Book 3

New Struggles.—After Buddha was dead people showed his shadow for centuries afterwards in a cave,—an immense frightful shadow. God is dead: but as the human race is constituted, there will perhaps be caves for millenniums yet, in which people will show his shadow,—And we—we have still to overcome his shadow!

New Struggles. After Buddha died, people showed his shadow in a cave for centuries. It was an immense, frightening shadow. God is dead. But given human nature, there may still be caves for thousands of years where people will show his shadow. And we still have to overcome his shadow!

Let us be on our Guard.—Let us be on our guard against thinking that the world is a living being. Where could it extend itself? What could it nourish itself with? How could it grow and increase? We know tolerably well what the organic is; and we are to reinterpret the emphatically derivative, tardy, rare and accidental, which we only perceive on the crust of the earth, into the essential, universal and eternal, as those do who call the universe an organism? That disgusts me. Let us now be on our guard against believing that the universe is a machine; it is assuredly not constructed with a view to one end; we invest it with far too high an honour with the word "machine." Let us be on our guard against supposing that anything so methodical as the cyclic motions of our neighbouring stars obtains generally and throughout the universe; indeed a glance at the Milky Way induces doubt as to whether there are not many cruder and more contradictory motions there, and even stars with continuous, rectilinearly gravitating orbits, and the like. The astral arrangement in which we live is an exception; this arrangement, and the relatively long durability which is determined by it, has again made possible the exception of exceptions, the formation of organic life. The general character of the world, on the other hand, is to all eternity chaos; not by the absence of necessity, but in the sense of the absence of order, structure, form, beauty, wisdom, and whatever else our æsthetic humanities are called. Judged by our reason, the unlucky casts are far oftenest the rule, the exceptions are not the secret purpose; and the whole musical box repeats eternally its air, which can never be called a melody,—and finally the very expression, "unlucky cast" is already an anthropomorphising which involves blame. But how could we presume to blame or praise the universe! Let us be on our guard against ascribing to it heartlessness and unreason, or their opposites; it is neither perfect, nor beautiful, nor noble; nor does it seek to be anything of the kind, it does not at all attempt to imitate man! It is altogether unaffected by our æsthetic and moral judgments! Neither has it any self-preservative instinct, nor instinct at all; it also knows no law. Let us be on our guard against saying that there are laws in nature. There are only necessities: there is no one who commands, no one who obeys, no one who transgresses. When you know that there is no design, you know also that there is no chance: for it is only where there is a world of design that the word "chance" has a meaning. Let us be on our guard against saying that death is contrary to life. The living being is only a species of dead being, and a very rare species.—Let us be on our guard against thinking that the world eternally creates the new. There are no eternally enduring substances; matter is just another such error as the God of the Eleatics. But when shall we be at an end with our foresight and precaution! When will all these shadows of God cease to obscure us? When shall we have nature entirely undeified! When shall we be permitted to naturalise ourselves by means of the pure, newly discovered, newly redeemed nature?

Let Us Be on Our Guard. Let us be on guard against thinking that the world is a living being. Where could it expand? What could it feed on? How could it grow and increase? We know fairly well what organic life is. It is something distinctly secondary, late, rare, and accidental, which we see only on the earth’s surface. Are we to turn it into something essential, universal, and eternal, as people do when they call the universe an organism? That disgusts me. Let us also be on guard against believing that the universe is a machine. It was certainly not designed for one purpose. We give it far too much honor when we call it a "machine." Let us be on guard against assuming that anything as regular as the cycles of nearby stars occurs throughout the universe. Indeed, a glance at the Milky Way makes us wonder about the motions there. Might there not be many rougher and more contradictory motions? Might there even be stars moving in straight lines under the pull of gravity, and so on? The arrangement of stars in which we live is an exception. This arrangement determines their relatively long existence, and so has made possible the exception of exceptions: the formation of organic life. The world as a whole, by contrast, is eternally chaotic. This is not because necessity is absent. It is because order, structure, form, beauty, wisdom, and all our other aesthetic ideals are absent. By our own reason’s standards, unsuccessful throws of the dice are far more often the rule. The exceptions are not the hidden purpose. The whole musical box eternally repeats its tune, though it can never be called a melody. And finally, even the phrase "unsuccessful throw" gives the universe human qualities and places blame. But how could we presume to blame or praise the universe? Let us be on guard against calling it heartless or irrational, or their opposites. It is neither perfect, nor beautiful, nor noble. Nor does it seek to be any of these things. It does not try to imitate human beings at all! It is completely untouched by our aesthetic and moral judgments! It has no instinct for self-preservation, and no instinct at all. It knows no law either. Let us be on guard against saying that there are laws in nature. There are only necessities. There is no one who commands, no one who obeys, and no one who breaks a law. When you know that there is no design, you also know that there is no chance. The word "chance" has meaning only in a world of design. Let us be on guard against saying that death is the opposite of life. A living being is only a kind of dead being, and a very rare kind. Let us be on guard against thinking that the world eternally creates what is new. There are no eternally lasting substances. Matter is just another error, like the God of the Eleatics. But when will we be done with our caution and precautions? When will all these shadows of God stop obscuring us? When will we have completely stripped nature of its divinity? When will we be allowed to naturalize ourselves through nature, pure, newly discovered, and newly redeemed?

Origin of Knowledge.—Throughout immense stretches of time the intellect has produced nothing but errors; some of them proved to be useful and preservative of the species: he who fell in with them, or inherited them, waged the battle for himself and his offspring with better success. Those erroneous articles of faith which were successively transmitted by inheritance, and have finally become almost the property and stock of the human species, are, for example, the following:—that there are enduring things, that there are equal things, that there are things, substances, and bodies, that a thing is what it appears, that our will is free, that what is good for me is also good absolutely. It was only very late that the deniers and doubters of such propositions came forward,—it was only very late that truth made its appearance as the most impotent form of knowledge. It seemed as if it were impossible to get along with truth, our organism was adapted for the very opposite; all its higher functions, the perceptions of the senses, and in general every kind of sensation co-operated with those primevally embodied, fundamental errors. Moreover, those propositions became the very standards of knowledge according to which the "true" and the "false" were determined—throughout the whole domain of pure logic. The strength of conceptions does not, therefore, depend on their degree of truth, but on their antiquity, their embodiment, their character as conditions of life. Where life and knowledge seemed to conflict, there has never been serious contention; denial and doubt have there been regarded as madness. The exceptional thinkers like the Eleatics, who, in spite of this, advanced and maintained the antitheses of the natural errors, believed that it was possible also to live these counterparts: it was they who devised the sage as the man of immutability, impersonality and universality of intuition, as one and all at the same time, with a special faculty for that reverse kind of knowledge; they were of the belief that their knowledge was at the same time the principle of life. To be able to affirm all this, however, they had to deceive themselves concerning their own condition: they had to attribute to themselves impersonality and unchanging permanence, they had to mistake the nature of the philosophic individual, deny the force of the impulses in cognition, and conceive of reason generally as an entirely free and self-originating activity; they kept their eyes shut to the fact that they also had reached their doctrines in contradiction to valid methods, or through their longing for repose or for exclusive possession or for domination. The subtler development of sincerity and of scepticism finally made these men impossible; their life also and their judgments turned out to be dependent on the primeval impulses and fundamental errors of all sentient being.—The subtler sincerity and scepticism arose whenever two antithetical maxims appeared to be applicable to life, because both of them were compatible with the fundamental errors; where, therefore, there could be contention concerning a higher or lower degree of utility for life; and likewise where new maxims proved to be, not in fact useful, but at least not injurious, as expressions of an intellectual impulse to play a game that was, like all games, innocent and happy. The human brain was gradually filled with such judgments and convictions; and in this tangled skein there arose ferment, strife and lust for power. Not only utility and delight, but every kind of impulse took part in the struggle for "truths": the intellectual struggle became a business, an attraction, a calling, a duty, an honour—: cognizing and striving for the true finally arranged themselves as needs among other needs. From that moment, not only belief and conviction, but also examination, denial, distrust and contradiction became forces; all "evil" instincts were subordinated to knowledge, were placed in its service, and acquired the prestige of the permitted, the honoured, the useful, and finally the appearance and innocence of the good. Knowledge, thus became a portion of life itself, and as life it became a continually growing power: until finally the cognitions and those primeval, fundamental, errors clashed with each other, both as life, both as power, both in the same man. The thinker is now the being in whom the impulse to truth and those life-preserving errors wage their first conflict, now that the impulse to truth has also proved itself to be a life-preserving power. In comparison with the importance of this conflict everything else is indifferent; the final question concerning the conditions of life is here raised, and the first attempt is here made to answer it by experiment. How far is truth susceptible of embodiment?—that is the question, that is the experiment.

Origin of Knowledge. For immense stretches of time, the intellect produced nothing but errors. Some proved useful and helped preserve the species. Those who adopted or inherited them fought more successfully for themselves and their offspring. These mistaken beliefs were passed down from generation to generation. Eventually, they became almost the common property of the human species. They include, for example, the beliefs that things endure, that things are equal, and that things, substances, and bodies exist. They also include the beliefs that a thing is what it appears to be, that our will is free, and that what is good for me is absolutely good. Only very late did people come forward to deny and doubt such propositions. Only very late did truth appear as the weakest form of knowledge. It seemed impossible to get along with truth. Our organism was adapted to the very opposite. All its higher functions, its sensory perceptions, and sensation of every kind worked together with those fundamental errors embodied since ancient times. Moreover, those propositions became the standards of knowledge throughout the whole field of pure logic. By them, the "true" and the "false" were determined. The strength of ideas, then, does not depend on how true they are. It depends on their age, their embodiment, and their role as conditions of life. Where life and knowledge seemed to conflict, there was never any serious struggle. Denial and doubt were regarded as madness. Exceptional thinkers such as the Eleatics nevertheless put forward and defended the opposites of these natural errors. They believed it was also possible to live by those opposites. They invented the sage as a person who was unchanging and impersonal, whose insight was universal, who was one and all at once, and who had a special faculty for this opposite kind of knowledge. They believed their knowledge was also the principle of life. But to affirm all this, they had to deceive themselves about their own condition. They had to see themselves as impersonal and permanently unchanging. They had to misunderstand the nature of the individual philosopher, deny the force of impulses in knowing, and view reason as an entirely free activity arising from itself. They closed their eyes to the fact that they too had reached their doctrines by going against accepted methods. Or they had reached them through their longing for rest, exclusive possession, or domination. A more refined honesty and skepticism finally made such thinkers impossible. Their lives and judgments, too, proved to depend on the ancient impulses and fundamental errors of all feeling beings. This more refined honesty and skepticism arose whenever two opposing principles both seemed applicable to life. Both were compatible with the fundamental errors, so people could argue about which was more useful to life. They also arose where new principles proved not actually useful but at least harmless. Such principles expressed an intellectual impulse to play a game. Like all games, it was innocent and joyful. The human brain gradually filled with such judgments and convictions. In this tangled mass, ferment, conflict, and the desire for power arose. Not only usefulness and pleasure, but every kind of impulse joined the struggle for "truths". Intellectual struggle became a business, an attraction, a calling, a duty, and an honor. In time, knowing and striving for truth became needs among other needs. From that moment, not only belief and conviction but also examination, denial, distrust, and contradiction became forces. All "evil" instincts were made subordinate to knowledge and placed in its service. They gained the prestige of what was permitted, honored, and useful. Finally, they gained the appearance and innocence of the good. Knowledge thus became part of life itself. As life, it became a continually growing power. Finally, knowledge and those ancient, fundamental errors clashed. Both were life, both were power, and both existed in the same person. The thinker is now the being in whom the impulse to truth and those life-preserving errors first come into conflict. For the impulse to truth has now also proved itself a life-preserving power. Compared with the importance of this conflict, everything else is a matter of indifference. Here the ultimate question about the conditions of life is raised. Here the first attempt is made to answer it through experiment. How far can truth be embodied? That is the question, that is the experiment.

Origin of the Logical.—Where has logic originated in men's heads? Undoubtedly out of the illogical, the domain of which must originally have been immense. But numberless beings who reasoned otherwise than we do at present, perished; albeit that they may have come nearer to truth than we! Whoever, for example, could not discern the "like" often enough with regard to food, and with regard to animals dangerous to him, whoever, therefore, deduced too slowly, or was too circumspect in his deductions, had smaller probability of survival than he who in all similar things immediately divined the equality. The preponderating inclination, however, to deal with the similar as the equal—an illogical inclination, for there is nothing equal in itself—first created the whole basis of logic. It was just so (in order that the conception of substance might originate, this being indispensable to logic, although in the strictest sense nothing actual corresponds to it) that for a long period the changing process in things had to be overlooked, and remain unperceived; the beings not seeing correctly had an advantage over those who saw everything "in flux." In itself every high degree of circumspection in conclusions, every sceptical inclination, is a great danger to life. No living being would have been preserved unless the contrary inclination—to affirm rather than suspend judgment, to mistake and fabricate rather than wait, to assent rather than deny, to decide rather than be in the right—had been cultivated with extraordinary assiduity.—The course of logical thought and reasoning in our modern brain corresponds to a process and struggle of impulses, which singly and in themselves are all very illogical and unjust; we experience usually only the result of the struggle, so rapidly and secretly does this primitive mechanism now operate in us.

Origin of the Logical. Where did logic originate in human minds? Undoubtedly, it came from the illogical, whose domain must once have been immense. But countless beings who reasoned differently from us perished, even though they may have come closer to the truth than we do! Take someone who could not recognize things as "like" often enough, whether food or animals dangerous to him. Such a person, who therefore drew conclusions too slowly or too cautiously, was less likely to survive. He was at a disadvantage compared with someone who immediately saw similar things as equal. Yet the dominant tendency to treat similar things as equal is illogical, because nothing is equal in itself. This tendency first created the whole basis of logic. Something similar happened with the concept of substance. This concept is indispensable to logic, although nothing real corresponds to it in the strictest sense. For the concept to arise, the process of change in things had to be overlooked and go unnoticed for a long time. Beings who did not see correctly had an advantage over those who saw everything "in flux." In itself, any great caution in drawing conclusions, any tendency toward skepticism, is a great danger to life. No living being would have survived unless the opposite tendency had been cultivated with extraordinary care. This is the tendency to affirm rather than suspend judgment, to make mistakes and invent things rather than wait, to agree rather than deny, and to decide rather than be right. The course of logical thought and reasoning in our modern brains reflects a process and struggle among impulses. Each of these impulses, on its own, is entirely illogical and unjust. We usually experience only the result of the struggle. This primitive mechanism now works in us so quickly and secretly.

