"Good and Evil," "Good and Bad"

Those English psychologists, who up to the present are the only philosophers who are to be thanked for any endeavour to get as far as a history of the origin of morality—these men, I say, offer us in their own personalities no paltry problem;—they even have, if I am to be quite frank about it, in their capacity of living riddles, an advantage over their books—they themselves are interesting! These English psychologists—what do they really mean? We always find them voluntarily or involuntarily at the same task of pushing to the front the partie honteuse of our inner world, and looking for the efficient, governing, and decisive principle in that precise quarter where the intellectual self-respect of the race would be the most reluctant to find it (for example, in the vis inertiæ of habit, or in forgetfulness, or in a blind and fortuitous mechanism and association of ideas, or in some factor that is purely passive, reflex, molecular, or fundamentally stupid)—what is the real motive power which always impels these psychologists in precisely this direction? Is it an instinct for human disparagement somewhat sinister, vulgar, and malignant, or perhaps incomprehensible even to itself? or perhaps a touch of pessimistic jealousy, the mistrust of disillusioned idealists who have become gloomy, poisoned, and bitter? or a petty subconscious enmity and rancour against Christianity (and Plato), that has conceivably never crossed the threshold of consciousness? or just a vicious taste for those elements of life which are bizarre, painfully paradoxical, mystical, and illogical? or, as a final alternative, a dash of each of these motives—a little vulgarity, a little gloominess, a little anti-Christianity, a little craving for the necessary piquancy?

Those English psychologists are, so far, the only philosophers we have to thank for attempting a history of morality’s origins. Yet these men’s own personalities present us with no small puzzle. In fact, to be quite frank, as living riddles they have an advantage over their books: they themselves are interesting! These English psychologists, what are they really after? We always find them, deliberately or not, doing the same work. They bring the shameful side of our inner world to the foreground. They seek the active, controlling, decisive principle precisely where humanity’s intellectual self-respect would least want to find it. For example, they look to the inertia of habit, or to forgetfulness, or to a blind, accidental mechanism linking ideas. Or they look to some purely passive, reflexive, molecular, or fundamentally stupid factor. What really drives these psychologists so consistently in this direction? Is it a somewhat sinister, vulgar, malicious instinct to belittle humanity, perhaps an instinct that cannot even understand itself? Or perhaps a touch of pessimistic envy, the distrust of disillusioned idealists who have grown gloomy, poisoned, and bitter? Or a petty, subconscious hostility and resentment toward Christianity (and Plato), which may never have entered their conscious minds? Or simply a perverse taste for whatever in life is bizarre, painfully paradoxical, mystical, and illogical? Or, finally, a dash of each motive: a little vulgarity, a little gloom, a little hostility to Christianity? And a little craving for the spice they need?

But I am told that it is simply a case of old frigid and tedious frogs crawling and hopping around men and inside men, as if they were as thoroughly at home there, as they would be in a swamp.

But I am told it is simply a matter of old, cold, boring frogs. These frogs crawl and hop around men and inside men, as if just as much at home there as in a swamp.

I am opposed to this statement, nay, I do not believe it; and if, in the impossibility of knowledge, one is permitted to wish, so do I wish from my heart that just the converse metaphor should apply, and that these analysts with their psychological microscopes should be, at bottom, brave, proud, and magnanimous animals who know how to bridle both their hearts and their smarts, and have specifically trained themselves to sacrifice what is desirable to what is true, any truth in fact, even the simple, bitter, ugly, repulsive, unchristian, and immoral truths—for there are truths of that description.

I oppose this statement. More than that, I do not believe it. And if we may wish when knowledge is impossible, I wish with all my heart that the opposite metaphor applied. I wish these analysts with their psychological microscopes were, deep down, brave, proud, and generous animals. Animals who know how to rein in both their hearts and their cleverness. Animals who have deliberately trained themselves to sacrifice what they desire for what is true. For any truth, in fact, even simple, bitter, ugly, repulsive, unchristian, and immoral truths. For such truths do exist.

