses of yesterday and to-day.—Strange, that in spite of such a friend and advocate—we possess Mirabeau's letters to Chamfort—this wittiest of all moralists has remained unfamiliar to the French, quite the same as Stendhal, who has perhaps had the most penetrating eyes and ears of any Frenchman of this century. Is it because the latter had really too much of the German and the Englishman in his nature for the Parisians to endure him?—while Chamfort, a man with ample knowledge of the profundities and secret motives of the soul, gloomy, suffering, ardent—a thinker who found laughter necessary as the remedy of life, and who almost gave himself up as lost every day that he had not laughed,—seems much more like an Italian, and related by blood to Dante and Leopardi, than like a Frenchman. One knows Chamfort's last words: "Ah! mon ami," he said to Sieyès, "je m'en vais enfin de ce monde, où il faut que le cœur se brise ou se bronze—." These were certainly not the words of a dying Frenchman.

Chamfort. I can explain only one way why Chamfort sided with the masses. He was such a judge of people and of the masses, yet he did not stand apart in philosophical resignation and self-defense. An instinct in him was stronger than his wisdom, and it had never been satisfied: his hatred of all noblesse of blood. Perhaps it was his mother’s old, all too understandable hatred, made sacred in him by his love for her. Since boyhood, he may have had an instinct for revenge, waiting for the hour when he could avenge her. But his life, his genius, and, alas, perhaps above all, the blood he inherited from his father had led him astray. For many, many years, they had led him to count himself among the noblesse and regard himself as their equal! In the end, though, he could no longer bear the sight of himself, the “old man” under the old régime. He fell into a violent fit of remorse, and in this state he dressed himself as a commoner. This was his special kind of hair shirt! His guilty conscience came from having neglected his revenge. If Chamfort had been a little more of a philosopher, the Revolution would have lacked its tragic wit and its sharpest sting. People would have regarded it as a much more stupid affair, and it would not have had such a seductive influence on their minds. But Chamfort’s hatred and revenge educated an entire generation, and the most illustrious men passed through his school. Consider that Mirabeau looked up to Chamfort as a higher and older version of himself. He expected and endured impulses, warnings, and condemnations from Chamfort. Yet Mirabeau belonged to an entirely different order of greatness as a man. He was the very foremost among the statesman-geniuses of yesterday and today. Strange that, despite having such a friend and advocate, this wittiest of all moralists has remained unfamiliar to the French. We possess Mirabeau’s letters to Chamfort. The same is true of Stendhal, who perhaps had the most penetrating eyes and ears of any Frenchman of this century. Was Stendhal really too much of a German and an Englishman for the Parisians to endure him? Chamfort, meanwhile, seems much more like an Italian, related by blood to Dante and Leopardi, than like a Frenchman. He knew much about the depths and secret motives of the soul. He was gloomy, suffering, and ardent, a thinker who needed laughter as a remedy for life. Almost every day he had not laughed, he gave himself up as lost. We know Chamfort’s last words. “Ah! mon ami,” he said to Sieyès, “je m’en vais enfin de ce monde, où il faut que le cœur se brise ou se bronze.” These were certainly not the words of a dying Frenchman.

Two Orators.—Of these two orators the one arrives at a full understanding of his case only when he yields himself to emotion; it is only this that pumps sufficient blood and heat into his brain to compel his high intellectuality to reveal itself. The other attempts, indeed, now and then to do the same: to state his case sonorously, vehemently, and spiritedly with the aid of emotion,—but usually with bad success. He then very soon speaks obscurely and confusedly; he exaggerates, makes omissions, and excites suspicion of the justice of his case: indeed, he himself feels this suspicion, and the sudden changes into the coldest and most repulsive tones (which raise a doubt in the hearer as to his passionateness being genuine) are thereby explicable. With him emotion always drowns the spirit; perhaps because it is stronger than in the former. But he is at the height of his power when he resists the impetuous storm of his feeling, and as it were scorns it; it is then only that his spirit emerges fully from its concealment, a spirit logical, mocking, and playful, but nevertheless awe-inspiring.

Two Orators. Of these two orators, one fully understands his case only when he gives himself over to emotion. Only emotion pumps enough blood and heat into his brain to bring out his great intellect. The other sometimes tries to do the same. He tries to make his case with powerful, forceful, spirited words, helped by emotion. But he usually fails. He soon speaks obscurely and confusedly. He exaggerates, leaves things out, and raises doubts about whether his case is just. Indeed, he feels these doubts himself. This explains why he suddenly changes to the coldest and most off-putting tones. These changes make his listeners doubt whether his passion is genuine. In him, emotion always drowns out the mind, perhaps because it is stronger than in the first orator. But he is at the height of his power when he resists the fierce storm of his feelings and, as it were, scorns it. Only then does his mind emerge fully from hiding. It is logical, mocking, and playful, but still awe-inspiring.

The Loquacity of Authors.—There is a loquacity of anger—frequent in Luther, also in Schopenhauer. A loquacity which comes from too great a store of conceptual formulæ, as in Kant. A loquacity which comes from delight in ever new modifications of the same idea: one finds it in Montaigne. A loquacity of malicious natures: whoever reads writings of our period will recollect two authors in this connection. A loquacity which comes from delight in fine words and forms of speech: by no means rare in Goethe's prose. A loquacity which comes from pure satisfaction in noise and confusion of feelings: for example in Carlyle.