Cause and Effect.—We say it is "explanation"; but it is only in "description" that we are in advance of the older stages of knowledge and science. We describe better,—we explain just as little as our predecessors. We have discovered a manifold succession where the naïve man and investigator of older cultures saw only two things, "cause" and "effect," as it was said; we have perfected the conception of becoming, but have not got a knowledge of what is above and behind the conception. The series of "causes" stands before us much more complete in every case; we conclude that this and that must first precede in order that that other may follow—but we have not grasped anything thereby. The peculiarity, for example, in every chemical process seems a "miracle," the same as before, just like all locomotion; nobody has "explained" impulse. How could we ever explain! We operate only with things which do not exist, with lines, surfaces, bodies, atoms, divisible times, divisible spaces—how can explanation ever be possible when we first make everything a conception, our conception! It is sufficient to regard science as the exactest humanising of things that is possible; we always learn to describe ourselves more accurately by describing things and their successions. Cause and effect: there is probably never any such duality; in fact there is a continuum before us, from which we isolate a few portions;—just as we always observe a motion as isolated points, and therefore do not properly see it, but infer it. The abruptness with which many effects take place leads us into error; it is however only an abruptness for us. There is an infinite multitude of processes in that abrupt moment which escape us. An intellect which could see cause and effect as a continuum, which could see the flux of events not according to our mode of perception, as things arbitrarily separated and broken—would throw aside the conception of cause and effect, and would deny all conditionality.

Cause and Effect. We call it "explanation", but we have advanced beyond earlier knowledge and science only in "description". We describe things better, but we explain them no more than our predecessors did. We have discovered a complex sequence where the naïve person and the investigator of older cultures saw only two things: "cause" and "effect", as they called them. We have perfected the concept of becoming, but we know nothing of what lies above and behind that concept. In every case, the series of "causes" before us is much more complete. We conclude that certain things must happen first for something else to follow. But we have not grasped anything by doing so. For example, what is distinctive about every chemical process still seems a "miracle", just like all movement. No one has "explained" impulse. How could we ever explain! We work only with things that do not exist: lines, surfaces, bodies, atoms, divisible time and divisible space. How can explanation ever be possible when we first turn everything into a concept, our concept! It is enough to see science as the most precise way possible of making things human. By describing things and their sequences, we learn to describe ourselves more accurately. Cause and effect: there is probably never any such division into two. In fact, a continuum lies before us, and we isolate a few parts of it. In the same way, we always observe motion as isolated points. So we do not really see motion, but infer it. The suddenness of many effects misleads us. But they are sudden only to us. In that sudden moment, an infinite number of processes escape our notice. An intellect might see cause and effect as a continuum. It might see the flow of events without perceiving them as arbitrarily separated and broken, as we do. Such an intellect would throw aside the concept of cause and effect and deny all conditionality.

The Theory of Poisons.—So many things have to be united in order that scientific thinking may arise, and all the necessary powers must have been devised, exercised, and fostered singly! In their isolation, however, they have very often had quite a different effect than at present, when they are confined within the limits of scientific thinking and kept mutually in check:—they have operated as poisons; for example, the doubting impulse, the denying impulse, the waiting impulse, the collecting impulse, the disintegrating impulse. Many hecatombs of men were sacrificed ere these impulses learned to understand their juxtaposition and regard themselves as functions of one organising force in one man! And how far are we still from the point at which the artistic powers and the practical wisdom of life shall co-operate with scientific thinking, so that a higher organic system may be formed, in relation to which the scholar, the physician, the artist, and the lawgiver, as we know them at present, will seem sorry antiquities!

The Theory of Poisons.. Many things must come together before scientific thinking can arise. All the necessary powers must first have been developed, practiced, and nurtured separately! But in isolation, these powers have often had a very different effect from the one they have today. Now they are confined within the limits of scientific thinking and keep one another in check. Before that, they acted as poisons. Take, for example, the impulses to doubt, deny, wait, collect, and break things apart. Vast numbers of people were sacrificed before these impulses learned to understand their place alongside one another. Only then did they come to see themselves as functions of one organizing force within a single person! And how far are we still from another goal? Artistic powers and practical wisdom about life must cooperate with scientific thinking, so that a higher organic system can form. In comparison with that system, the scholar, physician, artist, and lawgiver as we know them today will seem like sorry relics!

The Extent of the Moral.—We construct a new picture, which we see immediately with the aid of all the old experiences which we have had, always according to the degree of our honesty and justice. The only events are moral events, even in the domain of sense-perception.

The Reach of Morality. We create a new picture and immediately see it in light of all our past experiences, always according to the degree of our honesty and fairness. The only events are moral events, even in what we perceive through our senses.

The Four Errors.—Man has been reared by his errors: firstly, he saw himself always imperfect; secondly, he attributed to himself imaginary qualities; thirdly, he felt himself in a false position in relation to the animals and nature; fourthly, he always devised new tables of values, and accepted them for a time as eternal and unconditioned, so that at one time this, and at another time that human impulse or state stood first, and was ennobled in consequence. When one has deducted the effect of these four errors, one has also deducted humanity, humaneness, and "human dignity."

The Four Errors. Humans have been shaped by their errors. First, they always saw themselves as imperfect. Second, they attributed imaginary qualities to themselves. Third, they felt they stood in a false relation to animals and nature. Fourth, they kept inventing new tables of values and accepting them for a time as eternal and unconditional. As a result, first one human impulse or state, then another, was placed above the rest and ennobled. Once we subtract the effects of these four errors, we have also subtracted humanity, humaneness, and "human dignity."

Herd-Instinct.—Wherever we meet with a morality we find a valuation and order of rank of the human impulses and activities. These valuations and orders of rank are always the expression of the needs of a community or herd: that which is in the first place to its advantage—and in the second place and third place—is also the authoritative standard for the worth of every individual. By morality the individual is taught to become a function of the herd, and to ascribe to himself value only as a function. As the conditions for the maintenance of one community have been very different from those of another community, there have been very different moralities; and in respect to the future essential transformations of herds and communities, states and societies, one can prophesy that there will still be very divergent moralities. Morality is the herd-instinct in the individual.

Herd Instinct. Wherever we find a morality, we find a ranking of human impulses and activities. These rankings always express the needs of a community or herd. What serves its interests first, second, and third also determines the value of every individual. Morality teaches individuals to serve the herd and to value themselves only for that service. The conditions needed to sustain one community have differed greatly from those of another. As a result, moralities have differed greatly too. Herds and communities, states and societies will undergo fundamental changes in the future. Given those changes, we can predict that moralities will continue to differ greatly. Morality is the herd instinct in the individual.

The Herd's Sting of Conscience.—In the longest and remotest ages of the human race there was quite a different sting of conscience from that of the present day. At present one only feels responsible for what one intends and for what one does, and we have our pride in ourselves. All our professors of jurisprudence start with this sentiment of individual independence and pleasure, as if the source of right had taken its rise here from the beginning. But throughout the longest period in the life of mankind there was nothing more terrible to a person than to feel himself independent. To be alone, to feel independent, neither to obey nor to rule, to represent an individual—that was no pleasure to a person then, but a punishment; he was condemned "to be an individual." Freedom of thought was regarded as discomfort personified. While we feel law and regulation as constraint and loss, people formerly regarded egoism as a painful thing, and a veritable evil. For a person to be himself, to value himself according to his own measure and weight—that was then quite distasteful. The inclination to such a thing would have been regarded as madness; for all miseries and terrors were associated with being alone. At that time the "free will" had bad conscience in close proximity to it; and the less independently a person acted, the more the herd-instinct, and not his personal character, expressed itself in his conduct, so much the more moral did he esteem himself. All that did injury to the herd, whether the individual had intended it or not, then caused him a sting of conscience—and his neighbour likewise, indeed the whole herd!—It is in this respect that we have most changed our mode of thinking.

The Herd's Guilty Conscience. In the earliest and longest ages of human history, people felt a very different kind of guilt. Today we feel responsible only for what we intend and do, and we take pride in ourselves. All our law professors start with this sense of individual independence and pleasure. They write as if the source of law had always been there. But for most of human history, nothing was more terrifying than feeling independent. Being alone, being independent, neither obeying nor ruling, being an individual, none of this gave people pleasure. It was a punishment. A person was condemned "to be an individual." Freedom of thought was seen as discomfort itself. We feel that laws and rules restrict us and deprive us of something. In the past, people regarded self-interest as painful and truly evil. Being oneself and judging oneself by one's own standards was deeply distasteful. The desire to do so would have been seen as madness, because being alone was associated with all misery and terror. In those days, "free will" was closely tied to a guilty conscience. The less independently people acted, the more moral they believed themselves to be. Their conduct expressed the herd instinct rather than their own character. Anything that harmed the herd gave the individual a guilty conscience, whether or not the harm was intended. It gave his neighbor a guilty conscience too, and indeed the whole herd! This is where our way of thinking has changed most.

Benevolence.—Is it virtuous when a cell transforms itself into the function of a stronger cell? It must do so. And is it wicked when the stronger one assimilates the other? It must do so likewise: it is necessary, for it has to have abundant indemnity and seeks to regenerate itself. One has therefore to distinguish the instinct of appropriation, and the instinct of submission, in benevolence, according as the stronger or the weaker feels benevolent. Gladness and covetousness are united in the stronger person, who wants to transform something to his function: gladness and desire-to-be-coveted in the weaker person, who would like to become a function.—The former case is essentially pity, a pleasant excitation of the instinct of appropriation at the sight of the weaker: it is to be remembered, however, that "strong" and "weak" are relative conceptions.

Benevolence. Is it virtuous when a cell turns itself into a part of a stronger cell? It must do so. And is it wicked when the stronger cell absorbs the other? It must do so too. This is necessary because the stronger cell needs ample compensation and seeks to renew itself. We must therefore distinguish between two instincts in benevolence. One is the instinct to take possession, the other the instinct to submit. Which instinct is at work depends on whether the stronger or the weaker feels benevolent. In the stronger person, joy and the desire to possess go together. This person wants to make something serve their own purpose. In the weaker person, joy and the desire to be wanted go together. This person would like to serve another’s purpose. The first case is essentially pity. It is a pleasant stirring of the instinct to take possession at the sight of someone weaker. But we must remember that "strong" and "weak" are relative concepts.

No Altruism!—I see in many men an excessive impulse and delight in wanting to be a function; they strive after it, and have the keenest scent for all those positions in which precisely they themselves can be functions. Among such persons are those women who transform themselves into just that function of a man that is but weakly developed in him, and then become his purse, or his politics, or his social intercourse. Such beings maintain themselves best when they insert themselves in an alien organism; if they do not succeed they become vexed, irritated, and eat themselves up.

No Altruism! I see in many men an excessive urge and delight in wanting to serve a function. They pursue this goal and have a keen nose for positions where they can serve a function. Among them are women who turn themselves into the very function a man lacks. They become his purse, his politics, or his social life. Such beings thrive best when they insert themselves into another organism. If they fail, they become frustrated and irritated, and eat themselves up.

Health of the Soul.—The favourite medico-moral formula (whose originator was Ariston of Chios), "Virtue is the health of the soul," would, at least in order to be used, have to be altered to this: "Thy virtue is the health of thy soul." For there is no such thing as health in itself, and all attempts to define a thing in that way have lamentably failed. It is necessary to know thy aim, thy horizon, thy powers, thy impulses, thy errors, and especially the ideals and fantasies of thy soul, in order to determine what health implies even for thy body. There are consequently innumerable kinds of physical health; and the more one again permits the unique and unparalleled to raise its head, the more one unlearns the dogma of the "Equality of men," so much the more also must the conception of a normal health, together with a normal diet and a normal course of disease, be abrogated by our physicians. And then only would it be time to turn our thoughts to the health and disease of the soul and make the special virtue of everyone consist in its health; but, to be sure, what appeared as health in one person might appear as the contrary of health in another. In the end the great question might still remain open: whether we could do without sickness, even for the development of our virtue, and whether our thirst for knowledge and self-knowledge would not especially need the sickly soul as well as the sound one; in short, whether the mere will to health is not a prejudice, a cowardice, and perhaps an instance of the subtlest barbarism and unprogressiveness.

Health of the Soul. The favorite medical and moral formula says, "Virtue is the health of the soul." Ariston of Chios first proposed it. But before we can use the formula, we would at least have to change it to: "Your virtue is the health of your soul." For there is no such thing as health in itself. All attempts to define health in that way have failed miserably. To determine what health means even for your body, we must know your aim, your horizon, your powers, your impulses, and your errors. Above all, we must know the ideals and fantasies of your soul. There are therefore countless kinds of physical health. The more we allow what is unique and without equal to show itself, the more we unlearn the dogma of the "Equality of men." And the more we do this, the more our physicians must abandon the idea of normal health. They must also abandon the ideas of a normal diet and a normal course of disease. Only then would it be time to consider the health and disease of the soul. We could then make each person's particular virtue consist in the health of that person's soul. But what appeared healthy in one person might appear unhealthy in another. In the end, the great question might still remain open: could we do without sickness, even in developing our virtue? And might our thirst for knowledge and self-knowledge especially need the sick soul as well as the healthy one? In short, is the mere will to health a prejudice, a form of cowardice, and perhaps an example of the subtlest barbarism and resistance to progress?