All honour, then, to the noble spirits who would fain dominate these historians of morality. But it is certainly a pity that they lack the historical sense itself, that they themselves are quite deserted by all the beneficent spirits of history. The whole train of their thought runs, as was always the way of old-fashioned philosophers, on thoroughly unhistorical lines: there is no doubt on this point. The crass ineptitude of their genealogy of morals is immediately apparent when the question arises of ascertaining the origin of the idea and judgment of "good." "Man had originally," so speaks their decree, "praised and called 'good' altruistic acts from the standpoint of those on whom they were conferred, that is, those to whom they were useful; subsequently the origin of this praise was forgotten, and altruistic acts, simply because, as a sheer matter of habit, they were praised as good, came also to be felt as good—as though they contained in themselves some intrinsic goodness." The thing is obvious:—this initial derivation contains already all the typical and idiosyncratic traits of the English psychologists—we have "utility," "forgetting," "habit," and finally "error," the whole assemblage forming the basis of a system of values, on which the higher man has up to the present prided himself as though it were a kind of privilege of man in general. This pride must be brought low, this system of values must lose its values: is that attained?

All honor, then, to the noble spirits who would like to guide these historians of morality. But it is certainly a pity that these historians lack the historical sense itself. All the helpful spirits of history have abandoned them. Their entire line of thought is thoroughly unhistorical, as was always true of old-fashioned philosophers. There is no doubt about that. The glaring incompetence of their genealogy of morals becomes clear immediately when they ask where “good” originated. How did the idea and the judgment arise? “People originally,” they declare, “praised altruistic acts and called them 'good' from the standpoint of those who benefited. That is, from the standpoint of those to whom these acts were useful. Later, the origin of this praise was forgotten. Altruistic acts then came to be felt as good simply because people habitually praised them as good. It was as though these acts contained some goodness of their own.” The point is obvious: this initial explanation already contains all the typical and distinctive traits of the English psychologists. We have “utility,” “forgetting,” “habit,” and finally “error.” Together, these form the basis of a system of values. Until now, the higher man has taken pride in this system as though it were a privilege of humanity itself. This pride must be brought low, this system of values must lose its value: has that been achieved?

Now the first argument that comes ready to my hand is that the real homestead of the concept "good" is sought and located in the wrong place: the judgment "good" did not originate among those to whom goodness was shown. Much rather has it been the good themselves, that is, the aristocratic, the powerful, the high-stationed, the high-minded, who have felt that they themselves were good, and that their actions were good, that is to say of the first order, in contradistinction to all the low, the low-minded, the vulgar, and the plebeian. It was out of this pathos of distance that they first arrogated the right to create values for their own profit, and to coin the names of such values: what had they to do with utility? The standpoint of utility is as alien and as inapplicable as it could possibly be, when we have to deal with so volcanic an effervescence of supreme values, creating and demarcating as they do a hierarchy within themselves: it is at this juncture that one arrives at an appreciation of the contrast to that tepid temperature, which is the presupposition on which every combination of worldly wisdom and every calculation of practical expediency is always based—and not for one occasional, not for one exceptional instance, but chronically. The pathos of nobility and distance, as I have said, the chronic and despotic esprit de corps and fundamental instinct of a higher dominant race coming into association with a meaner race, an "under race," this is the origin of the antithesis of good and bad.

The first argument that comes to mind is that people look for the true origin of "good" in the wrong place. The judgment "good" did not originate with those who received kindness. Rather, the good themselves saw themselves and their actions as good, meaning first-rate. These were the aristocratic, the powerful, those of high rank and lofty spirit. They contrasted themselves with all the low-ranking, the petty-minded, the vulgar, and the common people. From this feeling of distance, they first claimed the right to create values for their own benefit. They also claimed the right to name those values. What did they care about usefulness? The standpoint of usefulness could not be more foreign or less relevant to such a volcanic eruption of supreme values. These values create and define a hierarchy among themselves. Here we can appreciate the contrast with the lukewarm state that all worldly wisdom and calculations of practical advantage require. That lukewarm state is not occasional or exceptional, but constant. As I have said, the opposition between good and bad originates in the feeling of nobility and distance. It comes from the constant, domineering group spirit and basic instinct of a higher, ruling race encountering a lower race. That lower race is an "under race."