The Wordiness of Authors. There is a wordiness born of anger, often found in Luther and also in Schopenhauer. There is a wordiness born of having too many conceptual formulas, as in Kant. There is a wordiness born of delight in constantly finding new variations on the same idea. You find it in Montaigne. There is a wordiness born of malice. Anyone who reads the writings of our time will recall two authors in this connection. There is a wordiness born of delight in fine words and turns of phrase. This is by no means rare in Goethe's prose. There is a wordiness born of pure pleasure in noise and confused feelings, as in Carlyle.

In Honour of Shakespeare.—The best thing I could say in honour of Shakespeare, the man, is that he believed in Brutus and cast not a shadow of suspicion on the kind of virtue which Brutus represents! It is to him that Shakespeare consecrated his best tragedy—it is at present still called by a wrong name,—to him and to the most terrible essence of lofty morality. Independence of soul!—that is the question at issue! No sacrifice can be too great there: one must be able to sacrifice to it even one's dearest friend, though he be also the grandest of men, the ornament of the world, the genius without peer,—if one really loves freedom as the freedom of great souls, and if this freedom be threatened by him:—it is thus that Shakespeare must have felt! The elevation in which he places Cæsar is the most exquisite honour he could confer upon Brutus; it is thus only that he lifts into vastness the inner problem of his hero, and similarly the strength of soul which could cut this knot!—And was it actually political freedom that impelled the poet to sympathy with Brutus,—and made him the accomplice of Brutus? Or was political freedom merely a symbol for something inexpressible? Do we perhaps stand before some sombre event or adventure of the poet's own soul, which has remained unknown, and of which he only cared to speak symbolically? What is all Hamlet-melancholy in comparison with the melancholy of Brutus!—and perhaps Shakespeare also knew this, as he knew the other, by experience! Perhaps he also had his dark hour and his bad angel, just as Brutus had them!—But whatever similarities and secret relationships of that kind there may have been, Shakespeare cast himself on the ground and felt unworthy and alien in presence of the aspect and virtue of Brutus:—he has inscribed the testimony thereof in the tragedy itself. He has twice brought in a poet in it, and twice heaped upon him such an impatient and extreme contempt, that it sounds like a cry,—like the cry of self-contempt. Brutus, even Brutus loses patience when the poet appears, self-important, pathetic, and obtrusive, as poets usually are,—persons who seem to abound in the possibilities of greatness, even moral greatness, and nevertheless rarely attain even to ordinary uprightness in the philosophy of practice and of life. "He may know the times, but I know his temper,—away with the jigging fool!"—shouts Brutus. We may translate this back into the soul of the poet that composed it.

In Honour of Shakespeare. The best tribute I can pay to Shakespeare, the man, is that he believed in Brutus. He cast no shadow of suspicion on the kind of virtue Brutus represents! Shakespeare dedicated his best tragedy to Brutus and to the most terrible essence of lofty morality. That tragedy is still called by the wrong name. Independence of soul! That is what is at stake! No sacrifice can be too great for it. One must be able to sacrifice even one's dearest friend to it. This is so even if that friend is also the greatest of men, the ornament of the world, a genius without equal. One must be able to do this if one truly loves freedom as the freedom of great souls, and if this freedom is threatened by that friend. Shakespeare must have felt this way! By placing Caesar so high, he paid Brutus the finest honour he could. Only in this way could he make his hero's inner problem so immense. And only in this way could he show the greatness of the strength of soul that could cut this knot! Was it really political freedom that moved the poet to sympathize with Brutus and become his accomplice? Or was political freedom merely a symbol for something inexpressible? Are we perhaps facing some dark event or adventure in the poet's own soul? Has it remained unknown because he chose to speak of it only through symbols? What is all Hamlet's melancholy compared with the melancholy of Brutus! Perhaps Shakespeare knew the latter through experience, just as he knew the former! Perhaps he too had his dark hour and his evil angel, just as Brutus did! But whatever similarities and secret connections of that kind there may have been, Shakespeare cast himself on the ground before Brutus. In the presence of Brutus and his virtue, he felt unworthy and out of place. He left evidence of this in the tragedy itself. Twice he brings a poet into it, and twice he heaps such impatient and extreme contempt upon him that it sounds like a cry, a cry of self-contempt. Brutus, even Brutus, loses patience when the poet appears, self-important, pathetic, and intrusive, as poets usually are. Poets seem to have abundant potential for greatness, even moral greatness. Yet in their practical philosophy and their lives, they rarely attain even ordinary uprightness. "He may know the times, but I know his temper, away with the jigging fool!" shouts Brutus. We may trace these words back into the soul of the poet who wrote them.