Life no Argument.—We have arranged for ourselves a world in which we can live—by the postulating of bodies, lines, surfaces, causes and effects, motion and rest, form and content: without these articles of faith no one could manage to live at present! But for all that they are still unproved. Life is no argument; error might be among the conditions of life.

Life Is No Argument. We have created a world we can live in by assuming that certain things exist. These include bodies, lines, surfaces, causes and effects, motion and rest, form and content. Without these beliefs, no one could live today! But they remain unproven. Life is no argument. Error might be one of the conditions of life.

The Element of Moral Scepticism in Christianity.—Christianity also has made a great contribution to enlightenment, and has taught moral scepticism in a very impressive and effective manner—accusing and embittering, but with untiring patience and subtlety; it annihilated in every individual the belief in his virtues: it made the great virtuous ones, of whom antiquity had no lack, vanish for ever from the earth, those popular men, who, in the belief in their perfection, walked about with the dignity of a hero of the bull-fight. When, trained in this Christian school of scepticism, we now read the moral books of the ancients, for example those of Seneca and Epictetus, we feel a pleasurable superiority, and are full of secret insight and penetration,—it seems to us as if a child talked before an old man, or a pretty, gushing girl before La Rochefoucauld:—we know better what virtue is! After all, however, we have applied the same scepticism to all religious states and processes, such as sin, repentance, grace, sanctification, &c., and have allowed the worm to burrow so well, that we have now the same feeling of subtle superiority and insight even in reading all Christian books:—we know also the religious feelings better! And it is time to know them well and describe them well, for the pious ones of the old belief die out also; let us save their likeness and type, at least for the sake of knowledge.

The Element of Moral Skepticism in Christianity. Christianity, too, has contributed greatly to enlightenment. It has taught moral skepticism very effectively, with accusations and bitterness, but also with tireless patience and subtlety. It destroyed every individual’s belief in their own virtues. It made the great virtuous people, of whom antiquity had no shortage, vanish from the earth forever. These popular figures believed in their own perfection and carried themselves with the dignity of a bullfighter. Now that we have been trained in this Christian school of skepticism, we read the moral writings of the ancients differently. When we read Seneca and Epictetus, for example, we feel a pleasant sense of superiority. We are full of secret insight and understanding. It seems to us as if a child were speaking before an old man, or a pretty, gushing girl before La Rochefoucauld. We know better what virtue is! But we have also applied the same skepticism to all religious states and processes, such as sin, repentance, grace, sanctification, and so on. We have let the worm burrow so deeply that we now feel the same subtle superiority and insight when reading all Christian books. We understand religious feelings better, too! And it is time to understand and describe them well, for the devout followers of the old faith are dying out too. Let us preserve their likeness and type, at least for the sake of knowledge.

Knowledge more than a Means.—Also without this passion—I refer to the passion for knowledge—science would be furthered: science has hitherto increased and grown up without it. The good faith in science, the prejudice in its favour, by which States are at present dominated (it was even the Church formerly), rests fundamentally on the fact that the absolute inclination and impulse has so rarely revealed itself in it, and that science is regarded not as a passion, but as a condition and an "ethos." Indeed, amour-plaisir of knowledge (curiosity) often enough suffices, amour-vanité suffices, and habituation to it, with the afterthought of obtaining honour and bread; it even suffices for many that they do not know what to do with a surplus of leisure, except to continue reading, collecting, arranging, observing and narrating; their "scientific impulse" is their ennui. Pope Leo X. once (in the brief to Beroaldus) sang the praise of science; he designated it as the finest ornament and the greatest pride of our life, a noble employment in happiness and in misfortune; "without it," he says finally, "all human undertakings would be without a firm basis,—even with it they are still sufficiently mutable and insecure!" But this rather sceptical Pope, like all other ecclesiastical panegyrists of science, suppressed his ultimate judgment concerning it. If one may deduce from his words what is remarkable enough for such a lover of art, that he places science above art, it is after all, however, only from politeness that he omits to speak of that which he places high above all science: the "revealed truth," and the "eternal salvation of the soul,"—what are ornament, pride, entertainment and security of life to him, in comparison thereto? "Science is something of secondary rank, nothing ultimate or unconditioned, no object of passion"—this judgment was kept back in Leo's soul: the truly Christian judgment concerning science! In antiquity its dignity and appreciation were lessened by the fact that, even among its most eager disciples, the striving after virtue stood foremost, and that people thought they had given the highest praise to knowledge when they celebrated it as the best means to virtue. It is something new in history that knowledge claims to be more than a means.

Knowledge as More Than a Means. Science would advance even without this passion, the passion for knowledge. So far, science has grown and developed without it. Today, states are guided by a belief in science and a prejudice in its favor. The Church was once guided by this belief too. This faith rests mainly on the fact that an absolute devotion and drive have so rarely appeared in science. Science is regarded not as a passion, but as a state of being and an "ethos." Indeed, amour-plaisir of knowledge (curiosity) is often enough. So is amour-vanité, or a habit of pursuing knowledge, with the hope of gaining honor and a living. For many, it is even enough that they do not know what else to do with their spare time. They keep reading, collecting, organizing, observing, and telling what they have learned. Their "scientific impulse" is boredom. Pope Leo X. once praised science in his brief to Beroaldus. He called it the finest ornament and the greatest pride of our lives, a noble occupation in happiness and misfortune. "Without it," he says finally, "all human endeavors would lack a firm foundation. Even with it, they are still quite changeable and insecure!" But this rather skeptical Pope, like all other Church figures who praised science, withheld his final judgment of it. His words might suggest that he placed science above art. That would be remarkable enough in such a lover of art. But he omitted, only out of politeness, what he placed far above all science: "revealed truth" and the "eternal salvation of the soul." What were life's ornaments, pride, entertainment, and security to him in comparison? "Science is secondary, nothing final or unconditional, no object of passion." Leo kept this judgment to himself. It is the truly Christian judgment of science! In antiquity, science was held in lower esteem for another reason. Even among its most eager followers, the pursuit of virtue came first. People thought they gave knowledge the highest praise when they celebrated it as the best means to virtue. It is something new in history for knowledge to claim to be more than a means.

In the Horizon of the Infinite.—We have left the land and have gone aboard ship! We have broken down the bridge behind us,—nay, more, the land behind us! Well, little ship! look out! Beside thee is the ocean; it is true it does not always roar, and sometimes it spreads out like silk and gold and a gentle reverie. But times will come when thou wilt feel that it is infinite, and that there is nothing more frightful than infinity. Oh, the poor bird that felt itself free, and now strikes against the walls of this cage! Alas, if homesickness for the land should attack thee, as if there had been more freedom there,—and there is no "land" any longer!

In the Horizon of the Infinite. We have left the land and boarded a ship! We have destroyed the bridge behind us. More than that, we have destroyed the land behind us! Well, little ship, watch out! The ocean is beside you. It does not always roar. Sometimes it spreads out like silk and gold and a gentle dream. But there will be times when you feel that the ocean is infinite. You will feel that nothing is more frightening than infinity. Oh, the poor bird that felt free and now strikes against the walls of this cage! Alas, what if you grow homesick for the land, as if there had been more freedom there? And there is no "land" any longer!

The Madman.—Have you ever heard of the madman who on a bright morning lighted a lantern and ran to the market-place calling out unceasingly: "I seek God! I seek God!"—As there were many people standing about who did not believe in God, he caused a great deal of amusement. Why! is he lost? said one. Has he strayed away like a child? said another. Or does he keep himself hidden? Is he afraid of us? Has he taken a sea-voyage? Has he emigrated?—the people cried out laughingly, all in a hubbub. The insane man jumped into their midst and transfixed them with his glances. "Where is God gone?" he called out. "I mean to tell you! We have killed him,—you and I! We are all his murderers! But how have we done it? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the whole horizon? What did we do when we loosened this earth from its sun? Whither does it now move? Whither do we move? Away from all suns? Do we not dash on unceasingly? Backwards, sideways, forwards, in all directions? Is there still an above and below? Do we not stray, as through infinite nothingness? Does not empty space breathe upon us? Has it not become colder? Does not night come on continually, darker and darker? Shall we not have to light lanterns in the morning? Do we not hear the noise of the grave-diggers who are burying God? Do we not smell the divine putrefaction?—for even Gods putrefy! God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him! How shall we console ourselves, the most murderous of all murderers? The holiest and the mightiest that the world has hitherto possessed, has bled to death under our knife,—who will wipe the blood from us? With what water could we cleanse ourselves? What lustrums, what sacred games shall we have to devise? Is not the magnitude of this deed too great for us? Shall we not ourselves have to become Gods, merely to seem worthy of it? There never was a greater event,—and on account of it, all who are born after us belong to a higher history than any history hitherto!"—Here the madman was silent and looked again at his hearers; they also were silent and looked at him in surprise. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, so that it broke in pieces and was extinguished. "I come too early," he then said, "I am not yet at the right time. This prodigious event is still on its way, and is travelling,—it has not yet reached men's ears. Lightning and thunder need time, the light of the stars needs time, deeds need time, even after they are done, to be seen and heard. This deed is as yet further from them than the furthest star,—and yet they have done it!"—It is further stated that the madman made his way into different churches on the same day, and there intoned his Requiem aeternam deo. When led out and called to account, he always gave the reply: "What are these churches now, if they are not the tombs and monuments of God?"—

The Madman. Have you heard of the madman who lit a lantern on a bright morning? He ran to the marketplace, calling out again and again: "I seek God! I seek God!" Many people standing there did not believe in God, and they found him very amusing. "What, is he lost?" said one. "Has he wandered off like a child?" said another. "Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a sea voyage? Has he emigrated?" The people shouted and laughed, all talking at once. The madman jumped into their midst and fixed his eyes on them. "Where has God gone?" he cried. "I'll tell you! We have killed him, you and I! We are all his murderers! But how did we do it? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the whole horizon? What did we do when we set this earth loose from its sun? Where is it moving now? Where are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging on and on? Backward, sideways, forward, in every direction? Is there still an above and a below? Are we not wandering as if through infinite nothingness? Does empty space not breathe upon us? Has it not grown colder? Does night not keep coming on, darker and darker? Must we not light lanterns in the morning? Do we not hear the gravediggers burying God? Do we not smell the divine decay? For even Gods decay! "God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him! How can we comfort ourselves, the most murderous of all murderers? The holiest and mightiest being the world has ever known has bled to death under our knife. Who will wipe the blood from us? What water could wash us clean? What rituals of purification, what sacred games must we invent? Is the greatness of this deed not too much for us? Must we not become Gods ourselves, just to seem worthy of it? There has never been a greater event. Because of it, all who are born after us belong to a higher history than any history until now!" Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners. They too were silent and stared at him in surprise. At last he threw his lantern to the ground. It shattered and went out. "I have come too early," he said. "My time has not yet come. This enormous event is still on its way. It has not yet reached people's ears. Lightning and thunder need time. The light of the stars needs time. Even after deeds are done, they need time to be seen and heard. This deed is still farther from them than the farthest star, and yet they have done it!" It is also said that the madman entered several churches that same day. In each one he sang his Requiem aeternam deo. When he was led out and asked to explain himself, he always replied: "What are these churches now, if they are not the tombs and monuments of God?"

Mystical Explanations.—Mystical explanations are regarded as profound; the truth is that they do not even go the length of being superficial.

Mystical Explanations. Mystical explanations are thought to be profound. The truth is, they are not even superficial.

After-Effect of the most Ancient Religiousness.—The thoughtless man thinks that the Will is the only thing that operates, that willing is something simple, manifestly given, underived, and comprehensible in itself. He is convinced that when he does anything, for example, when he delivers a blow, it is he who strikes, and he has struck because he willed to strike. He does not notice anything of a problem therein, but the feeling of willing suffices to him, not only for the acceptance of cause and effect, but also for the belief that he understands their relationship. Of the mechanism of the occurrence and of the manifold subtle operations that must be performed in order that the blow may result, and likewise of the incapacity of the Will in itself to effect even the smallest part of those operations—he knows nothing. The Will is to him a magically operating force; the belief in the Will as the cause of effects is the belief in magically operating forces. In fact, whenever he saw anything happen, man originally believed in a Will as cause, and in personally willing beings operating in the background,—the conception of mechanism was very remote from him. Because, however, man for immense periods of time believed only in persons (and not in matter, forces, things, &c.), the belief in cause and effect has become a fundamental belief with him, which he applies everywhere when anything happens,—and even still uses instinctively as a piece of atavism of remotest origin. The propositions, "No effect without a cause," and "Every effect again implies a cause," appear as generalisations of several less general propositions:—"Where there is operation there has been willing," "Operating is only possible on willing beings." "There is never a pure, resultless experience of activity, but every experience involves stimulation of the Will" (to activity, defence, revenge or retaliation). But in the primitive period of the human race, the latter and the former propositions were identical, the first were not generalisations of the second, but the second were explanations of the first.—Schopenhauer, with his assumption that all that exists is something volitional, has set a primitive mythology on the throne; he seems never to have attempted an analysis of the Will, because he believed like everybody in the simplicity and immediateness of all volition:—while volition is in fact such a cleverly practised mechanical process that it almost escapes the observing eye. I set the following propositions against those of Schopenhauer:—Firstly, in order that Will may arise, an idea of pleasure and pain is necessary. Secondly, that a vigorous excitation may be felt as pleasure or pain, is the affair of the interpreting intellect, which, to be sure, operates thereby for the most part unconsciously to us, and one and the same excitation may be interpreted as pleasure or pain. Thirdly, it is only in an intellectual being that there is pleasure, displeasure and Will; the immense majority of organisms have nothing of the kind.

