Preface to the Second Edition

Perhaps more than one preface would be necessary for this book; and after all it might still be doubtful whether any one could be brought nearer to the experiences in it by means of prefaces, without having himself experienced something similar. It seems to be written in the language of the thawing-wind: there is wantonness, restlessness, contradiction and April-weather in it; so that one is as constantly reminded of the proximity of winter as of the victory over it: the victory which is coming, which must come, which has perhaps already come.... Gratitude continually flows forth, as if the most unexpected thing had happened, the gratitude of a convalescent—for convalescence was this most unexpected thing. "Joyful Wisdom": that implies the Saturnalia of a spirit which has patiently withstood a long, frightful pressure—patiently, strenuously, impassionately, without submitting, but without hope—and which is now suddenly o'erpowered with hope, the hope of health, the intoxication of convalescence. What wonder that much that is unreasonable and foolish thereby comes to light: much wanton tenderness expended even on problems which have a prickly hide, and are not therefore fit to be fondled and allured. The whole book is really nothing but a revel after long privation and impotence: the frolicking of returning energy, of newly awakened belief in a to-morrow and after-to-morrow; of sudden sentience and prescience of a future, of near adventures, of seas open once more, and aims once more permitted and believed in. And what was now all behind me! This track of desert, exhaustion, unbelief, and frigidity in the midst of youth, this advent of grey hairs at the wrong time, this tyranny of pain, surpassed, however, by the tyranny of pride which repudiated the consequences of pain—and consequences are comforts,—this radical isolation, as defence against the contempt of mankind become morbidly clairvoyant, this restriction upon principle to all that is bitter, sharp, and painful in knowledge, as prescribed by the disgust which had gradually resulted from imprudent spiritual diet and pampering—it is called Romanticism,—oh, who could realise all those feelings of mine! He, however, who could do so would certainly forgive me everything, and more than a little folly, boisterousness and "Joyful Wisdom"—for example, the handful of songs which are given along with the book on this occasion,—songs in which a poet makes merry over all poets in a way not easily pardoned.—Alas, it is not only on the poets and their fine "lyrical sentiments" that this reconvalescent must vent his malignity: who knows what kind of victim he seeks, what kind of monster of material for parody will allure him ere long? Incipit tragœdia, it is said at the conclusion of this seriously frivolous book; let people be on their guard! Something or other extraordinarily bad and wicked announces itself: incipit parodia, there is no doubt...

Perhaps this book needs more than one preface. Even then, it might be doubtful that prefaces could bring anyone closer to the experiences in it without their having experienced something similar. The book seems to be written in the language of the thawing wind. It is full of playfulness, restlessness, contradiction, and April weather. It constantly reminds us both that winter is near and that victory over it is near. That victory is coming, must come, and perhaps has already come.... Gratitude keeps flowing out, as if the most unexpected thing had happened. It is the gratitude of someone recovering from illness, for recovery was the most unexpected thing. "Joyful Wisdom": this means the Saturnalia of a spirit that has patiently endured a long, terrible oppression. It endured patiently, strenuously, and passionately, without giving in, but without hope. Now it is suddenly overcome with hope, the hope of health, the intoxication of recovery. Is it any wonder that so much unreasonable and foolishness comes to light? There is much playful tenderness lavished even on problems with prickly hides, which are hardly suited to being caressed and coaxed. The whole book is really nothing but a celebration after long deprivation and helplessness. It is the play of returning energy and a newly awakened belief in tomorrow and the day after. It is a sudden sense and foretaste of a future, of adventures close at hand, of seas open once more, and of goals once more allowed and believed in. And what lay behind me now! That stretch of desert, exhaustion, disbelief, and coldness in the middle of youth. Those gray hairs that came too soon. That tyranny of pain, surpassed, however, by the tyranny of pride, which rejected the consequences of pain. And those consequences are comforts. That utter isolation, a defense against contempt for humanity that had become sickeningly clear-sighted. That deliberate restriction to everything bitter, sharp, and painful in knowledge. It was imposed by the disgust that had gradually resulted from an unwise spiritual diet and pampering. It is called Romanticism. Oh, who could understand all those feelings of mine! But anyone who could understand them would surely forgive me everything, including more than a little folly, exuberance, and "Joyful Wisdom". For example, there is the handful of songs included with the book on this occasion. In them, a poet makes fun of all poets in a way that is not easily forgiven. Alas, poets and their fine "lyrical sentiments" are not the only targets on which this recovering man must vent his malice. Who knows what kind of victim he seeks, what monstrous subject for parody will soon tempt him? Incipit tragœdia, it is said at the end of this seriously frivolous book. Let people be on their guard! Something extraordinarily bad and wicked is announcing itself. Incipit parodia, there is no doubt...