The Followers of Schopenhauer.—What one sees at the contact of civilized peoples with barbarians,—namely, that the lower civilization regularly accepts in the first place the vices, weaknesses, and excesses of the higher; then, from that point onward, feels the influence of a charm; and finally, by means of the appropriated vices and weaknesses, also allows something of the valuable influence of the higher culture to leaven it:—one can also see this close at hand and without journeys to barbarian peoples, to be sure, somewhat refined and spiritualised, and not so readily palpable. What are the German followers of Schopenhauer still accustomed to receive first of all from their master:—those who, when placed beside his superior culture, must deem themselves sufficiently barbarous to be first of all barbarously fascinated and seduced by him. Is it his hard matter-of-fact sense, his inclination to clearness and rationality, which often makes him appear so English, and so unlike Germans? Or the strength of his intellectual conscience, which endured a life-long contradiction of "being" and "willing," and compelled him to contradict himself constantly even in his writings on almost every point? Or his purity in matters relating to the Church and the Christian God?—for here he was pure as no German philosopher had been hitherto, so that he lived and died "as a Voltairian." Or his immortal doctrines of the intellectuality of intuition, the apriority of the law of causality, the instrumental nature of the intellect, and the non-freedom of the will? No, nothing of this enchants, nor is felt as enchanting; but Schopenhauer's mystical embarrassments and shufflings in those passages where the matter-of-fact thinker allowed himself to be seduced and corrupted by the vain impulse to be the unraveller of the world's riddle: his undemonstrable doctrine of one will ("all causes are merely occasional causes of the phenomenon of the will at such a time and at such a place," "the will to live, whole and undivided, is present in every being, even in the smallest, as perfectly as in the sum of all that was, is, and will be"); his denial of the individual ("all lions are really only one lion," "plurality of individuals is an appearance," as also development is only an appearance: he calls the opinion of Lamarck "an ingenious, absurd error"); his fantasy about genius ("in æsthetic contemplation the individual is no longer an individual, but a pure, will-less, painless, timeless subject of knowledge," "the subject, in that it entirely merges in the contemplated object, has become this object itself"); his nonsense about sympathy, and about the outburst of the principium individuationis thus rendered possible, as the source of all morality; including also such assertions as, "dying is really the design of existence," "the possibility should not be absolutely denied that a magical effect could proceed from a person already dead":—these, and similar extravagances and vices of the philosopher, are always first accepted and made articles of faith; for vices and extravagances are always easiest to imitate, and do not require a long preliminary practice. But let us speak of the most celebrated of the living Schopenhauerians, Richard Wagner.—It has happened to him as it has already happened to many an artist: he made a mistake in the interpretation of the characters he created, and misunderstood the unexpressed philosophy of the art peculiarly his own. Richard Wagner allowed himself to be misled by Hegel's influence till the middle of his life; and he did the same again when later on he read Schopenhauer's doctrine between the lines of his characters, and began to express himself with such terms as "will," "genius," and "sympathy." Nevertheless it will remain true that nothing is more counter to Schopenhauer's spirit than the essentially Wagnerian element in Wagner's heroes: I mean the innocence of the supremest selfishness, the belief in strong passion as the good in itself, in a word, the Siegfried trait in the countenances of his heroes. "All that still smacks more of Spinoza than of me,"—Schopenhauer would probably have said. Whatever good reasons, therefore, Wagner might have had to be on the outlook for other philosophers than Schopenhauer, the enchantment to which he succumbed in respect to this thinker, not only made him blind towards all other philosophers, but even towards science itself; his entire art is more and more inclined to become the counterpart and complement of the Schopenhauerian philosophy, and it always renounces more emphatically the higher ambition to become the counterpart and complement of human knowledge and science. And not only is he allured thereto by the whole mystic pomp of this philosophy (which would also have allured a Cagliostro), the peculiar airs and emotions of the philosopher have all along been seducing him as well! For example, Wagner's indignation about the corruption of the German language is Schopenhauerian; and if one should commend his imitation in this respect, it is nevertheless not to be denied that Wagner's style itself suffers in no small degree from all the tumours and turgidities, the sight of which made Schopenhauer so furious; and that, in respect to the German-writing Wagnerians, Wagneromania is beginning to be as dangerous as only some kinds of Hegelomania have been. Schopenhauerian is Wagner's hatred of the Jews, to whom he is unable to do justice, even in their greatest exploit: are not the Jews the inventors of Christianity! The attempt of Wagner to construe Christianity as a seed blown away from Buddhism, and his endeavour to initiate a Buddhistic era in Europe, under a temporary approximation to Catholic-Christian formulas and sentiments, are both Schopenhauerian. Wagner's preaching in favour of pity in dealing with animals is Schopenhauerian; Schopenhauer's predecessor here, as is well known, was Voltaire, who already perhaps, like his successors, knew how to disguise his hatred of certain men and things as pity towards animals. At least Wagner's hatred of science, which manifests itself in his preaching, has certainly not been inspired by the spirit of charitableness and kindness—nor by the spirit at all, as is sufficiently obvious.—Finally, it is of little importance what the philosophy of an artist is, provided it is only a supplementary philosophy, and does not do any injury to his art itself. We cannot be sufficiently on our guard against taking a dislike to an artist on account of an occasional, perhaps very unfortunate and presumptuous masquerade; let us not forget that the dear artists are all of them something of actors—and must be so; it would be difficult for them to hold out in the long run without stage-playing. Let us be loyal to Wagner in that which is true and original in him,—and especially in this point, that we, his disciples, remain loyal to ourselves in that which is true and original in us. Let us allow him his intellectual humours and spasms, let us in fairness rather consider what strange nutriments and necessaries an art like his is entitled to, in order to be able to live and grow! It is of no account that he is often wrong as a thinker; justice and patience are not his affair. It is sufficient that his life is right in his own eyes, and maintains its right,—the life which calls to each of us: "Be a man, and do not follow me—but thyself! thyself!" Our life, also ought to maintain its right in our own eyes! We also are to grow and blossom out of ourselves, free and fearless, in innocent selfishness! And so, on the contemplation of such a man, these thoughts still ring in my ears to-day, as formerly: "That passion is better than stoicism or hypocrisy; that straightforwardness, even in evil, is better than losing oneself in trying to observe traditional morality; that the free man is just as able to be good as evil, but that the unemancipated man is a disgrace to nature, and has no share in heavenly or earthly bliss; finally, that all who wish to be free must become so through themselves, and that freedom falls to nobody's lot as a gift from Heaven." (Richard Wagner in Bayreuth, Vol. I. of this Translation, pp. 199-200).