The Aftereffect of the Most Ancient Religious Beliefs. The thoughtless man thinks that the Will is the only thing that acts. He thinks willing is simple, plainly given, not derived from anything else, and understandable in itself. When he does something, such as striking a blow, he is convinced that he strikes. He believes he struck because he willed to strike. He sees no problem in this. The feeling of willing is enough to make him accept cause and effect. It is also enough to make him believe he understands their relationship. He knows nothing of the mechanics of the event. He knows nothing of the many subtle operations needed to produce the blow. Nor does he know that the Will itself cannot carry out even the smallest part of those operations. To him, the Will is a force that acts by magic. Belief in the Will as the cause of effects is belief in forces that act by magic. In fact, whenever man originally saw something happen, he believed that a Will had caused it. He believed that beings who personally willed were at work behind the scenes. The idea of a mechanism was very far from his mind. For immense periods, man believed only in persons, not in matter, forces, things, and so on. Because of this, belief in cause and effect has become a fundamental belief for him. He applies it everywhere, whenever anything happens. Even now he uses it instinctively, as a survival from a very remote past. The propositions "No effect without a cause" and "Every effect again implies a cause" appear to be generalizations of several less general propositions: "Where there is action, there has been willing," "Action is possible only upon willing beings." "There is never a pure, resultless experience of activity. Every such experience stimulates the Will" (to activity, defense, revenge, or retaliation). But in the primitive period of the human race, the two sets of propositions were identical. The first were not generalizations of the second. The second were explanations of the first. Schopenhauer assumed that everything that exists is something volitional. In doing so, he has put a primitive mythology on the throne. He seems never to have tried to analyze the Will. Like everyone else, he believed that all willing was simple and immediate. Yet willing is in fact such a skillfully practiced mechanical process that it almost escapes the observing eye. I set the following propositions against Schopenhauer's: First, for Will to arise, an idea of pleasure and pain is necessary. Second, it is the work of the interpreting intellect that a strong stimulation can be felt as pleasure or pain. To be sure, the intellect works mostly without our being conscious of it. One and the same stimulation may be interpreted as pleasure or pain. Third, only an intellectual being has pleasure, displeasure, and Will. The immense majority of organisms have nothing of the kind.

The Value of Prayer.—Prayer has been devised for such men as have never any thoughts of their own, and to whom an elevation of the soul is unknown, or passes unnoticed; what shall these people do in holy places and in all important situations in life which require repose and some kind of dignity? In order at least that they may not disturb, the wisdom of all the founders of religions, the small as well as the great, has commended to them the formula of prayer, as a long mechanical labour of the lips, united with an effort of the memory, and with a uniform, prescribed attitude of hands and feet—and eyes! They may then, like the Tibetans, chew the cud of their "om mane padme hum," innumerable times, or, as in Benares, count the name of God Ram-Ram-Ram (and so on, with or without grace) on their fingers; or honour Vishnu with his thousand names of invocation, Allah with his ninety-nine; or they may make use of the prayer-wheels and the rosary: the main thing is that they are settled down for a time at this work, and present a tolerable appearance; their mode of prayer is devised for the advantage of the pious who have thought and elevation of their own. But even these have their weary hours when a series of venerable words and sounds and a mechanical, pious ritual does them good. But supposing that these rare men—in every religion the religious man is an exception—know how to help themselves, the poor in spirit do not know, and to forbid them the prayer-babbling would mean to take their religion from them, a fact which Protestantism brings more and more to light. All that religion wants with such persons is that they should keep still with their eyes, hands, legs, and all their organs: they thereby become temporarily beautified and—more human-looking!

The Value of Prayer. Prayer was invented for people who never have thoughts of their own. They do not know what it is to feel an elevation of the soul, or they do not notice it. What are such people to do in holy places? What are they to do at important moments in life that call for calm and a certain dignity? At least they should not disturb others. So all founders of religions, great and small, have wisely recommended formulas of prayer to them. These involve a long, mechanical exercise of the lips and an effort of memory. They also require a fixed, prescribed position of the hands and feet, and eyes! These people can then, like the Tibetans, chew the cud of their "om mane padme hum" countless times. Or, as in Benares, they can count God's name, Ram-Ram-Ram, on their fingers, and so on, with or without grace. They can honor Vishnu with his thousand names of invocation, or Allah with his ninety-nine. Or they can use prayer-wheels and the rosary. The main thing is that they settle down to this work for a while and present a tolerable appearance. Their way of praying is designed for the benefit of the pious who have thoughts and elevation of their own. But even these pious people have weary hours. Then a series of venerable words and sounds and a mechanical, pious ritual does them good. But suppose these rare people know how to help themselves. In every religion, the religious person is an exception. The poor in spirit do not know how to help themselves. To forbid them their prayer-babbling would mean taking their religion away from them. Protestantism is making this clearer and clearer. All that religion wants from such people is that they keep still, with their eyes, hands, legs, and all their organs. They are thus temporarily made more beautiful and more human-looking!

The Conditions for God.—"God himself cannot subsist without wise men," said Luther, and with good reason; but "God can still less subsist without unwise men,"—good Luther did not say that!

The Conditions for God. "God himself cannot exist without wise men," said Luther, and with good reason. But "God can even less exist without unwise men." Good Luther did not say that!

A Dangerous Resolution.—The Christian resolution to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad.

A Dangerous Decision. The Christian decision to see the world as ugly and bad has made it ugly and bad.

Christianity and Suicide.—Christianity made use of the excessive longing for suicide at the time of its origin as a lever for its power: it left only two forms of suicide, invested them with the highest dignity and the highest hopes, and forbade all others in a dreadful manner. But martyrdom and the slow self-annihilation of the ascetic were permitted.

Christianity and Suicide. When Christianity arose, it used the intense longing for suicide as a means to gain power. It allowed only two forms of suicide, giving them the highest dignity and offering the highest hopes. It forbade all other forms under dreadful threats. But martyrdom and the slow self-destruction of the ascetic were permitted.

Against Christianity.—It is now no longer our reason, but our taste that decides against Christianity.

Against Christianity. It is no longer our reason but our taste that turns us against Christianity.

Axioms.—An unavoidable hypothesis on which mankind must always fall back again, is, in the long run, more powerful than the most firmly believed belief in something untrue (like the Christian belief). In the long run: that means a hundred thousand years from now.

Axioms. An unavoidable hypothesis that humanity must always return to is, in the long run, more powerful than the firmest belief in something untrue (like the Christian belief). In the long run means a hundred thousand years from now.

Pessimists as Victims.—When a profound dislike of existence gets the upper hand, the after-effect of a great error in diet of which a people has been long guilty comes to light. The spread of Buddhism (not its origin) is thus to a considerable extent dependent on the excessive and almost exclusive rice-fare of the Indians, and on the universal enervation that results therefrom. Perhaps the modern, European discontentedness is to be looked upon as caused by the fact that the world of our forefathers, the whole Middle Ages, was given to drink, owing to the influence of German tastes in Europe: the Middle Ages, that means the alcoholic poisoning of Europe.—The German dislike of life (including the influence of the cellar-air and stove-poison in German dwellings), is essentially a cold-weather complaint.

Pessimists as Victims. When a deep dislike of existence takes hold, it reveals the effects of a people’s longstanding dietary error. The spread of Buddhism, not its origin, depends to a considerable extent on the Indians’ excessive and almost exclusive diet of rice. It also depends on the widespread weakness that results from this diet. Perhaps modern European discontent stems from the drinking habits of our ancestors throughout the Middle Ages. German tastes encouraged those habits across Europe. The Middle Ages meant the alcoholic poisoning of Europe. The German dislike of life is essentially a cold-weather complaint. It also reflects the effects of cellar air and fumes from stoves in German homes.

Origin of Sin.—Sin, as it is at present felt wherever Christianity prevails or has prevailed, is a Jewish feeling and a Jewish invention; and in respect to this background of all Christian morality, Christianity has in fact aimed at "Judaising" the whole world. To what an extent this has succeeded in Europe is traced most accurately in the extent of our alienness to Greek antiquity—a world without the feeling of sin—in our sentiments even at present; in spite of all the good will to approximation and assimilation, which whole generations and many distinguished individuals have not failed to display. "Only when thou repentest is God gracious to thee"—that would arouse the laughter or the wrath of a Greek: he would say, "Slaves may have such sentiments." Here a mighty being, an almighty being, and yet a revengeful being, is presupposed; his power is so great that no injury whatever can be done to him, except in the point of honour. Every sin is an infringement of respect, a crimen læsæ majestatis divinæ—and nothing more! Contrition, degradation, rolling-in-the-dust,—these are the first and last conditions on which his favour depends: the restoration, therefore, of his divine honour! If injury be caused otherwise by sin, if a profound, spreading evil be propagated by it, an evil which, like a disease, attacks and strangles one man after another—that does not trouble this honour-craving Oriental in heaven; sin is an offence against him, not against mankind!—to him on whom he has bestowed his favour he bestows also this indifference to the natural consequences of sin. God and mankind are here thought of as separated, as so antithetical that sin against the latter cannot be at all possible,—all deeds are to be looked upon solely with respect to their supernatural consequences, and not with respect to their natural results: it is thus that the Jewish feeling, to which all that is natural seems unworthy in itself, would have things. The Greeks, on the other hand, were more familiar with the thought that transgression also may have dignity,—even theft, as in the case of Prometheus, even the slaughtering of cattle as the expression of frantic jealousy, as in the case of Ajax; in their need to attribute dignity to transgression and embody it therein, they invented tragedy,—an art and a delight, which in its profoundest essence has remained alien to the Jew, in spite of all his poetic endowment and taste for the sublime.

Origin of Sin. Sin, as it is now felt wherever Christianity prevails or has prevailed, is a Jewish feeling and a Jewish invention. And Christianity has indeed tried to “Judaize” the whole world with this foundation of all Christian morality. We can see how far it has succeeded in Europe by how alien our feelings still are to Greek antiquity, a world without the feeling of sin. This is so despite the efforts of whole generations and many distinguished individuals to draw closer to and absorb Greek culture. “Only when you repent is God gracious to you.” That would make a Greek laugh or grow angry. He would say, “Slaves may have such feelings.” This belief assumes a mighty, almighty being who is nevertheless vengeful. His power is so great that nothing can injure him except an insult to his honor. Every sin is a breach of respect, a crimen læsæ majestatis divinæ, an offense against divine majesty, and nothing more! Remorse, humiliation, rolling in the dust: these are the first and last conditions for his favor. His divine honor must be restored! Sin may cause other harm. It may spread a deep evil that, like a disease, attacks and strangles one person after another. But that does not trouble this honor-craving Oriental in heaven. Sin is an offense against him, not against mankind! And he gives those who enjoy his favor the same indifference to the natural consequences of sin. Here, God and mankind are imagined as separate and so opposed that a sin against mankind is not even possible. All deeds must be judged solely by their supernatural consequences, not by their natural results. This is how the Jewish feeling would have it, for that feeling finds everything natural unworthy in itself. The Greeks, on the other hand, were more familiar with the idea that even a transgression may have dignity. This could be true even of theft, as with Prometheus, or of slaughtering cattle in frantic jealousy, as with Ajax. They needed to give transgression dignity and embody that dignity in it. So they invented tragedy, an art and a delight whose deepest essence has remained alien to the Jew, despite all his poetic gifts and taste for the sublime.

The Chosen People.—The Jews, who regard themselves as the chosen people among the nations, and that too because they are the moral genius among the nations (in virtue of their capacity for despising the human in themselves more than any other people)—the Jews have a pleasure in their divine monarch and saint similar to that which the French nobility had in Louis XIV. This nobility had allowed its power and autocracy to be taken from it, and had become contemptible: in order not to feel this, in order to be able to forget it, an unequalled royal magnificence, royal authority and plenitude of power was needed, to which there was access only for the nobility. As in accordance with this privilege they raised themselves to the elevation of the court, and from that elevation saw everything under them,—saw everything contemptible,—they got beyond all uneasiness of conscience. They thus elevated intentionally the tower of the royal power more and more into the clouds, and set the final coping-stone of their own power thereon.

The Chosen People. The Jews regard themselves as the chosen people among the nations. They do so because they are the moral genius among the nations. Their genius lies in their ability to despise the human in themselves more than any other people do. The Jews take pleasure in their divine monarch and saint, just as the French nobility took pleasure in Louis XIV. The French nobility had allowed its power and absolute authority to be taken away, and had become contemptible. To avoid feeling this and to be able to forget it, the nobles needed unmatched royal magnificence, authority, and power. Only they could have access to it. This privilege raised them to the heights of the court, from which they saw everything beneath them. They saw everything as contemptible, and so overcame all uneasiness of conscience. In this way, they deliberately raised the tower of royal power ever higher into the clouds. At its summit, they placed the final capstone of their own power.

Spoken in Parable.—A Jesus Christ was only possible in a Jewish landscape—I mean in one over which the gloomy and sublime thunder-cloud of the angry Jehovah hung continually. Here only was the rare, sudden flashing of a single sunbeam through the dreadful, universal and continuous nocturnal-day regarded as a miracle of "love," as a beam of the most unmerited "grace." Here only could Christ dream of his rainbow and celestial ladder on which God descended to man; everywhere else the clear weather and the sun were considered the rule and the commonplace.

Spoken in Parable. A Jesus Christ was possible only in a Jewish landscape. I mean a landscape over which the gloomy and sublime thundercloud of the angry Jehovah always hung. Only here was a rare, sudden sunbeam breaking through the dreadful, endless, universal night of day seen as a miracle of "love." Only here was it seen as a beam of utterly unmerited "grace." Only here could Christ dream of his rainbow and the heavenly ladder on which God descended to man. Everywhere else, clear weather and sunshine were considered normal and ordinary.

The Error of Christ.—The founder of Christianity thought there was nothing from which men suffered so much as from their sins:—it was his error, the error of him who felt himself without sin, to whom experience was lacking in this respect! It was thus that his soul filled with that marvellous, fantastic pity which had reference to a trouble that even among his own people, the inventors of sin, was rarely a great trouble! But Christians understood subsequently how to do justice to their master, and to sanctify his error into a "truth."

The Error of Christ. The founder of Christianity thought that people suffered from nothing more than their sins. This was his error, the error of a man who felt he was without sin and lacked experience of it! So his soul filled with a marvelous, fantastic pity for people suffering from sin. Yet even among his own people, the inventors of sin, it was rarely a great source of suffering! But Christians later found a way to do justice to their master and make his error sacred as a "truth."