——But let us leave Herr Nietzsche; what does it matter to people that Herr Nietzsche has got well again?... A psychologist knows few questions so attractive as those concerning the relations of health to philosophy, and in the case when he himself falls sick, he carries with him all his scientific curiosity into his sickness. For, granting that one is a person, one has necessarily also the philosophy of one's personality, there is, however, an important distinction here. With the one it is his defects which philosophise, with the other it is his riches and powers. The former requires his philosophy, whether it be as support, sedative, or medicine, as salvation, elevation, or self-alienation; with the latter it is merely a fine luxury, at best the voluptuousness of a triumphant gratitude, which must inscribe itself ultimately in cosmic capitals on the heaven of ideas. In the other more usual case, however, when states of distress occupy themselves with philosophy (as is the case with all sickly thinkers—and perhaps the sickly thinkers preponderate in the history of philosophy), what will happen to the thought itself which is brought under the pressure of sickness? This is the important question for psychologists: and here experiment is possible. We philosophers do just like a traveller who resolves to awake at a given hour, and then quietly yields himself to sleep: we surrender ourselves temporarily, body and soul, to the sickness, supposing we become ill—we shut, as it were, our eyes on ourselves. And as the traveller knows that something does not sleep, that something counts the hours and will awake him, we also know that the critical moment will find us awake—that then something will spring forward and surprise the spirit in the very act, I mean in weakness, or reversion, or submission, or obduracy, or obscurity, or whatever the morbid conditions are called, which in times of good health have the pride of the spirit opposed to them (for it is as in the old rhyme: "The spirit proud, peacock and horse are the three proudest things of earthly source"). After such self-questioning and self-testing, one learns to look with a sharper eye at all that has hitherto been philosophised; one divines better than before the arbitrary by-ways, side-streets, resting-places, and sunny places of thought, to which suffering thinkers, precisely as sufferers, are led and misled: one knows now in what direction the sickly body and its requirements unconsciously press, push, and allure the spirit—towards the sun, stillness, gentleness, patience, medicine, refreshment in any sense whatever. Every philosophy which puts peace higher than war, every ethic with a negative grasp of the idea of happiness, every metaphysic and physic that knows a finale, an ultimate condition of any kind whatever, every predominating, æsthetic or religious longing for an aside, a beyond, an outside, an above—all these permit one to ask whether sickness has not been the motive which inspired the philosopher. The unconscious disguising of physiological requirements under the cloak of the objective, the ideal, the purely spiritual, is carried on to an alarming extent,—and I have often enough asked myself, whether, on the whole, philosophy hitherto has not generally been merely an interpretation of the body, and a misunderstanding of the body. Behind the loftiest estimates of value by which the history of thought has hitherto been governed, misunderstandings of the bodily constitution, either of individuals, classes, or entire races are concealed. One may always primarily consider these audacious freaks of metaphysic, and especially its answers to the question of the worth of existence, as symptoms of certain bodily constitutions; and if, on the whole, when scientifically determined, not a particle of significance attaches to such affirmations and denials of the world, they nevertheless furnish the historian and psychologist with hints so much the more valuable (as we have said) as symptoms of the bodily constitution, its good or bad condition, its fullness, powerfulness, and sovereignty in history; or else of its obstructions, exhaustions, and impoverishments, its premonition of the end, its will to the end. I still expect that a philosophical physician, in the exceptional sense of the word—one who applies himself to the problem of the collective health of peoples, periods, races, and mankind generally—will some day have the courage to follow out my suspicion to its ultimate conclusions, and to venture on the judgment that in all philosophising it has not hitherto been a question of "truth" at all, but of something else,—namely, of health, futurity, growth, power, life....