The Followers of Schopenhauer. When civilized peoples come into contact with barbarians, we see a familiar pattern. The lower civilization regularly begins by adopting the vices, weaknesses, and excesses of the higher one. From that point on, it feels the influence of a charm. Finally, through the vices and weaknesses it has adopted, it also lets something valuable from the higher culture work within it. We can see the same thing close to home, without traveling to barbarian peoples. Here, to be sure, the process is more refined and spiritual, and less easy to see. What do the German followers of Schopenhauer still tend to take from their master first? Beside his superior culture, they must feel barbarous enough to be fascinated and seduced by him in a barbarous way. Is it his hardheaded respect for facts, or his preference for clarity and rationality? These qualities often make him seem so English and so unlike Germans. Or is it the strength of his intellectual conscience? This allowed him to endure a lifelong contradiction between "being" and "willing." It also forced him to contradict himself constantly, on almost every point, even in his writings. Or is it his purity regarding the Church and the Christian God? In this respect, he was purer than any German philosopher before him. He lived and died "as a Voltairian." Or is it his immortal doctrines? These concern the intellectual nature of intuition, the apriority of the law of causality, the intellect as an instrument, and the unfreedom of the will. No, none of this enchants them, or strikes them as enchanting. What enchants them is Schopenhauer's mystical confusion and evasiveness. These appear in passages where the factual thinker let himself be seduced and corrupted by a vain urge to solve the world's riddle. There is his unprovable doctrine of one will: "all causes are merely occasional causes of the appearance of the will at a particular time and place," and "the will to live, whole and undivided, is present in every being, even the smallest, just as fully as in the sum of everything that was, is, and will be." There is his denial of the individual: "all lions are really only one lion," and "the plurality of individuals is an appearance." Development too is only an appearance. He calls Lamarck's view "an ingenious, absurd error." There is his fantasy about genius: "in aesthetic contemplation the individual is no longer an individual, but a pure subject of knowledge, without will, pain, or time," and "the subject, by merging entirely with the object it contemplates, has become that object itself." There is his nonsense about sympathy as the source of all morality, and about the breaking open of the principium individuationis that sympathy supposedly makes possible. There are also claims such as "dying is really the purpose of existence," and "we should not absolutely rule out the possibility that a magical effect could come from someone already dead." These and similar extravagances and vices of the philosopher are always accepted first and made into articles of faith. Vices and extravagances are always easiest to imitate and require no long practice beforehand. But let us speak of the most celebrated living follower of Schopenhauer, Richard Wagner. What has happened to many an artist has happened to him. He misinterpreted the characters he created and misunderstood the unspoken philosophy of his own distinctive art. Richard Wagner let Hegel's influence mislead him until the middle of his life. Later, he did the same when he read Schopenhauer's doctrine between the lines of his characters. He began to use terms such as "will," "genius," and "sympathy." Yet nothing is more opposed to Schopenhauer's spirit than the essentially Wagnerian element in Wagner's heroes. I mean the innocence of the highest selfishness, the belief that strong passion is good in itself. In short, I mean the Siegfried trait in the faces of his heroes. "All that still smacks more of Spinoza than of me," Schopenhauer would probably have said. Wagner may therefore have had good reasons to look to philosophers other than Schopenhauer. Yet his fascination with this thinker blinded him not only to all other philosophers, but even to science itself. His entire art is increasingly inclined to become the counterpart and complement of Schopenhauerian philosophy. It gives up ever more emphatically the higher ambition of becoming the counterpart and complement of human knowledge and science. Nor is he drawn in only by the whole mystical splendor of this philosophy, which would also have attracted a Cagliostro. The philosopher's peculiar attitudes and emotions have been seducing him all along as well! For example, Wagner's outrage at the corruption of the German language comes from Schopenhauer. One might praise him for following Schopenhauer in this respect. Still, Wagner's own style undeniably suffers a good deal from all the swellings and bloated expressions that so enraged Schopenhauer. Among Wagnerians who write in German, Wagneromania is beginning to be as dangerous as only some kinds of Hegelomania have been. Wagner's hatred of the Jews is Schopenhauerian. He cannot do them justice even for their greatest exploit: are not the Jews the inventors of Christianity? Wagner tries to explain Christianity as a seed blown over from Buddhism. He also tries to begin a Buddhist era in Europe, while temporarily adopting something close to Catholic-Christian formulas and feelings. Both attempts are Schopenhauerian. Wagner's preaching in favor of pity for animals is Schopenhauerian. As is well known, Voltaire preceded Schopenhauer in this. Perhaps Voltaire, like his successors, already knew how to disguise his hatred of certain men and things as pity for animals. At least Wagner's hatred of science, which shows itself in his preaching, has certainly not been inspired by charity and kindness. Nor, quite obviously, has it been inspired by spirit at all. Finally, an artist's philosophy matters little, provided it is only supplementary and does no harm to the art itself. We cannot be too careful about taking a dislike to an artist because of an occasional masquerade. It may be a very unfortunate and presumptuous one. Let us not forget that our dear artists are all actors to some extent, and must be. Without acting a part, they would have difficulty carrying on in the long run. Let us be loyal to what is true and original in Wagner. Above all, let us, his disciples, remain loyal to what is true and original in ourselves. Let us allow him his intellectual moods and spasms. In fairness, let us instead consider what strange nourishment and necessities an art like his is entitled to, so that it can live and grow. It does not matter that he is often wrong as a thinker. Justice and patience are not his concern. It is enough that his life is right in his own eyes and maintains its right. That life calls to each of us: "Be a man, and do not follow me, but yourself! yourself!" Our life, too, should maintain its right in our own eyes! We too should grow and blossom from within ourselves, free and fearless, in innocent selfishness! So, when I contemplate such a man, these thoughts still ring in my ears today, as they did before: "Passion is better than stoicism or hypocrisy. Being straightforward, even in evil, is better than losing oneself in the effort to observe traditional morality. The free man is as capable of good as of evil, but the unfree man is a disgrace to nature. He has no share in heavenly or earthly bliss. Finally, all who wish to be free must become free through their own efforts. Freedom comes to no one as a gift from Heaven." (Richard Wagner in Bayreuth, Vol. I. of this Translation, pp. 199-200).