Colour of the Passions.—Natures such as the apostle Paul, have an evil eye for the passions; they learn to know only the filthy, the distorting, and the heart-breaking in them,—their ideal aim, therefore, is the annihilation of the passions; in the divine they see complete purification from passion. The Greeks, quite otherwise than Paul and the Jews, directed their ideal aim precisely to the passions, and loved, elevated, embellished and deified them: in passion they evidently not only felt themselves happier, but also purer and diviner than otherwise.—And now the Christians? Have they wished to become Jews in this respect? Have they perhaps become Jews!

Colour of the Passions. People like the apostle Paul view the passions with suspicion. They see only what is filthy, distorting, and heartbreaking in them. Their ideal aim, therefore, is to destroy the passions. They see the divine as completely free from passion. The Greeks, unlike Paul and the Jews, made the passions themselves their ideal. They loved, elevated, beautified, and deified them. Evidently, they felt not only happier in passion, but also purer and more divine than they otherwise did. And what about the Christians now? Have they wanted to become Jews in this respect? Have they perhaps become Jews!

Too Jewish.—If God had wanted to become an object of love, he would first of all have had to forgo judging and justice:—a judge, and even a gracious judge, is no object of love. The founder of Christianity showed too little of the finer feelings in this respect—being a Jew.

Too Jewish. If God had wanted people to love him, he would first have had to give up judging and justice. A judge, even a merciful one, is not someone people can love. The founder of Christianity showed too little sensitivity to this, being a Jew.

Too Oriental.—What? A God who loves men, provided that they believe in him, and who hurls frightful glances and threatenings at him who does not believe in this love! What? A conditioned love as the feeling of an almighty God! A love which has not even become master of the sentiment of honour and of the irritable desire for vengeance! How Oriental is all that! "If I love thee, what does it concern thee?"⁹ is already a sufficient criticism of the whole of Christianity.

Too Oriental. What? A God who loves people, but only if they believe in him? And who casts terrifying glances and threats at anyone who does not believe in his love! What? An almighty God whose love is conditional! A love that has not even overcome its sense of honor and its touchy desire for revenge! How Oriental all of that is! "If I love you, what does it matter to you?"⁹ is already enough to criticize all of Christianity.

Frankincense.—Buddha says: "Do not flatter thy benefactor!" Let one repeat this saying in a Christian church:—it immediately purifies the air of all Christianity.

Frankincense. Buddha says: "Do not flatter your benefactor!" Repeat this saying in a Christian church. It immediately purifies the air of all Christianity.

The Greatest Utility of Polytheism.—For the individual to set up his own ideal and derive from it his laws, his pleasures and his rights—that has perhaps been hitherto regarded as the most monstrous of all human aberrations, and as idolatry in itself; in fact, the few who have ventured to do this have always needed to apologise to themselves, usually in this wise: "Not I! not I! but a God, through my instrumentality!" It was in the marvellous art and capacity for creating Gods—in polytheism—that this impulse was permitted to discharge itself, it was here that it became purified, perfected, and ennobled; for it was originally a commonplace and unimportant impulse, akin to stubbornness, disobedience and envy. To be hostile to this impulse towards the individual ideal,—that was formerly the law of every morality. There was then only one norm, "the man"—and every people believed that it had this one and ultimate norm. But above himself, and outside of himself, in a distant over-world, a person could see a multitude of norms: the one God was not the denial or blasphemy of the other Gods! It was here that individuals were first permitted, it was here that the right of individuals was first respected. The inventing of Gods, heroes and supermen of all kinds, as well as co-ordinate men and undermen—dwarfs, fairies, centaurs, satyrs, demons, devils—was the inestimable preliminary to the justification of the selfishness and sovereignty of the individual: the freedom which was granted to one God in respect to other Gods, was at last given to the individual himself in respect to laws, customs and neighbours. Monotheism, on the contrary, the rigid consequence of the doctrine of one normal human being—consequently the belief in a normal God, beside whom there are only false, spurious Gods—has perhaps been the greatest danger of mankind in the past: man was then threatened by that premature state of inertia, which, so far as we can see, most of the other species of animals reached long ago, as creatures who all believe in one normal animal and ideal in their species, and definitely translated their morality of custom into flesh and blood. In polytheism man's free-thinking and many-sided thinking had a prototype set up: the power to create for himself new and individual eyes, always newer and more individualised: so that it is for man alone, of all the animals, that there are no eternal horizons and perspectives.

The Greatest Benefit of Polytheism. For an individual to establish his own ideal and derive his laws, pleasures, and rights from it: that has perhaps been regarded as the most monstrous of all human aberrations. It has been regarded as idolatry in itself. In fact, the few who have dared to do this have always needed to excuse themselves, usually like this: "Not I! Not I! But a God, acting through me!" This impulse was allowed to express itself in the marvelous art and ability to create Gods, in polytheism. There it was purified, perfected, and ennobled. For it was originally a common and unimportant impulse, akin to stubbornness, disobedience, and envy. To be hostile to this impulse toward an individual ideal was once the law of every morality. At that time, there was only one norm, "the man". Every people believed it had this one and ultimate norm. But above and outside himself, in a distant world beyond this one, a person could see a multitude of norms. One God was not a denial of or blasphemy against the other Gods! It was there that individuals were first permitted and their rights first respected. People invented Gods, heroes, and supermen of all kinds. They also invented beings on the same level as humans, and undermen, such as dwarfs, fairies, centaurs, satyrs, demons, and devils. This was an invaluable first step toward justifying the selfishness and sovereignty of the individual. At last, individuals gained the freedom to stand apart from laws, customs, and neighbors. It was the same freedom that one God had in relation to other Gods. Monotheism, by contrast, was the strict consequence of the doctrine of one normal human being. It was therefore the belief in one normal God, beside whom there are only false, spurious Gods. Monotheism has perhaps been the greatest danger to humanity in the past. Man was then threatened by a premature state of inertia. As far as we can see, most other animal species reached that state long ago. They are creatures who all believe in one normal animal and ideal for their species. They have fully translated their morality of custom into flesh and blood. Polytheism provided a model for man's free and many-sided thinking. It modeled his power to create new and individual eyes for himself, always newer and more individual. Thus, of all animals, man alone has no eternal horizons and perspectives.

Religious Wars.—The greatest advance of the masses hitherto has been religious war, for it proves that the masses have begun to deal reverently with conceptions of things. Religious wars only result, when human reason generally has been refined by the subtle disputes of sects; so that even the populace becomes punctilious and regards trifles as important, actually thinking it possible that the "eternal salvation of the soul" may depend upon minute distinctions of concepts.

Religious Wars. The greatest advance the masses have made so far is religious war. It proves that they have begun to treat ideas about things with reverence. Religious wars only arise when the subtle disputes between sects have refined human reasoning in general. As a result, even ordinary people become exacting and regard trifles as important. They actually believe that the "eternal salvation of the soul" may depend on tiny distinctions between concepts.

Danger of Vegetarians.—The immense prevalence of rice-eating impels to the use of opium and narcotics, in like manner as the immense prevalence of potato-eating impels to the use of brandy:—it also impels, however, in its more subtle after-effects to modes of thought and feeling which operate narcotically. This is in accord with the fact that those who promote narcotic modes of thought and feeling, like those Indian teachers, praise a purely vegetable diet, and would like to make it a law for the masses: they want thereby to call forth and augment the need which they are in a position to satisfy.

The Danger of Vegetarians. The widespread eating of rice drives people to use opium and other narcotics. In the same way, the widespread eating of potatoes drives people to use brandy. But eating potatoes also has more subtle effects over time. It encourages ways of thinking and feeling that act like narcotics. This fits with the behavior of those who promote such ways of thinking and feeling, like those Indian teachers. They praise a purely vegetable diet and would like to make it mandatory for the masses. In this way, they want to create and increase the need that they are able to satisfy.

German Hopes.—Do not let us forget that the names of peoples are generally names of reproach. The Tartars, for example, according to their name, are "the dogs"; they were so christened by the Chinese. "Deutschen" (Germans) means originally "heathen": it is thus that the Goths after their conversion named the great mass of their unbaptized fellow-tribes, according to the indication in their translation of the Septuagint, in which the heathen are designated by the word which in Greek signifies "the nations." (See Ulfilas.)—It might still be possible for the Germans to make an honourable name ultimately out of their old name of reproach, by becoming the first non-Christian nation of Europe; for which purpose Schopenhauer, to their honour, regarded them as highly qualified. The work of Luther would thus be consummated,—he who taught them to be anti-Roman and to say: "Here I stand! I cannot do otherwise!"—

German Hopes. Let us not forget that the names of peoples are generally names of reproach. The Tartars, for example, were named "the dogs" by the Chinese. "Deutschen" (Germans) originally means "heathen." After their conversion, the Goths used this name for the great mass of their unbaptized fellow tribes. Their translation of the Septuagint indicates this. In it, the heathen are called by the word that means "the nations" in Greek. (See Ulfilas.) The Germans might still turn their old name of reproach into an honorable one. They could do this by becoming the first non-Christian nation of Europe. To their credit, Schopenhauer regarded them as highly qualified for this. The work of Luther would thus be completed. He taught them to be anti-Roman and to say: "Here I stand! I cannot do otherwise!"

Question and Answer.—What do savage tribes at present accept first of all from Europeans? Brandy and Christianity, the European narcotics.—And by what means are they fastest ruined?—By the European narcotics.

Question and Answer. What do savage tribes today accept first from Europeans? Brandy and Christianity, the European narcotics. What ruins them fastest? The European narcotics.

Where Reformations Originate.—At the time of the great corruption of the church it was least of all corrupt in Germany: it was on that account that the Reformation originated here, as a sign that even the beginnings of corruption were felt to be unendurable. For, comparatively speaking, no people was ever more Christian than the Germans at the time of Luther; their Christian culture was just about to burst into bloom with a hundred-fold splendour,—one night only was still lacking; but that night brought the storm which put an end to all.

Where Reformations Begin. At the time of the church’s great corruption, it was least corrupt in Germany. That is why the Reformation began here. It was a sign that even the first signs of corruption were felt to be unbearable. For, relatively speaking, no people was ever more Christian than the Germans in Luther’s time. Their Christian culture was about to burst into bloom with a hundredfold splendor. Only one night remained, but that night brought the storm that put an end to everything.

The Failure of Reformations.—It testifies to the higher culture of the Greeks, even in rather early ages, that attempts to establish new Grecian religions frequently failed; it testifies that quite early there must have been a multitude of dissimilar individuals in Greece, whose dissimilar troubles were not cured by a single recipe of faith and hope. Pythagoras and Plato, perhaps also Empedocles, and already much earlier the Orphic enthusiasts, aimed at founding new religions; and the two first-named were so endowed with the qualifications for founding religions, that one cannot be sufficiently astonished at their failure: they just reached the point of founding sects. Every time that the Reformation of an entire people fails and only sects raise their heads, one may conclude that the people already contains many types, and has begun to free itself from the gross herding instincts and the morality of custom,—a momentous state of suspense, which one is accustomed to disparage as decay of morals and corruption, while it announces the maturing of the egg and the early rupture of the shell. That Luther's Reformation succeeded in the north, is a sign that the north had remained backward in comparison with the south of Europe, and still had requirements tolerably uniform in colour and kind; and there would have been no Christianising of Europe at all, if the culture of the old world of the south had not been gradually barbarized by an excessive admixture of the blood of German barbarians, and thus lost its ascendency. The more universally and unconditionally an individual, or the thought of an individual, can operate, so much more homogeneous and so much lower must be the mass that is there operated upon; while counter-strivings betray internal counter-requirements, which also want to gratify and realise themselves. Reversely, one may always conclude with regard to an actual elevation of culture, when powerful and ambitious natures only produce a limited and sectarian effect: this is true also for the separate arts, and for the provinces of knowledge. Where there is ruling there are masses: where there are masses there is need of slavery. Where there is slavery the individuals are but few, and have the instincts and conscience of the herd opposed to them.

The Failure of Reformations. The Greeks’ higher culture is shown by the frequent failure of attempts to establish new Greek religions, even quite early on. This shows that Greece must already have had many different kinds of individuals. Their different troubles could not be cured by a single recipe of faith and hope. Pythagoras and Plato, perhaps also Empedocles, and, much earlier, the Orphic enthusiasts aimed to found new religions. The first two had such gifts for founding religions that one cannot be surprised enough at their failure. They managed only to found sects. Whenever the Reformation of an entire people fails and only sects emerge, one may draw a conclusion. That people already contains many types and has begun to free itself from crude herd instincts and the morality of custom. This is a momentous state of suspense. People usually dismiss it as a decline in morals and corruption. Yet it announces the maturing of the egg and the first cracking of the shell. Luther’s Reformation succeeded in the north. This is a sign that the north had remained backward compared with the south of Europe. Its needs were still fairly uniform in character and kind. And Europe would not have been Christianized at all if the culture of the old world of the south had not gradually been barbarized. An excessive mixture of the blood of German barbarians caused that culture to lose its dominance. The more universally and unconditionally an individual or an individual’s thought can act, the more uniform and the lower the masses affected must be. Resistance, on the other hand, reveals opposing needs within the masses, which also want to be satisfied and realized. Conversely, one may always infer a real rise in culture when powerful and ambitious natures have only a limited, sectarian effect. This is also true of the individual arts and fields of knowledge. Where there is rule, there are masses. Where there are masses, there is a need for slavery. Where there is slavery, individuals are few, and the instincts and conscience of the herd stand against them.

Criticism of Saints.—Must one then, in order to have a virtue, be desirous of having it precisely in its most brutal form?—as the Christian saints desired and needed;—those who only endured life with the thought that at the sight of their virtue self-contempt might seize every man. A virtue with such an effect I call brutal.