But let us leave Herr Nietzsche. What does it matter to people that Herr Nietzsche has recovered?... A psychologist knows few questions more attractive than those about the relationship between health and philosophy. If the psychologist falls ill, he brings all his scientific curiosity into his illness. For anyone who has a personality necessarily has the philosophy of that personality. But there is an important distinction here. In one person, it is his defects that philosophize. In another, it is his wealth and strength. The first needs his philosophy, whether for support, sedation, medicine, salvation, elevation, or escape from himself. For the second, philosophy is merely a fine luxury. At best, it is the delight of a triumphant gratitude that must ultimately write itself across the sky of ideas in cosmic capitals. But what happens in the other, more usual case, when people in distress take up philosophy? This is true of all sickly thinkers, and perhaps sickly thinkers are the majority in the history of philosophy. What happens to thought itself when it comes under the pressure of illness? This is the important question for psychologists, and here experiment is possible. We philosophers act like a traveler who decides to wake at a certain hour, then calmly goes to sleep. If we fall ill, we temporarily surrender ourselves, body and soul, to the illness. We close our eyes, as it were, to ourselves. The traveler knows that something does not sleep, that something counts the hours and will wake him. We too know that the critical moment will find us awake. Then something will spring forward and catch the spirit in the very act. I mean in weakness, relapse, submission, stubbornness, or confusion, or whatever these conditions of illness are called. In times of health, the pride of the spirit opposes them. For it is as the old rhyme says: "The spirit proud, peacock and horse are the three proudest things of earthly source." After questioning and testing ourselves this way, we learn to examine all past philosophy with a sharper eye. We are better able to sense thought's arbitrary detours, side streets, resting places, and sunny spots. Suffering thinkers, precisely because they suffer, are led and misled to these places. We now know where the sickly body and its needs unconsciously press, push, and lure the spirit. They draw it toward sun, stillness, gentleness, patience, medicine, and refreshment of every kind. Consider every philosophy that values peace above war, and every ethic that understands happiness in negative terms. Consider every metaphysics and physics that recognizes a finale, an ultimate state of any kind. Consider every dominant aesthetic or religious longing for a place apart, a beyond, an outside, or an above. All these allow us to ask whether illness was the philosopher's inspiration. To an alarming extent, people unconsciously disguise physical needs as objective, ideal, or purely spiritual concerns. I have often asked myself whether philosophy up to now has generally been nothing more than an interpretation of the body, and a misunderstanding of the body. The highest judgments of value have governed the history of thought up to now. Behind them lie misunderstandings of the physical condition of individuals, classes, or entire races. We may always regard these daring flights of metaphysics primarily as symptoms of particular physical conditions. This is especially true of their answers to the question of the worth of existence. On the whole, scientific examination finds not a particle of significance in such affirmations and denials of the world. Nevertheless, as we have said, they provide all the more valuable clues for the historian and psychologist. They are symptoms of the body's good or bad condition, its fullness, power, and sovereignty in history. Or else they reveal its hindrances, exhaustion, and impoverishment, its sense that the end is near, its will toward the end. I still expect that a philosophical physician, in the exceptional sense of the word, will one day appear. I mean someone who studies the collective health of peoples, periods, races, and humanity as a whole. Such a physician may have the courage to follow my suspicion to its ultimate conclusions. He may venture the judgment that all philosophy up to now has never really been concerned with "truth" at all. It has been concerned with something else: health, the future, growth, power, life....

It will be surmised that I should not like to take leave ungratefully of that period of severe sickness, the advantage of which is not even yet exhausted in me: for I am sufficiently conscious of what I have in advance of the spiritually robust generally, in my changeful state of health. A philosopher who has made the tour of many states of health, and always makes it anew, has also gone through just as many philosophies: he really cannot do otherwise than transform his condition on every occasion into the most ingenious posture and position,—this art of transfiguration is just philosophy. We philosophers are not at liberty to separate soul and body, as the people separate them; and we are still less at liberty to separate soul and spirit. We are not thinking frogs, we are not objectifying and registering apparatuses with cold entrails,—our thoughts must be continually born to us out of our pain, and we must, motherlike, share with them all that we have in us of blood, heart, ardour, joy, passion, pang, conscience, fate and fatality. Life—that means for us to transform constantly into light and flame all that we are, and also all that we meet with; we cannot possibly do otherwise. And as regards sickness, should we not be almost tempted to ask whether we could in general dispense with it? It is great pain only which is the ultimate emancipator of the spirit; for it is the teacher of the strong suspicion which makes an X out of every U¹, a true, correct X, i.e., the ante-penultimate letter.... It is great pain only, the long slow pain which takes time, by which we are burned as it were with green wood, that compels us philosophers to descend into our ultimate depths, and divest ourselves of all trust, all good-nature, veiling, gentleness, and averageness, wherein we have perhaps formerly installed our humanity. I doubt whether such pain "improves" us; but I know that it deepens us. Be it that we learn to confront it with our pride, our scorn, our strength of will, doing like the Indian who, however sorely tortured, revenges himself on his tormentor with his bitter tongue; be it that we withdraw from the pain into the oriental nothingness—it is called Nirvana,—into mute, benumbed, deaf self-surrender, self-forgetfulness, and self-effacement: one emerges from such long, dangerous exercises in self-mastery as another being, with several additional notes of interrogation, and above all, with the will to question more than ever, more profoundly, more strictly, more sternly, more wickedly, more quietly than has ever been questioned hitherto. Confidence in life is gone: life itself has become a problem.—Let it not be imagined that one has necessarily become a hypochondriac thereby! Even love of life is still possible—only one loves differently. It is the love of a woman of whom one is doubtful.... The charm, however, of all that is problematic, the delight in the X, is too great in those more spiritual and more spiritualised men, not to spread itself again and again like a clear glow over all the trouble of the problematic, over all the danger of uncertainty, and even over the jealousy of the lover. We know a new happiness....