Learning to do Homage.—One must learn the art of homage, as well as the art of contempt. Whoever goes in new paths and has led many persons therein, discovers with astonishment how awkward and incompetent all of them are in the expression of their gratitude, and indeed how rarely gratitude is able even to express itself. It is always as if something comes into people's throats when their gratitude wants to speak, so that it only hems and haws, and becomes silent again. The way in which a thinker succeeds in tracing the effect of his thoughts, and their transforming and convulsing power, is almost a comedy: it sometimes seems as if those who have been operated upon felt profoundly injured thereby, and could only assert their independence, which they suspect to be threatened, by all kinds of improprieties. It needs whole generations in order merely to devise a courteous convention of gratefulness; it is only very late that the period arrives when something of spirit and genius enters into gratitude. Then there is usually some one who is the great receiver of thanks, not only for the good he himself has done, but mostly for that which has been gradually accumulated by his predecessors, as a treasure of what is highest and best.

Learning to Pay Homage. One must learn the art of paying homage, just as one must learn the art of contempt. Anyone who takes new paths and leads many people along them makes a surprising discovery. All of them are awkward and inept at expressing gratitude, and gratitude itself is rarely able to find expression. Whenever gratitude tries to speak, it is as if something catches in people’s throats. They can only hesitate and stumble over their words before falling silent again. It is almost a comedy when a thinker manages to trace the effect of his thoughts, their power to transform and convulse. Sometimes those affected seem to feel deeply injured. They suspect that their independence is threatened, and believe they can assert it only through all kinds of improper behavior. It takes whole generations merely to devise a polite way of expressing gratitude. Only much later does any spirit or genius enter into it. By then, there is usually one person who receives the great thanks. He is thanked not only for the good he himself has done, but mostly for the good gradually accumulated by his predecessors, a treasure of what is highest and best.

Voltaire.—Wherever there has been a court, it has furnished the standard of good-speaking, and with this also the standard of style for writers. The court language, however, is the language of the courtier who has no profession, and who even in conversations on scientific subjects avoids all convenient, technical expressions, because they smack of the profession; on that account the technical expression, and everything that betrays the specialist, is a blemish of style in countries which have a court culture. At present, when all courts have become caricatures of past and present times, one is astonished to find even Voltaire unspeakably reserved and scrupulous on this point (for example, in his judgments concerning such stylists as Fontenelle and Montesquieu),—we are now, all of us, emancipated from court taste, while Voltaire was its perfecter!

Voltaire. Wherever there has been a court, it has set the standard for good speech. It has also set the standard of style for writers. But court language is the language of the courtier, who has no profession. Even when discussing scientific subjects, the courtier avoids useful technical terms because they suggest a profession. For this reason, technical terms and anything else that reveals a specialist are a blemish of style in countries with court cultures. Today, all courts have become caricatures of both past and present. So it is astonishing to find even Voltaire unspeakably cautious and meticulous about this point. One example is his judgments of such stylists as Fontenelle and Montesquieu. We have all now freed ourselves from court taste, while Voltaire was the one who perfected it!

A Word for Philologists.—It is thought that there are books so valuable and royal that whole generations of scholars are well employed when through their efforts these books are kept genuine and intelligible,—to confirm this belief again and again is the purpose of philology. It presupposes that the rare men are not lacking (though they may not be visible), who actually know how to use such valuable books:—those men perhaps who write such books themselves, or could write them. I mean to say that philology presupposes a noble belief,—that for the benefit of some few who are always "to come," and are not there, a very great amount of painful, and even dirty labour has to be done beforehand: it is all labour in usum Delphinorum.

A Word for Philologists. People believe that some books are so valuable and noble that generations of scholars are well employed keeping them authentic and understandable. The purpose of philology is to confirm this belief again and again. It assumes that there are rare people who really know how to use such valuable books, though they may not be visible. Perhaps these are the people who write such books themselves, or could write them. I mean that philology assumes a noble belief: a great deal of painful, even dirty work must be done in advance for the benefit of a few who are always "to come" and are not here. All this work is in usum Delphinorum.