Criticism of Saints. Must one want a virtue in its most brutal form in order to possess it? The Christian saints wanted and needed it that way. They only endured life by thinking that the sight of their virtue might make every person despise themselves. I call a virtue with such an effect brutal.

The Origin of Religion.—The metaphysical requirement is not the origin of religions, as Schopenhauer claims, but only a later sprout from them. Under the dominance of religious thoughts we have accustomed ourselves to the idea of "another (back, under, or upper) world," and feel an uncomfortable void and privation through the annihilation of the religious illusion;—and then "another world" grows out of this feeling once more, but now it is only a metaphysical world, and no longer a religious one. That however which in general led to the assumption of "another world" in primitive times, was not an impulse or requirement, but an error in the interpretation of certain natural phenomena, a difficulty of the intellect.

The Origin of Religion. The need for metaphysics is not the origin of religions, as Schopenhauer claims. It is only a later sprout from them. Under the influence of religious thinking, we have grown used to the idea of "another world" behind, below, or above this one. When the religious illusion is destroyed, we feel an uncomfortable emptiness and a sense of loss. Then "another world" grows out of this feeling once again. But now it is only a metaphysical world, no longer a religious one. What generally led people in primitive times to assume there was "another world" was not an impulse or a need. It was an error in interpreting certain natural phenomena, a difficulty of the intellect.

The greatest Change.—The lustre and the hues of all things have changed! We no longer quite understand how earlier men conceived of the most familiar and frequent things,—for example, of the day, and the awakening in the morning: owing to their belief in dreams the waking state seemed to them differently illuminated. And similarly of the whole of life, with its reflection of death and its significance: our "death" is an entirely different death. All events were of a different lustre, for a God shone forth in them; and similarly of all resolutions and peeps into the distant future: for people had oracles, and secret hints, and believed in prognostication. "Truth" was conceived in quite a different manner, for the insane could formerly be regarded as its mouthpiece—a thing which makes us shudder, or laugh. Injustice made a different impression on the feelings: for people were afraid of divine retribution, and not only of legal punishment and disgrace. What joy was there in an age when men believed in the devil and tempter! What passion was there when people saw demons lurking close at hand! What philosophy was there when doubt was regarded as sinfulness of the most dangerous kind, and in fact as an outrage on eternal love, as distrust of everything good, high, pure, and compassionate!—We have coloured things anew, we paint them over continually,—but what have we been able to do hitherto in comparison with the splendid colouring of that old master!—I mean ancient humanity.

The Greatest Change. The brightness and colors of all things have changed! We no longer quite understand how people in the past saw the most familiar and common things. Take the day and waking in the morning, for example. Because they believed in dreams, waking life appeared to them in a different light. The same was true of all of life, with death reflected in it and giving it meaning. Our "death" is an entirely different death. All events had a different glow, because a God shone through them. The same was true of all decisions and glimpses into the distant future. People had oracles and secret hints, and they believed in predicting the future. "Truth" was understood quite differently, because people once believed the insane could speak for it. That thought makes us shudder or laugh. Injustice stirred different feelings, because people feared divine retribution, not just legal punishment and disgrace. What joy could there be in an age when people believed in the devil and the tempter! What passion could there be when people saw demons lurking nearby! What philosophy could there be when doubt was seen as a sin of the most dangerous kind! Doubt was seen as an offense against eternal love, as distrust of everything good, noble, pure, and compassionate! We have given things new colors, and we keep painting over them. But what have we managed so far compared with the splendid coloring of that old master! I mean ancient humanity.

Homo poeta.—"I myself who have made this tragedy of tragedies altogether independently, in so far as it is completed; I who have first entwined the perplexities of morality about existence, and have tightened them so that only a God could unravel them—so Horace demands!—I have already in the fourth act killed all the Gods—for the sake of morality! What is now to be done about the fifth act? Where shall I get the tragic dénouement! Must I now think about a comic dénouement?"

Homo poeta. “I have created this tragedy of tragedies entirely on my own, as far as it has been completed. I was the first to entangle existence in the complexities of morality. I have drawn them so tight that only a God could untangle them. That is what Horace calls for! And in the fourth act, I have already killed all the Gods, for the sake of morality! What am I to do about the fifth act? Where am I to find the tragic dénouement? Must I now think of a comic dénouement?”

Differences in the Dangerousness of Life.—You don't know at all what you experience; you run through life as if intoxicated, and now and then fall down a stair. Thanks however to your intoxication you still do not break your limbs: your muscles are too languid and your head too confused to find the stones of the staircase as hard as we others do! For us life is a greater danger: we are made of glass—alas, if we should strike against anything! And all is lost if we should fall!

Differences in the Dangers of Life. You have no idea what you experience. You rush through life as if drunk, and now and then you fall down a staircase. But thanks to your drunkenness, you still don’t break your limbs. Your muscles are too limp and your head too confused to feel the stones of the staircase as hard as we others do! Life is more dangerous for us. We are made of glass. Alas, if we should strike against anything! And all is lost if we should fall!

What we Lack.—We love the grandeur of Nature and have discovered it; that is because human grandeur is lacking in our minds. It was the reverse with the Greeks: their feeling towards Nature was quite different from ours.

What We Lack. We love and have discovered the grandeur of Nature because our minds lack human grandeur. The opposite was true of the Greeks. Their feelings toward Nature were quite different from ours.

The most Influential Person.—The fact that a person resists the whole spirit of his age, stops it at the door, and calls it to account, must exert an influence! It is indifferent whether he wishes to exert an influence; the point is that he can.

The Most Influential Person. A person resists the whole spirit of his age, stops it at the door, and calls it to account. This must have an influence! It does not matter whether he wants to have an influence. What matters is that he can.

Mentiri.—Take care!—he reflects: he will have a lie ready immediately. This is a stage in the civilisation of whole nations. Consider only what the Romans expressed by mentiri!

Mentiri. Take care! He is thinking. He will have a lie ready in a moment. This is a stage in the development of whole nations. Just consider what the Romans meant by mentiri!

An Inconvenient Peculiarity.—To find everything deep is an inconvenient peculiarity: it makes one constantly strain one's eyes, so that in the end one always finds more than one wishes.

An Inconvenient Peculiarity. Seeing depth in everything is an inconvenient peculiarity. It makes you constantly strain your eyes, so that in the end you always find more than you want to.

Every Virtue has its Time.—The honesty of him who is at present inflexible often causes him remorse; for inflexibility is the virtue of a time different from that in which honesty prevails.

Every Virtue Has Its Time. The honesty of someone who is inflexible today often causes him remorse. For inflexibility is the virtue of a different time, not one in which honesty prevails.

In Intercourse with Virtues.—One can also be undignified and flattering towards a virtue.

Dealing with Virtues. One can also behave without dignity and flatter a virtue.

To the Admirers of the Age.—The runaway priest and the liberated criminal are continually making grimaces; what they want is a look without a past.—But have you ever seen men who know that their looks reflect the future, and who are so courteous to you, the admirers of the "age," that they assume a look without a future.

To the Admirers of the Age. The runaway priest and the freed criminal are always making faces. They want a look that shows no past. But have you ever seen men who know their faces reflect the future? They are so courteous to you, the admirers of the "age," that they put on a look that shows no future.

Egoism.—Egoism is the perspective law of our sentiment, according to which the near appears large and momentous, while in the distance the magnitude and importance of all things diminish.

Egoism. Egoism is the law of perspective in our feelings. Things close to us appear large and important, while everything farther away seems smaller and less important.

After a Great Victory.—The best thing in a great victory is that it deprives the conqueror of the fear of defeat. "Why should I not be worsted for once?" he says to himself, "I am now rich enough to stand it."

After a Great Victory. The best thing about a great victory is that it frees the winner from the fear of defeat. "Why shouldn't I lose for once?" he says to himself. "I'm rich enough now to take it."

Those who Seek Repose.—I recognise the minds that seek repose by the many dark objects with which they surround themselves: those who want to sleep darken their chambers, or creep into caverns. A hint to those who do not know what they really seek most, and would like to know!

Those Who Seek Rest. I recognize minds seeking rest by the many dark objects they surround themselves with. Those who want to sleep darken their rooms or crawl into caves. A hint for those who do not know what they want most and would like to find out!

The Happiness of Renunciation.—He who has absolutely dispensed with something for a long time will almost imagine, when he accidentally meets with it again, that he has discovered it,—and what happiness every discoverer has! Let us be wiser than the serpents that lie too long in the same sunshine.

The Happiness of Giving Something Up. Someone who has gone without something entirely for a long time may come across it again by chance. They may then almost feel they have discovered it. And what happiness every discoverer feels! Let us be wiser than the snakes that lie too long in the same sunshine.

Always in our own Society.—All that is akin to me in nature and history speaks to me, praises me, urges me forward and comforts me—: other things are unheard by me, or immediately forgotten. We are only in our own society always.

Always in Our Own Company. Everything in nature and history that is like me speaks to me, praises me, encourages me, and comforts me. I either do not hear anything else or forget it immediately. We are always only in our own company.

Misanthropy and Philanthropy.—We only speak about being sick of men when we can no longer digest them, and yet have the stomach full of them. Misanthropy is the result of a far too eager philanthropy and "cannibalism,"—but who ever bade you swallow men like oysters, my Prince Hamlet!

Misanthropy and Philanthropy. We only say we are sick of people when we can no longer digest them, yet our stomachs are full of them. Misanthropy results from far too eager philanthropy and "cannibalism." But who ever told you to swallow people like oysters, my Prince Hamlet!

Concerning an Invalid.—"Things go badly with him!"—What is wrong?—"He suffers from the longing to be praised, and finds no sustenance for it."—Inconceivable! All the world does honour to him, and he is reverenced not only in deed but in word!—"Certainly, but he is dull of hearing for the praise. When a friend praises him it sounds to him as if the friend praised himself; when an enemy praises him, it sounds to him as if the enemy wanted to be praised for it; when, finally, some one else praises him—there are by no means so many of these, he is so famous!—he is offended because they neither want him for a friend nor for an enemy; he is accustomed to say: 'What do I care for those who can still pose as the all-righteous towards me!'"

About an Invalid. "Things are going badly for him!" What is wrong? "He longs to be praised, but finds nothing to satisfy that longing." Impossible! The whole world honors him and shows him respect in both deeds and words! "Certainly, but he is hard of hearing when it comes to praise. When a friend praises him, it sounds as if the friend were praising himself. When an enemy praises him, it sounds as if the enemy wanted praise for doing so. Finally, when anyone else praises him, he is offended. There are not many such people, because he is so famous! He is offended because they want him neither as a friend nor as an enemy. He often says: 'Why should I care about people who can still act as if they were completely righteous toward me!'"

Avowed Enemies.—Bravery in presence of an enemy is a thing by itself: a person may possess it and still be a coward and an irresolute numskull. That was Napoleon's opinion concerning the "bravest man" he knew, Murat:—whence it follows that avowed enemies are indispensable to some men, if they are to attain to their virtue, to their manliness, to their cheerfulness.

Avowed Enemies. Courage in the presence of an enemy is a distinct thing. A person may have it and still be a coward and an indecisive fool. That was Napoleon's opinion of Murat, the "bravest man" he knew. It follows that some men need avowed enemies to attain their virtue, their manliness, and their cheerfulness.

With the Multitude.—He has hitherto gone with the multitude and is its panegyrist; but one day he will be its opponent! For he follows it in the belief that his laziness will find its advantage thereby; he has not yet learned that the multitude is not lazy enough for him! that it always presses forward! that it does not allow any one to stand still!—And he likes so well to stand still!

With the Crowd. Until now, he has gone along with the crowd and praised it. But one day he will oppose it! He follows the crowd because he believes it will let him indulge his laziness. He has not yet learned that the crowd is not lazy enough for him! It always pushes forward! It does not let anyone stand still! And he loves to stand still!

Fame.—When the gratitude of many to one casts aside all shame, then fame originates.

Fame. When many people feel gratitude toward one person without any shame, fame is born.

The Perverter of Taste.—A: "You are a perverter of taste—they say so everywhere!" B: "Certainly! I pervert every one's taste for his party:—no party forgives me for that."

The Perverter of Taste. A: "You corrupt people's taste. Everyone says so!" B: "Of course! I turn everyone against their own party. No party forgives me for that."

To be Profound and to Appear Profound.—He who knows that he is profound strives for clearness; he who would like to appear profound to the multitude strives for obscurity. The multitude thinks everything profound of which it cannot see the bottom; it is so timid and goes so unwillingly into the water.

To Be Profound and to Seem Profound. Someone who knows he is profound tries to be clear. Someone who wants to seem profound to the crowd tries to be obscure. The crowd thinks everything is profound if it cannot see the bottom. The crowd is so timid and so reluctant to enter the water.

Apart.—Parliamentarism, that is to say, the public permission to choose between five main political opinions, insinuates itself into the favour of the numerous class who would fain appear independent and individual, and like to fight for their opinions. After all, however, it is a matter of indifference whether one opinion is imposed upon the herd, or five opinions are permitted to it.—He who diverges from the five public opinions and goes apart, has always the whole herd against him.

Apart. Parliamentarism means public permission to choose between five main political opinions. It appeals to the many people who want to appear independent and individual, and who like to fight for their opinions. But in the end, it makes no difference whether one opinion is imposed on the herd or five are permitted to it. Anyone who rejects the five public opinions and goes apart always has the whole herd against him.

Concerning Eloquence.—What has hitherto had the most convincing eloquence? The rolling of the drum: and as long as kings have this at their command, they will always be the best orators and popular leaders.

On Eloquence. What has been the most convincing form of eloquence so far? The drumroll. As long as kings command the drum, they will always be the best orators and popular leaders.

Compassion.—The poor, ruling princes! All their rights now change unexpectedly into claims, and all these claims immediately sound like pretensions! And if they but say "we," or "my people," wicked old Europe begins laughing. Verily, a chief-master-of-ceremonies of the modern world would make little ceremony with them; perhaps he would decree that "les souverains rangent aux parvenus."