You may guess that I would not want to leave that period of severe sickness behind without gratitude. Its benefits have not yet been exhausted in me. For I am well aware of the advantage my changing health gives me over people who are generally spiritually robust. A philosopher who has passed through many states of health, and keeps passing through them again, has also passed through just as many philosophies. He really cannot help transforming his condition each time into the most ingenious attitude and position. This art of transformation is philosophy itself. We philosophers cannot separate soul and body as ordinary people do. Still less can we separate soul and spirit. We are not thinking frogs. We are not machines for observing and recording, with cold guts. Our thoughts must continually be born out of our pain. Like mothers, we must share with them all the blood, heart, ardor, joy, passion, anguish, conscience, fate, and fatality within us. For us, life means constantly transforming all that we are and all that we encounter into light and flame. We cannot possibly do otherwise. As for sickness, should we not be almost tempted to ask whether we could do without it at all? Only great pain is the ultimate liberator of the spirit. For it teaches strong suspicion, which turns every U into an X¹, a true and proper X, i.e., the third-to-last letter.... Only great pain compels us philosophers to descend into our deepest depths. It is the long, slow pain that takes its time and burns us as if with green wood. It forces us to strip away all the trust, good nature, disguise, gentleness, and mediocrity in which we may once have placed our humanity. I doubt whether such pain "improves" us, but I know that it deepens us. Perhaps we learn to face pain with our pride, our scorn, and our strength of will. We act like the Indian who, however badly tortured, takes revenge on his tormentor with his bitter tongue. Or perhaps we withdraw from pain into the oriental nothingness called Nirvana, into silent, numb, deaf self-surrender, self-forgetfulness, and self-erasure. Either way, we emerge from such long, dangerous exercises in self-mastery as different beings, with several more question marks. Above all, we emerge with the will to question more than ever. We question more deeply, more strictly, more sternly, more wickedly, and more quietly than anyone has questioned before. Confidence in life is gone. Life itself has become a problem. But do not imagine that one has necessarily become a hypochondriac as a result! Even love of life is still possible, though one loves differently. It is the love of a woman one doubts.... Yet for these more spiritual and more spiritualised people, the appeal of all that is problematic is too great to remain hidden. Their delight in the X spreads again and again like a clear glow over all the trouble of what is problematic. It spreads over all the danger of uncertainty and even over the lover's jealousy. We know a new happiness....