German Music.—German music, more than any other, has now become European music; because the changes which Europe experienced through the Revolution have therein alone found expression: it is only German music that knows how to express the agitation of popular masses, the tremendous artificial uproar, which does not even need to be very noisy,—while Italian opera, for example, knows only the choruses of domestics or soldiers, but not "the people." There is the additional fact that in all German music a profound bourgeois jealousy of the noblesse can be traced, especially a jealousy of esprit and élégance, as the expressions of a courtly, chivalrous, ancient, and self-confident society. It is not music like that of Goethe's musician at the gate, which was pleasing also "in the hall," and to the king as well; it is not here said: "The knights looked on with martial air; with bashful eyes the ladies." Even the Graces are not allowed in German music without a touch of remorse; it is only with Pleasantness, the country sister of the Graces that the German begins to feel morally at ease—and from this point up to his enthusiastic, learned, and often gruff "sublimity" (the Beethoven-like sublimity), he feels more and more so. If we want to imagine the man of this music,—well, let us just imagine Beethoven as he appeared beside Goethe, say, at their meeting at Teplitz: as semi-barbarism beside culture, as the masses beside the nobility, as the good-natured man beside the good and more than "good" man, as the visionary beside the artist, as the man needing comfort beside the comforted, as the man given to exaggeration and distrust beside the man of reason, as the crank and self-tormenter, as the foolish, enraptured, blessedly unfortunate, sincerely immoderate man, as the pretentious and awkward man,—and altogether as the "untamed man": it was thus that Goethe conceived and characterised him, Goethe, the exceptional German, for whom a music of equal rank has not yet been found!—Finally, let us consider whether the present, continually extending contempt of melody and the stunting of the sense for melody among Germans should not be understood as a democratic impropriety and an after-effect of the Revolution? For melody has such an obvious delight in conformity to law, and such an aversion to everything evolving, unformed and arbitrary, that it sounds like a note out of the ancient European regime, and as a seduction and re-duction back to it.

German Music. German music, more than any other, has now become European music. For only in German music have the changes Europe experienced through the Revolution found expression. Only German music knows how to express the agitation of the masses and their tremendous, artificial uproar. This uproar does not even need to be very noisy. Italian opera, for example, knows only the choruses of servants or soldiers, not "the people." There is also a deep bourgeois jealousy of the noblesse running through all German music. It is especially jealous of esprit and élégance. These express a courtly, chivalrous, ancient, and self-confident society. German music is not like the music of Goethe's musician at the gate. His music pleased those "in the hall" and the king as well. Here we do not hear: "The knights looked on with martial air; with bashful eyes the ladies." Even the Graces are not allowed into German music without a touch of remorse. Only with Pleasantness, the country sister of the Graces, does the German begin to feel morally at ease. From there, he feels more and more at ease as he moves toward his enthusiastic, learned, and often gruff "sublimity" (the Beethoven-like sublimity). If we want to imagine the man of this music, let us picture Beethoven beside Goethe, at their meeting in Teplitz, for example. We see semi-barbarism beside culture, the masses beside the nobility, the good-natured man beside the good and more than "good" man. We see the visionary beside the artist, the man needing comfort beside the comforted, the man prone to exaggeration and distrust beside the man of reason. We see the crank and self-tormenter, the foolish, enraptured, blissfully unfortunate, sincerely immoderate man, the pretentious and awkward man. Above all, we see the "untamed man." That is how Goethe saw and described him. Goethe was the exceptional German, and a music of equal rank has not yet been found for him! Finally, let us consider the Germans' present, ever-growing contempt for melody and their weakening sense of melody. Should we not understand these as a democratic lapse in taste and an aftereffect of the Revolution? For melody so clearly delights in conformity to law. It has such an aversion to everything evolving, unformed, and arbitrary. As a result, it sounds like a note from the ancient European regime, tempting and leading us back to it.

The Tone of the German Language.—We know whence the German originated which for several centuries has been the universal, literary language of Germany. The Germans, with their reverence for everything that came from the court, intentionally took the chancery style as their pattern in all that they had to write, especially in their letters, records, wills, &c. To write in the chancery style, that was to write in court and government style,—that was regarded as something select compared with the language of the city in which a person lived. People gradually drew this inference, and spoke also as they wrote,—they thus became still more select in the forms of their words, in the choice of their terms and modes of expression, and finally also in their tones: they affected a court tone when they spoke, and the affectation at last became natural. Perhaps nothing quite similar has ever happened elsewhere:—the predominance of the literary style over the talk, and the formality and affectation of an entire people, becoming the basis of a common and no longer dialectical language. I believe that the sound of the German language in the Middle Ages, and especially after the Middle Ages, was extremely rustic and vulgar; it has ennobled itself somewhat during the last centuries, principally because it was found necessary to imitate so many French, Italian, and Spanish sounds, and particularly on the part of the German (and Austrian) nobility, who could not at all content themselves with their mother-tongue. But notwithstanding this practice, German must have sounded intolerably vulgar to Montaigne, and even to Racine: even at present, in the mouths of travellers among the Italian populace, it still sounds very coarse, sylvan, and hoarse, as if it had originated in smoky rooms and outlandish districts.—Now I notice that at present a similar striving after selectness of tone is spreading among the former admirers of the chancery style, and that the Germans are beginning to accommodate themselves to a peculiar "witchery of sound," which might in the long run become an actual danger to the German language,—for one may seek in vain for more execrable sounds in Europe. Something mocking, cold, indifferent, and careless in the voice: that is what at present sounds "noble" to the Germans—and I hear the approval of this nobleness in the voices of young officials, teachers, women, and trades-people; indeed, even the little girls already imitate this German of the officers. For the officer, and in fact the Prussian officer is the inventor of these tones: this same officer, who, as soldier and professional man possesses that admirable tact for modesty which the Germans as a whole might well imitate (German professors and musicians included!). But as soon as he speaks and moves he is the most immodest and inelegant figure in old Europe—no doubt unconsciously to himself! And unconsciously also to the good Germans, who gaze at him as the man of the foremost and most select society, and willingly let him "give them his tone." And indeed he gives it to them!—in the first place it is the sergeant-majors and non-commissioned officers that imitate his tone and coarsen it. One should note the roars of command, with which the German cities are absolutely surrounded at present, when there is drilling at all the gates: what presumption, furious imperiousness, and mocking coldness speaks in this uproar! Could the Germans actually be a musical people?—It is certain that the Germans martialise themselves at present in the tone of their language: it is probable that, being exercised to speak martially, they will finally write martially also. For habituation to definite tones extends deeply into the character:—people soon have the words and modes of expression, and finally also the thoughts which just suit these tones! Perhaps they already write in the officers' style; perhaps I only read too little of what is at present written in Germany to know this. But one thing I know all the surer: the German public declarations which also reach places abroad, are not inspired by German music, but just by that new tone of tasteless arrogance. Almost in every speech of the foremost German statesman, and even when he makes himself heard through his imperial mouth-piece, there is an accent which the ear of a foreigner repudiates with aversion: but the Germans endure it,—they endure themselves.