Compassion. Poor ruling princes! All their rights now suddenly become claims, and all these claims immediately sound presumptuous! And if they merely say "we" or "my people," wicked old Europe starts laughing. Indeed, a chief master of ceremonies in the modern world would show them little ceremony. Perhaps he would decree that "sovereigns rank with upstarts."

On "Educational Matters."—In Germany an important educational means is lacking for higher men; namely, the laughter of higher men; these men do not laugh in Germany.

On "Educational Matters." In Germany, higher men lack an important means of education: the laughter of higher men. These men do not laugh in Germany.

For Moral Enlightenment.—The Germans must be talked out of their Mephistopheles—and out of their Faust also. These are two moral prejudices against the value of knowledge.

For Moral Enlightenment. The Germans must be persuaded to give up their Mephistopheles and their Faust. Both represent moral prejudices against the value of knowledge.

Thoughts.—Thoughts are the shadows of our sentiments—always, however, obscurer, emptier, and simpler.

Thoughts. Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings, but always darker, emptier, and simpler.

The Good Time for Free Spirits.—Free Spirits take liberties even with regard to Science—and meanwhile they are allowed to do so,—while the Church still remains!—In so far they have now their good time.

The Good Time for Free Spirits. Free Spirits take liberties even with Science. And for now, they are allowed to do so, while the Church still remains! In this respect, they are having a good time now.

Following and Leading.—A: "Of the two, the one will always follow, the other will always lead, whatever be the course of their destiny. And yet the former is superior to the other in virtue and intellect." B: "And yet? And yet? That is spoken for the others; not for me, not for us!—Fit secundum regulam."

Following and Leading. A: "Of the two, one will always follow and the other will always lead, whatever happens to them. And yet the follower is more virtuous and intelligent than the leader." B: "And yet? And yet? That is for others, not for me, not for us! As the rule requires."

In Solitude.—When one lives alone one does not speak too loudly, and one does not write too loudly either, for one fears the hollow reverberation—the criticism of the nymph Echo.—And all voices sound differently in solitude!

In Solitude. When you live alone, you do not speak too loudly. You do not write too loudly either. You fear the hollow echo, the criticism of the nymph Echo. And all voices sound different in solitude!

The Music of the Best Future.—The first musician for me would be he who knew only the sorrow of the profoundest happiness, and no other sorrow: there has not hitherto been such a musician.

The Music of the Best Future. For me, the greatest musician would know only the sorrow of the deepest happiness, and no other sorrow. There has never been such a musician.

Justice.—Better allow oneself to be robbed than have scarecrows around one—that is my taste. And under all circumstances it is just a matter of taste—and nothing more!

Justice. I would rather be robbed than have scarecrows around me. That is my taste. And in all circumstances, it is just a matter of taste, nothing more!

Poor.—He is now poor, but not because everything has been taken from him, but because he has thrown everything away:—what does he care? He is accustomed to find new things.—It is the poor who misunderstand his voluntary poverty.

Poor. He is poor now, not because everything was taken from him, but because he threw everything away. What does he care? He is used to finding new things. It is the poor who misunderstand his voluntary poverty.

Bad Conscience.—All that he now does is excellent and proper—and yet he has a bad conscience with it all. For the exceptional is his task.

Bad Conscience. Everything he does now is excellent and proper, yet he feels guilty about it all. For his task is to do what is exceptional.

Offensiveness in Expression.—This artist offends me by the way in which he expresses his ideas, his very excellent ideas: so diffusely and forcibly, and with such gross rhetorical artifices, as if he were speaking to the mob. We feel always as if "in bad company" when devoting some time to his art.

Offensive Expression. This artist offends me by how he expresses his ideas, which are excellent. He is wordy and forceful, and uses crude rhetorical tricks, as if speaking to a mob. Whenever we spend time with his art, we feel as if we are "in bad company".

Work.—How close work and the workers now stand even to the most leisurely of us! The royal courtesy in the words: "We are all workers," would have been a cynicism and an indecency even under Louis XIV.

Work. How close work and workers have become, even to those of us with the most leisure! The royal courtesy of saying "We are all workers" would have seemed cynical and indecent even under Louis XIV.

The Thinker.—He is a thinker: that is to say, he knows how to take things more simply than they are.

The Thinker. He is a thinker. That is, he knows how to see things as simpler than they are.

Against Eulogisers.—A: "One is only praised by one's equals!" B: "Yes! And he who praises you says: 'You are my equal!'"

Against Those Who Praise. A: "You are praised only by your equals!" B: "Yes! And anyone who praises you says: 'You are my equal!'"

Against many a Vindication.—The most perfidious manner of injuring a cause is to vindicate it intentionally with fallacious arguments.

Against Many a Defense. The most treacherous way to harm a cause is to deliberately defend it with faulty arguments.

The Good-natured.—What is it that distinguishes the good-natured, whose countenances beam kindness, from other people? They feel quite at ease in presence of a new person, and are quickly enamoured of him; they therefore wish him well; their first opinion is: "He pleases me." With them there follow in succession the wish to appropriate (they make little scruple about the person's worth), rapid appropriation, joy in the possession, and actions in favour of the person possessed.

The Good-natured. What distinguishes good-natured people, whose faces beam with kindness, from others? They feel at ease with a new person and quickly become fond of him. So they wish him well. Their first thought is: "He pleases me." Next comes the desire to claim him as their own. They give little thought to his worth. They quickly claim him, take joy in having him, and act for his benefit.

Kant's Joke.—Kant tried to prove, in a way that dismayed "everybody," that "everybody" was in the right:—that was his secret joke. He wrote against the learned, in favour of popular prejudice; he wrote, however, for the learned and not for the people.

Kant's Joke. Kant tried to prove that "everybody" was right, in a way that dismayed "everybody." That was his secret joke. He wrote against the learned and in favor of popular prejudice. But he wrote for the learned, not for the people.

The "Open-hearted" Man.—That man acts probably always from concealed motives; for he has always communicable motives on his tongue, and almost in his open hand.

The "Open-hearted" Man. This man probably always acts from hidden motives. For he always has motives ready to share, on his tongue and almost in his open hand.

Laughable!—See! See! He runs away from men—: they follow him, however, because he runs before them,—they are such a gregarious lot!

Laughable! Look! Look! He runs away from people. But they follow him because he runs ahead of them. They are such a herd!

The Limits of our Sense of Hearing.—We hear only the questions to which we are capable of finding an answer.

The Limits of Our Hearing. We hear only the questions we are capable of answering.

Caution therefore!—There is nothing we are fonder of communicating to others than the seal of secrecy—together with what is under it.

So be careful! There is nothing we love sharing more than the fact that something is secret, along with the secret itself.

Vexation of the Proud Man.—The proud man is vexed even with those who help him forward: he looks angrily at his carriage-horses!

The Proud Man's Irritation. The proud man resents even those who help him get ahead. He glares at the horses pulling his carriage!

Liberality.—Liberality is often only a form of timidity in the rich.

Generosity. Generosity is often just a form of timidity among the rich.

Laughing.—To laugh means to love mischief, but with a good conscience.

Laughing. To laugh means to love mischief without feeling guilty about it.

In Applause.—In applause there is always some kind of noise: even in self-applause.

In Applause. There is always some kind of noise in applause, even when you applaud yourself.

A Spendthrift.—He has not yet the poverty of the rich man who has counted all his treasure,—he squanders his spirit with the irrationalness of the spendthrift Nature.

A Spendthrift. He does not yet have the poverty of a rich man who has counted all his treasure. He squanders his spirit as irrationally as spendthrift Nature does.

Hic niger est.—Usually he has no thoughts,—but in exceptional cases bad thoughts come to him.

Hic niger est. Usually he has no thoughts. But on rare occasions, he has bad ones.

Beggars and Courtesy.—"One is not discourteous when one knocks at a door with a stone when the bell-pull is awanting"—so think all beggars and necessitous persons, but no one thinks they are in the right.

Beggars and Courtesy. "It is not rude to knock on a door with a stone when there is no doorbell." All beggars and people in need think this way, but no one thinks they are right.

Need.—Need is supposed to be the cause of things; but in truth it is often only the effect of the things themselves.

Need. People think need causes things. But often, need is actually the result of those things.

During the Rain.—It rains, and I think of the poor people who now crowd together with their many cares, which they are unaccustomed to conceal; all of them, therefore, ready and anxious to give pain to one another, and thus provide themselves with a pitiable kind of comfort, even in bad weather. This, this only, is the poverty of the poor!

During the Rain. It is raining, and I think of the poor people huddled together with their many worries. They are not used to hiding those worries. So they are all ready and eager to hurt one another. In this way, they give themselves a pitiful kind of comfort, even in bad weather. This, and this alone, is the poverty of the poor!

The Envious Man.—That is an envious man—it is not desirable that he should have children; he would be envious of them, because he can no longer be a child.

The Envious Man. This man is envious. It would be best if he had no children. He would envy them because he can no longer be a child.

A Great Man!—Because a person is "a great man," we are not authorised to infer that he is a man. Perhaps he is only a boy, or a chameleon of all ages, or a bewitched girl.

A Great Man! Just because someone is "a great man" doesn't mean he is a man. Perhaps he is only a boy, a chameleon of all ages, or a bewitched girl.

A Mode of Asking for Reasons.—There is a mode of asking for our reasons which not only makes us forget our best reasons, but also arouses in us a spite and repugnance against reason generally:—a very stupefying mode of questioning, and properly an artifice of tyrannical men!

A Way of Asking for Reasons. There is a way of asking for our reasons that makes us forget our best ones. It also stirs up spite and disgust in us toward reason itself. It is a thoroughly mind-numbing way of questioning, and a true trick of tyrannical men!

Moderation in Diligence.—One must not be anxious to surpass the diligence of one's father—that would make one ill.

Moderation in Diligence. One should not be eager to work harder than one's father. That would make one ill.

Secret Enemies.—To be able to keep a secret enemy—that is a luxury which the morality even of the highest-minded persons can rarely afford.

Secret Enemies. To keep a secret enemy is a luxury that even the most high-minded people's morality rarely allows.

Not Letting oneself be Deluded.—His spirit has bad manners, it is hasty and always stutters with impatience; so that one would hardly suspect the deep breathing and the large chest of the soul in which it resides.

Not Letting Yourself Be Fooled. His spirit has bad manners. It is hasty and always stutters with impatience. So one would hardly suspect the deep breathing and broad chest of the soul in which it lives.

The Way to Happiness.—A sage asked of a fool the way to happiness. The fool answered without delay, like one who had been asked the way to the next town: "Admire yourself, and live on the street!" "Hold," cried the sage, "you require too much; it suffices to admire oneself!" The fool replied: "But how can one constantly admire without constantly despising?"

The Way to Happiness. A sage asked a fool the way to happiness. The fool answered at once, as if asked the way to the next town: "Admire yourself, and live on the street!" "Wait," cried the sage, "you ask too much. It is enough to admire yourself!" The fool replied: "But how can you constantly admire without constantly despising?"

Faith Saves.—Virtue gives happiness and a state of blessedness only to those who have a strong faith in their virtue:—not, however, to the more refined souls whose virtue consists of a profound distrust of themselves and of all virtue. After all, therefore, it is "faith that saves" here also!—and be it well observed, not virtue!

Faith Saves. Virtue brings happiness and blessedness only to those who strongly believe in their own virtue. But it does not bring them to more refined souls, whose virtue lies in deeply distrusting themselves and all virtue. So here too, it is "faith that saves" after all! And note well, it is not virtue!

The Ideal and the Material.—You have a noble ideal before your eyes: but are you also such a noble stone that such a divine image could be formed out of you? And without that—is not all your labour barbaric sculpturing? A blasphemy of your ideal!

The Ideal and the Material. You have a noble ideal before you. But are you noble enough, like a stone from which such a divine image could be carved? If not, isn't all your work barbaric sculpting? A blasphemy against your ideal!

Danger in the Voice.—With a very loud voice a person is almost incapable of reflecting on subtle matters.

Danger in the Voice. When speaking very loudly, a person is almost incapable of thinking about subtle matters.

Cause and Effect.—Before the effect one believes in other causes than after the effect.

Cause and Effect. Before an effect occurs, we believe it has different causes than we do afterward.

My Antipathy.—I do not like those people who, in order to produce an effect, have to burst like bombs, and in whose neighbourhood one is always in danger of suddenly losing one's hearing—or even something more.

My Antipathy. I dislike people who have to explode like bombs to make an impression. Around them, you are always in danger of suddenly losing your hearing, or even something more.

The Object of Punishment.—The object of punishment is to improve him who punishes,—that is the ultimate appeal of those who justify punishment.

The Purpose of Punishment. The purpose of punishment is to improve the person who punishes. That is the ultimate argument of those who justify punishment.

Sacrifice.—The victims think otherwise than the spectators about sacrifice and sacrificing: but they have never been allowed to express their opinion.

Sacrifice. The victims see sacrifice and sacrificing differently from the spectators. But the victims have never been allowed to express their opinion.

Consideration.—Fathers and sons are much more considerate of one another than mothers and daughters.

Consideration. Fathers and sons are much more considerate of each other than mothers and daughters are.

Poet and Liar.—The poet sees in the liar his foster-brother whose milk he has drunk up; the latter has thus remained wretched, and has not even attained to a good conscience.

Poet and Liar. The poet sees the liar as his foster brother, whose share of milk he drank. So the liar has remained wretched and has not even gained a clear conscience.

Vicariousness of the Senses.—"We have also eyes in order to hear with them,"—said an old confessor who had grown deaf; "and among the blind he that has the longest ears is king."

The Senses Can Stand In for One Another. "We also have eyes so we can hear with them," said an old confessor who had gone deaf. "And among the blind, the one with the longest ears is king."

Animal Criticism.—I fear the animals regard man as a being like themselves, very seriously endangered by a loss of sound animal understanding;—they regard him perhaps as the absurd animal, the laughing animal, the crying animal, the unfortunate animal.