Finally, (that the most essential may not remain unsaid), one comes back out of such abysses, out of such severe sickness, and out of the sickness of strong suspicion—new-born, with the skin cast; more sensitive, more wicked, with a finer taste for joy, with a more delicate tongue for all good things, with a merrier disposition, with a second and more dangerous innocence in joy; more childish at the same time, and a hundred times more refined than ever before. Oh, how repugnant to us now is pleasure, coarse, dull, drab pleasure, as the pleasure-seekers, our "cultured" classes, our rich and ruling classes, usually understand it! How malignantly we now listen to the great holiday-hubbub with which "cultured people" and city-men at present allow themselves to be forced to "spiritual enjoyment" by art, books, and music, with the help of spirituous liquors! How the theatrical cry of passion now pains our ear, how strange to our taste has all the romantic riot and sensuous bustle which the cultured populace love become (together with their aspirations after the exalted, the elevated, and the intricate)! No, if we convalescents need an art at all, it is another art—a mocking, light, volatile, divinely serene, divinely ingenious art, which blazes up like a clear flame, into a cloudless heaven! Above all, an art for artists, only for artists! We at last know better what is first of all necessary for it—namely, cheerfulness, every kind of cheerfulness, my friends! also as artists:—I should like to prove it. We now know something too well, we men of knowledge: oh, how well we are now learning to forget and not know, as artists! And as to our future, we are not likely to be found again in the tracks of those Egyptian youths who at night make the temples unsafe, embrace statues, and would fain unveil, uncover, and put in clear light, everything which for good reasons is kept concealed.² No, we have got disgusted with this bad taste, this will to truth, to "truth at all costs," this youthful madness in the love of truth: we are now too experienced, too serious, too joyful, too singed, too profound for that.... We no longer believe that truth remains truth when the veil is withdrawn from it: we have lived long enough to believe this. At present we regard it as a matter of propriety not to be anxious either to see everything naked, or to be present at everything, or to understand and "know" everything. "Is it true that the good God is everywhere present?" asked a little girl of her mother: "I think that is indecent":—a hint to philosophers! One should have more reverence for the shamefacedness with which nature has concealed herself behind enigmas and motley uncertainties. Perhaps truth is a woman who has reasons for not showing her reasons? Perhaps her name is Baubo, to speak in Greek?... Oh, those Greeks! They knew how to live: for that purpose it is necessary to keep bravely to the surface, the fold and the skin; to worship appearance, to believe in forms, tones, and words, in the whole Olympus of appearance! Those Greeks were superficial—from profundity! And are we not coming back precisely to this point, we dare-devils of the spirit, who have scaled the highest and most dangerous peak of contemporary thought, and have looked around us from it, have looked down from it? Are we not precisely in this respect—Greeks? Worshippers of forms, of tones, and of words? And precisely on that account—artists?

Finally, so that the most important thing is not left unsaid: we return from such depths, from such severe illness, and from the illness of deep suspicion, reborn, with our old skin shed. We are more sensitive, more wicked, with a finer taste for joy and a more delicate palate for all good things. We are more cheerful, with a second and more dangerous innocence in joy. At the same time, we are more childlike and a hundred times more refined than ever before. Oh, how repulsive pleasure now seems to us. I mean coarse, dull, drab pleasure, as pleasure seekers usually understand it, our "cultured" classes, our rich and ruling classes! How spitefully we now listen to the great holiday uproar! With its help, and with the help of alcohol, "cultured people" and city dwellers now let themselves be pushed into "spiritual enjoyment" through art, books, and music. How the theatrical cries of passion now hurt our ears! How strange to our taste are all the romantic excess and sensual commotion that the cultured masses love! And with them, their aspirations to the exalted, the elevated, and the intricate! No, if we who are recovering need art at all, it is another art. It is a mocking, light, fleeting, divinely serene, divinely ingenious art that blazes like a clear flame into a cloudless sky! Above all, an art for artists, only for artists! We finally know better what is most necessary for it: cheerfulness, every kind of cheerfulness, my friends! Even as artists, we need it. I would like to prove that. We men of knowledge now know something too well. Oh, how well we are now learning, as artists, to forget and not know! As for our future, we are unlikely to follow those Egyptian youths again. At night they make the temples unsafe, embrace statues, and want to unveil and expose everything kept hidden for good reasons, bringing it all into clear light.² No, we have come to despise this bad taste, this will to truth, to "truth at all costs," this youthful madness in the love of truth. We are now too experienced, too serious, too joyful, too singed, too deep for that.... We no longer believe that truth remains truth when its veil is removed. We have lived too long to believe that. We now think it improper to be eager to see everything naked, to witness everything, or to understand and "know" everything. "Is it true that the good God is everywhere present?" a little girl asked her mother. "I think that is indecent": a hint to philosophers! We should have more respect for the modesty with which nature has hidden herself behind riddles and many-colored uncertainties. Perhaps truth is a woman who has reasons for not revealing her reasons? Perhaps her name is Baubo, to speak in Greek?... Oh, those Greeks! They knew how to live. To do that, one must bravely stay with the surface, the fold and the skin. One must worship appearance and believe in forms, tones, and words, in the whole Olympus of appearance! Those Greeks were superficial because they were deep! And aren't we coming back to this very point? We daredevils of the spirit have climbed the highest and most dangerous peak of contemporary thought. From there, we have looked around us and looked down. Aren't we, in precisely this respect, Greeks? Worshippers of forms, tones, and words? And for that very reason, artists?

Ruta, near Genoa

Ruta, near Genoa

Autumn, 1886.

Autumn, 1886.