The Tone of the German Language. We know where the German that has been Germany’s common literary language for centuries came from. The Germans revered everything that came from the court. So they deliberately modeled everything they had to write on the style of official documents, especially letters, records, wills, and so on. Writing in this official style meant writing in the style of the court and government. It was regarded as more refined than the language of the city where one lived. People gradually drew this conclusion and began to speak as they wrote. They became still more refined in the forms of their words and in their choice of terms and expressions. Finally, they also became more refined in their tones. They put on a courtly tone when they spoke, and at last the affectation became natural. Perhaps nothing quite like this has ever happened elsewhere. A literary style came to dominate speech, and the formality and affectation of an entire people became the basis for a common language that was no longer a dialect. I believe that German sounded extremely rustic and vulgar in the Middle Ages, and especially afterward. It has become somewhat more refined over the last few centuries, chiefly because so many French, Italian, and Spanish sounds had to be imitated. This was especially true among the German (and Austrian) nobility, who could not at all be content with their mother tongue. But despite this practice, German must have sounded intolerably vulgar to Montaigne, and even to Racine. Even now, when travelers speak it among the Italian populace, it still sounds very coarse, rustic, and hoarse. It sounds as if it originated in smoky rooms and remote districts. Now I notice a similar striving for a refined tone spreading among the former admirers of the official style. The Germans are beginning to adopt a peculiar "witchery of sound." In time, this might become a real danger to the German language, for one could search Europe in vain for more dreadful sounds. Something mocking, cold, indifferent, and careless in the voice: that is what now sounds "noble" to the Germans. I hear approval of this nobility in the voices of young officials, teachers, women, and tradespeople. Even little girls already imitate this German of the officers. For the officer, and in fact the Prussian officer, invented these tones. As a soldier and professional, this same officer has an admirable instinct for modesty. The Germans as a whole could well imitate it (German professors and musicians included!). But as soon as he speaks and moves, he is the most immodest and inelegant figure in old Europe. No doubt he is unaware of it! The good Germans are unaware of it too. They look up to him as a man of the highest and most refined society, and willingly let him "give them his tone." And he certainly gives it to them! First, the sergeant-majors and non-commissioned officers imitate his tone and make it coarser. One should note the roars of command that now surround German cities wherever soldiers drill at the gates. What presumption, furious imperiousness, and mocking coldness speak in this uproar! Could the Germans really be a musical people? It is certain that the Germans are now making the tone of their language more military. It is probable that, trained to speak like soldiers, they will eventually write like soldiers too. For the habit of using particular tones reaches deep into the character. People soon find the words and expressions, and finally the thoughts, that suit those tones! Perhaps they already write in the officers’ style. Perhaps I just read too little of what is now written in Germany to know. But I know one thing all the more certainly: the German public declarations that also reach places abroad are inspired not by German music, but by that new tone of tasteless arrogance. In almost every speech by the foremost German statesman, even when he speaks through his imperial mouthpiece, there is a tone that a foreign ear rejects with disgust. But the Germans put up with it. They put up with themselves.

The Germans as Artists.—When once a German actually experiences passion (and not only, as is usual, the mere inclination to it), he then behaves just as he must do in passion, and does not think further of his behaviour. The truth is, however, that he then behaves very awkwardly and uglily, and as if destitute of rhythm and melody; so that onlookers are pained or moved thereby, but nothing more—unless he elevate himself to the sublimity and enrapturedness of which certain passions are capable. Then even the German becomes beautiful. The perception of the height at which beauty begins to shed its charm even over Germans, raises German artists to the height, to the supreme height, and to the extravagances of passion: they have an actual, profound longing, therefore, to get beyond, or at least to look beyond the ugliness and awkwardness—into a better, easier, more southern, more sunny world. And thus their convulsions are often merely indications that they would like to dance: these poor bears in whom hidden nymphs and satyrs, and sometimes still higher divinities, carry on their game!

The Germans as Artists. When a German actually feels passion, rather than merely an inclination toward it, as usual, he behaves as passion demands. He gives no further thought to his behavior. But the truth is that he behaves very awkwardly and uglily, as if he had no sense of rhythm or melody. As a result, onlookers are pained or moved, but nothing more. That is, unless he rises to the heights of grandeur and rapture that certain passions can reach. Then even the German becomes beautiful. German artists see the height at which beauty begins to cast its spell even over Germans. This insight lifts them to those heights, to the supreme heights and excesses of passion. For they have a real, deep longing to get beyond ugliness and awkwardness, or at least to look beyond them. They long for a better, easier, more southern, sunnier world. And so their convulsions are often merely signs that they would like to dance. These poor bears, in whom hidden nymphs and satyrs, and sometimes even higher divinities, play their games!