Animal Criticism. I fear that animals see humans as beings like themselves, but seriously endangered by a loss of sound animal sense. Perhaps they see humans as the absurd animal, the laughing animal, the crying animal, the unfortunate animal.

The Natural.—"Evil has always had the great effect! And Nature is evil! Let us therefore be natural!"—so reason secretly the great aspirants after effect, who are too often counted among great men.

The Natural. "Evil has always made a great impression! And Nature is evil! So let us be natural!" This is how those who strive for great effects secretly reason. They are too often counted among great men.

The Distrustful and their Style.—We say the strongest things simply, provided people are about us who believe in our strength:—such an environment educates to "simplicity of style." The distrustful, on the other hand, speak emphatically; they make things emphatic.

The Distrustful and Their Style. We say the strongest things simply, as long as those around us believe in our strength. Such company teaches us "simplicity of style." The distrustful, on the other hand, speak emphatically. They make things emphatic.

Fallacy, Fallacy.—He cannot rule himself; therefore that woman concludes that it will be easy to rule him, and throws out her lines to catch him;—the poor creature, who in a short time will be his slave.

Fallacy, Fallacy. He cannot control himself. So the woman concludes that he will be easy to control, and she sets out to catch him. Poor creature, before long she will be his slave.

Against Mediators.—He who attempts to mediate between two decided thinkers is rightly called mediocre: he has not an eye for seeing the unique; similarising and equalising are signs of weak eyes.

Against Mediators. Anyone who tries to mediate between two thinkers with firm convictions is rightly called mediocre. He has no eye for what is unique. Seeing things as similar and equal is a sign of weak eyes.

Obstinacy and Loyalty.—Out of obstinacy he holds fast to a cause of which the questionableness has become obvious,—he calls that, however, his "loyalty."

Obstinacy and Loyalty. Out of stubbornness, he sticks to a cause that is now obviously questionable. But he calls this his "loyalty."

Lack of Reserve.—His whole nature fails to convince—that results from the fact that he has never been reticent about a good action he has performed.

Lack of Reserve. His whole character fails to convince because he has never kept quiet about a good deed he has done.

The "Plodders."—Persons slow of apprehension think that slowness forms part of knowledge.

The "Plodders." People who are slow to understand think that slowness is part of knowledge.

Dreaming.—Either one does not dream at all, or one dreams in an interesting manner. One must learn to be awake in the same fashion:—either not at all, or in an interesting manner.

Dreaming. Either you don't dream at all, or you dream in an interesting way. You must learn to be awake in the same way: either not at all, or in an interesting way.

The most Dangerous Point of View.—What I now do, or neglect to do, is as important for all that is to come, as the greatest event of the past: in this immense perspective of effects all actions are equally great and small.

The Most Dangerous Point of View. What I do or fail to do now is as important for everything to come as the greatest event of the past. In this vast perspective of cause and effect, all actions are equally great and small.

Consolatory Words of a Musician.—"Your life does not sound into people's ears: for them you live a dumb life, and all refinements of melody, all fond resolutions in following or leading the way, are concealed from them. To be sure you do not parade the thoroughfares with regimental music,—but these good people have no right to say on that account that your life is lacking in music. He that hath ears let him hear."

Consoling Words from a Musician. “People cannot hear your life. To them, it is a silent life. All its subtle melodies and all its loving resolutions, whether following or leading, are hidden from them. It is true that you do not march through the streets with a military band. But these good people have no right to say your life lacks music on that account. Anyone who has ears, let them hear.”

Spirit and Character.—Many a one attains his full height of character, but his spirit is not adapted to the elevation,—and many a one reversely.

Spirit and Character. Many people reach their full height of character, but their spirit is not suited to that height. For many others, the reverse is true.

To Move the Multitude.—Is it not necessary for him who wants to move the multitude to give a stage representation of himself? Has he not first to translate himself into the grotesquely obvious, and then set forth his whole personality and cause in that vulgarised and simplified fashion!

To Move the Crowd. Must someone who wants to move the crowd put on a performance of himself? Must he first make himself grotesquely obvious, then present his whole personality and cause in that crude, simplified way!

The Polite Man.—"He is so polite!"—Yes, he has always a sop for Cerberus with him, and is so timid that he takes everybody for Cerberus, even you and me,—that is his "politeness."

The Polite Man. "He is so polite!" Yes, he always carries a treat for Cerberus. He is so timid that he takes everyone for Cerberus, even you and me. That is his "politeness."

Without Envy.—He is wholly without envy, but there is no merit therein: for he wants to conquer a land which no one has yet possessed and hardly any one has even seen.

Without Envy. He has no envy at all, but that is no virtue. He wants to conquer a land that no one has ever possessed and hardly anyone has even seen.

The Joyless Person.—A single joyless person is enough to make constant displeasure and a clouded heaven in a household; and it is only by a miracle that such a person is lacking!—Happiness is not nearly such a contagious disease;—how is that!

The Joyless Person. One joyless person is enough to fill a household with constant displeasure and a cloud over everyone. And it is a miracle when a household has no such person! Happiness is not nearly so contagious a disease. How is that?

On the Sea-Shore.—I would not build myself a house (it is an element of my happiness not to be a house-owner!). If I had to do so, however, I should build it, like many of the Romans, right into the sea,—I should like to have some secrets in common with that beautiful monster.

On the Seashore. I would not build myself a house (not owning a house is part of my happiness!). But if I had to, I would build it right into the sea, like many Romans. I would like to share some secrets with that beautiful monster.

Work and Artist.—This artist is ambitious and nothing more; ultimately, however, his work is only a magnifying glass, which he offers to every one who looks in his direction.

Work and Artist. This artist is ambitious and nothing more. Ultimately, however, his work is just a magnifying glass he offers to everyone who looks his way.

Suum cuique.—However great be my greed of knowledge, I cannot appropriate aught of things but what already belongs to me,—the property of others still remains in the things. How is it possible for a man to be a thief or a robber!

Suum cuique. However great my hunger for knowledge, I can take from things only what already belongs to me. What belongs to others still remains in those things. How can anyone be a thief or a robber!

Origin of "Good" and "Bad."—He only will devise an improvement who can feel that "this is not good."

Origin of "Good" and "Bad". Only someone who can feel that "this is not good" will come up with an improvement.

Thoughts and Words.—Even our thoughts we are unable to render completely in words.

Thoughts and Words. Even our thoughts cannot be fully expressed in words.

Praise in Choice.—The artist chooses his subjects; that is his mode of praising.

Praise in Choice. The artist chooses his subjects. That is how he praises them.

Mathematics.—We want to carry the refinement and rigour of mathematics into all the sciences, as far as it is in any way possible, not in the belief that we shall apprehend things in this way, but in order thereby to assert our human relation to things. Mathematics is only a means to general and ultimate human knowledge.

Mathematics. We want to bring the precision and rigor of mathematics into all the sciences, as far as possible. We do not believe this will allow us to grasp things themselves. Rather, we want to assert our human relationship to things. Mathematics is only a means to general and ultimate human knowledge.

Habits.—All habits make our hand wittier and our wit unhandier.

Habits. All habits make our hands more skillful and our minds less agile.

Books.—Of what account is a book that never carries us away beyond all books!

Books. What good is a book that never carries us beyond all books!

The Sigh of the Seeker of Knowledge.—"Oh, my covetousness! In this soul there is no disinterestedness—but an all-desiring self, which, by means of many individuals, would fain see as with its own eyes, and grasp as with its own hands—a self bringing back even the entire past, and wanting to lose nothing that could in any way belong to it! Oh, this flame of my covetousness! Oh, that I were reincarnated in a hundred individuals!"—He who does not know this sigh by experience, does not know the passion of the seeker of knowledge either.

The Sigh of the Seeker of Knowledge. “Oh, my greed! There is no selflessness in this soul, only a self that desires everything. Through many individuals, it wants to see with its own eyes and grasp with its own hands. It wants to bring back the entire past and lose nothing that could in any way belong to it! Oh, this flame of greed in me! Oh, if only I could be reincarnated in a hundred individuals!” Anyone who has never felt this sigh does not know the passion of the seeker of knowledge either.

Guilt.—Although the most intelligent judges of the witches, and even the witches themselves, were convinced of the guilt of witchcraft, the guilt, nevertheless, was not there. So it is with all guilt.

Guilt. Even the most intelligent judges of witches were convinced that the witches were guilty of witchcraft. The witches themselves were convinced of it too. Yet there was no guilt. The same is true of all guilt.

Misunderstood Sufferers.—Great natures suffer otherwise than their worshippers imagine; they suffer most severely from the ignoble, petty emotions of certain evil moments; in short, from doubt of their own greatness;—not however from the sacrifices and martyrdoms which their tasks require of them. As long as Prometheus sympathises with men and sacrifices himself for them, he is happy and proud in himself; but on becoming envious of Zeus and of the homage which mortals pay him—then Prometheus suffers!

Misunderstood Sufferers. Great people suffer differently than their admirers imagine. They suffer most from the base, petty feelings they experience in certain dark moments. In short, they suffer from doubting their own greatness. They do not suffer most from the sacrifices and hardships their tasks require of them. As long as Prometheus sympathizes with humans and sacrifices himself for them, he is happy and proud. But when he envies Zeus and the worship mortals give him, then Prometheus suffers!

Better to be in Debt.—"Better to remain in debt than to pay with money which does not bear our stamp!"—that is what our sovereignty prefers.

Better to Be in Debt. “Better to stay in debt than to pay with money that does not bear our stamp!” That is what our sovereignty prefers.

Always at Home.—One day we attain our goal—and then refer with pride to the long journeys we have made to reach it. In truth, we did not notice that we travelled. We got into the habit of thinking that we were at home in every place.

Always at Home. One day we reach our goal, and then proudly recall the long journeys we made to get there. In truth, we did not notice that we were traveling. We had grown used to feeling at home everywhere.

Against Embarrassment.—He who is always thoroughly occupied is rid of all embarrassment.

Against Embarrassment. Anyone who is always fully occupied is free from all embarrassment.

Imitators.—A: "What? You don't want to have imitators?" B: "I don't want people to do anything after me; I want every one to do something before himself (as a pattern to himself)—just as I do." A: "Consequently—?"

Imitators. A: "What? You don't want imitators?" B: "I don't want people to do anything after me. I want everyone to do something before himself (as a model for himself), just as I do." A: "So?"

Skinniness.—All profound men have their happiness in imitating the flying-fish for once, and playing on the crests of the waves; they think that what is best of all in things is their surface: their skinniness—sit venia verbo.

Skinniness. All deep thinkers enjoy imitating the flying fish now and then, playing on the crests of the waves. They think the best thing about anything is its surface, its skinniness, if you will forgive the word.

From Experience.—A person often does not know how rich he is, until he learns from experience what rich men even play the thief on him.

From Experience. A person often does not know how rich he is until he discovers how rich the men who steal from him are.

The Deniers of Chance.—No conqueror believes in chance.

The Deniers of Chance. No conqueror believes in chance.

From Paradise.—"Good and Evil are God's prejudices"—said the serpent.

From Paradise. “Good and Evil are God's prejudices,” said the serpent.

One times One.—One only is always in the wrong, but with two truth begins.—One only cannot prove himself right; but two are already beyond refutation.

One Times One. A person alone is always wrong, but truth begins with two. A person alone cannot prove himself right, but two people are already beyond refutation.

Originality.—What is originality? To see something that does not yet bear a name, that cannot yet be named, although it is before everybody's eyes. As people are usually constituted, it is the name that first makes a thing generally visible to them.—Original persons have also for the most part been the namers of things.

Originality. What is originality? It is to see something that has no name yet and cannot yet be named, though everyone can see it. Most people only become aware of a thing once it has a name. Original people have therefore mostly been the ones who name things.

Sub specie aeterni.—A: "You withdraw faster and faster from the living; they will soon strike you out of their lists!"—B: "It is the only way to participate in the privilege of the dead." A: "In what privilege?"—B: "No longer having to die."

Sub specie aeterni. A: "You keep withdrawing from the living more and more. Soon they will take you off their lists!" B: "It's the only way to share in the privilege of the dead." A: "What privilege?" B: "No longer having to die."

Without Vanity.—When we love we want our defects to remain concealed,—not out of vanity, but lest the person loved should suffer therefrom. Indeed, the lover would like to appear as a God,—and not out of vanity either.

Without Vanity. When we love someone, we want to hide our flaws. This is not out of vanity, but so the person we love will not suffer because of them. Indeed, the lover would like to appear as a God, and not out of vanity either.

What we Do.—What we do is never understood, but only praised and blamed.

What We Do. What we do is never understood, only praised or blamed.

Ultimate Scepticism.—But what after all are man's truths?—They are his irrefutable errors.

Ultimate Skepticism. But what are human truths, after all? They are our irrefutable errors.

Where Cruelty is Necessary.—He who is great is cruel to his second-rate virtues and judgments.

Where Cruelty is Necessary. A great person is cruel to his own second-rate virtues and judgments.

With a high Aim.—With a high aim a person is superior even to justice, and not only to his deeds and his judges.

A High Aim. A person with a high aim stands above even justice, not just above their own actions and judges.

What makes Heroic?—To face simultaneously one's greatest suffering and one's highest hope.

What makes someone heroic? To face your greatest suffering and your highest hope at the same time.

What dost thou Believe in?—In this: That the weights of all things must be determined anew.

What do you believe in? In this: The weight of all things must be determined anew.

What Saith thy Conscience?—"Thou shalt become what thou art."

What Does Your Conscience Say? "You shall become what you are."

Where are thy Greatest Dangers?—In pity.

Where are your greatest dangers? In pity.

What dost thou Love in others?—My hopes.

What do you love in others? My hopes.

Whom dost thou call Bad?—Him who always wants to put others to shame.

Who do you call bad? Someone who always wants to shame others.

What dost thou think most humane?—To spare a person shame.

What do you think is most humane? To spare someone shame.

What is the Seal of Liberty Attained?—To be no longer ashamed of oneself.

What Is the Sign of Freedom Achieved? To no longer be ashamed of yourself.