Music as Advocate.—"I have a longing for a master of the musical art," said an innovator to his disciple, "that he may learn from me my ideas and speak them more widely in his language: I shall thus be better able to reach men's ears and hearts. For by means of tones one can seduce men to every error and every truth: who could refute a tone?"—"You would, therefore, like to be regarded as irrefutable?" said his disciple. The innovator answered: "I should like the germ to become a tree. In order that a doctrine may become a tree, it must be believed in for a considerable period; in order that it may be believed in it must be regarded as irrefutable. Storms and doubts and worms and wickedness are necessary to the tree, that it may manifest its species and the strength of its germ; let it perish if it is not strong enough! But a germ is always merely annihilated,—not refuted!"—When he had said this, his disciple called out impetuously: "But I believe in your cause, and regard it as so strong that I will say everything against it, everything that I still have in my heart."—The innovator laughed to himself and threatened the disciple with his finger. "This kind of discipleship," said he then, "is the best, but it is dangerous, and not every kind of doctrine can stand it."

Music as Advocate. “I long for a master of music,” an innovator said to his disciple. “He could learn my ideas and spread them more widely in his own language. That would help me reach people’s ears and hearts. For music can seduce people into accepting any error or any truth. Who could refute a tone?” “So you would like to be regarded as irrefutable?” asked his disciple. The innovator answered: “I would like the seed to become a tree. For a doctrine to become a tree, people must believe in it for a long time. And for people to believe in it, they must regard it as irrefutable. A tree needs storms, doubts, worms, and wickedness to show its kind and the strength of its seed. Let it perish if it is not strong enough! But a seed is always simply destroyed, not refuted!” When he had said this, his disciple called out impulsively: “But I believe in your cause. I think it is so strong that I will say everything against it that I still have in my heart.” The innovator laughed to himself and shook his finger at the disciple. “This kind of discipleship,” he said, “is the best, but it is dangerous. Not every doctrine can withstand it.”

Our Ultimate Gratitude to Art.—If we had not approved of the Arts and invented this sort of cult of the untrue, the insight into the general untruth and falsity of things now given us by science—an insight into delusion and error as conditions of intelligent and sentient existence—would be quite unendurable. Honesty would have disgust and suicide in its train. Now, however, our honesty has a counterpoise which helps us to escape such consequences;—namely, Art, as the good-will to illusion. We do not always restrain our eyes from rounding off and perfecting in imagination: and then it is no longer the eternal imperfection that we carry over the river of Becoming—for we think we carry a goddess, and are proud and artless in rendering this service. As an æsthetic phenomenon existence is still endurable to us; and by Art, eye and hand and above all the good conscience are given to us, to be able to make such a phenomenon out of ourselves. We must rest from ourselves occasionally by contemplating and looking down upon ourselves, and by laughing or weeping over ourselves from an artistic remoteness: we must discover the hero, and likewise the fool, that is hidden in our passion for knowledge; we must now and then be joyful in our folly, that we may continue to be joyful in our wisdom! And just because we are heavy and serious men in our ultimate depth, and are rather weights than men, there is nothing that does us so much good as the fool's cap and bells: we need them in presence of ourselves—we need all arrogant, soaring, dancing, mocking, childish and blessed Art, in order not to lose the free dominion over things which our ideal demands of us. It would be backsliding for us, with our susceptible integrity, to lapse entirely into morality, and actually become virtuous monsters and scarecrows, on account of the over-strict requirements which we here lay down for ourselves. We ought also to be able to stand above morality, and not only stand with the painful stiffness of one who every moment fears to slip and fall, but we should also be able to soar and play above it! How could we dispense with Art for that purpose, how could we dispense with the fool?—And as long as you are still ashamed of yourselves in any way, you still do not belong to us!

Our Ultimate Gratitude to Art. If we had not embraced the arts and invented this kind of cult of the untrue, we could not bear what science now reveals to us. Science reveals the general untruth and falsity of things. It shows that delusion and error are conditions of intelligent and sentient existence. Without art, honesty would lead to disgust and suicide. But now art provides a counterweight to our honesty and helps us escape those consequences. Art is the willingness to embrace illusion. We do not always stop ourselves from imagining things as more complete and perfect than they are. And then it is no longer eternal imperfection that we carry across the river of Becoming. We think we are carrying a goddess, and we serve her with pride and innocence. As an aesthetic phenomenon, existence is still bearable to us. And art gives us the eye, the hand, and above all the clear conscience we need to make ourselves into such a phenomenon. We must sometimes take a rest from ourselves. We must contemplate ourselves from above, laughing or weeping at ourselves from an artistic distance. We must discover both the hero and the fool hidden in our passion for knowledge. Now and then we must take joy in our folly, so that we can continue to take joy in our wisdom! Deep down, we are heavy and serious men, more like weights than men. That is precisely why nothing does us as much good as the fool's cap and bells. We need them when facing ourselves. We need all arrogant, soaring, dancing, mocking, childish, and blessed art. We need it so that we do not lose the freedom to rule over things that our ideal demands of us. Given our sensitive integrity, it would be a step backward to fall entirely into morality. The overly strict demands we make on ourselves here would turn us into virtuous monsters and scarecrows. We should also be able to stand above morality. We should not merely stand there, painfully stiff, afraid at every moment of slipping and falling. We should be able to soar and play above morality too! How could we do that without art? How could we do without the fool? And as long as you are still ashamed of yourselves in any way, you still do not belong to us!