(The masters' right of giving names goes so far that it is permissible to look upon language itself as the expression of the power of the masters: they say "this is that, and that," they seal finally every object and every event with a sound, and thereby at the same time take possession of it.) It is because of this origin that the word "good" is far from having any necessary connection with altruistic acts, in accordance with the superstitious belief of these moral philosophers. On the contrary, it is on the occasion of the decay of aristocratic values, that the antitheses between "egoistic" and "altruistic" presses more and more heavily on the human conscience—it is, to use my own language, the herd instinct which finds in this antithesis an expression in many ways. And even then it takes a considerable time for this instinct to become sufficiently dominant, for the valuation to be inextricably dependent on this antithesis (as is the case in contemporary Europe); for to-day that prejudice is predominant, which, acting even now with all the intensity of an obsession and brain disease, holds that "moral," "altruistic," and "désintéressé" are concepts of equal value.

(The masters' right to give names goes so far that language itself can be seen as expressing their power. They say "this is that, and that," and stamp every object and event once and for all with a sound. By doing so, they also take possession of it.) Because of this origin, the word "good" has no necessary connection with altruistic acts, despite these moral philosophers' superstitious belief. On the contrary, only with the decay of aristocratic values does the opposition between "egoistic" and "altruistic" increasingly burden human conscience. To use my own terms, the herd instinct finds expression in this opposition in many ways. Even then, this instinct takes a long time to become dominant enough to make moral judgment inseparable from this opposition. That is the case in contemporary Europe. For today, the prevailing prejudice treats "moral," "altruistic," and "désintéressé" as equivalent concepts. Even now, this prejudice operates with all the intensity of an obsession and a brain disease.

In the second place, quite apart from the fact that this hypothesis as to the genesis of the value "good" cannot be historically upheld, it suffers from an inherent psychological contradiction. The utility of altruistic conduct has presumably been the origin of its being praised, and this origin has become forgotten:—But in what conceivable way is this forgetting possible! Has perchance the utility of such conduct ceased at some given moment? The contrary is the case. This utility has rather been experienced every day at all times, and is consequently a feature that obtains a new and regular emphasis with every fresh day; it follows that, so far from vanishing from the consciousness, so far indeed from being forgotten, it must necessarily become impressed on the consciousness with ever-increasing distinctness. How much more logical is that contrary theory (it is not the truer for that) which is represented, for instance, by Herbert Spencer, who places the concept "good" as essentially similar to the concept "useful," "purposive," so that in the judgments "good" and "bad" mankind is simply summarising and investing with a sanction its unforgotten and unforgettable experiences concerning the "useful-purposive" and the "mischievous-non-purposive." According to this theory, "good" is the attribute of that which has previously shown itself useful; and so is able to claim to be considered "valuable in the highest degree," "valuable in itself." This method of explanation is also, as I have said, wrong, but at any rate the explanation itself is coherent, and psychologically tenable.

Second, this theory about the origin of the value "good" cannot be supported by history. Quite apart from that, the theory contains a psychological contradiction. Presumably, altruistic conduct was first praised because it was useful, and this origin has been forgotten. But how could such forgetting possibly happen! Did such conduct perhaps stop being useful at some point? Quite the opposite. Its usefulness has been experienced every day, throughout history. Each new day therefore gives that usefulness fresh emphasis. So, far from fading from awareness, far indeed from being forgotten, that usefulness must become ever more clearly impressed on people's minds. How much more logical is the opposite theory, represented, for example, by Herbert Spencer. That does not make the theory any truer. Spencer treats the concept "good" as essentially equivalent to "useful," "purposive." On this view, humanity's judgments of "good" and "bad" simply summarize and give authority to its unforgotten and unforgettable experiences. These experiences concern the "useful-purposive" and the "mischievous-non-purposive." According to this theory, "good" describes whatever has previously proved useful. Such things can therefore claim to be regarded as "valuable in the highest degree," "valuable in itself." This explanation is also wrong, as I have said. But at least the explanation is internally consistent and psychologically plausible.

The guide-post which first put me on the right track was this question—what is the true etymological significance of the various symbols for the idea "good" which have been coined in the various languages? I then found that they all led back to the same evolution of the same idea—that everywhere "aristocrat," "noble" (in the social sense), is the root idea, out of which have necessarily developed "good" in the sense of "with aristocratic soul," "noble," in the sense of "with a soul of high calibre," "with a privileged soul"—a development which invariably runs parallel with that other evolution by which "vulgar," "plebeian," "low," are made to change finally into "bad." The most eloquent proof of this last contention is the German word "schlecht" itself: this word is identical with "schlicht"—(compare "schlechtweg" and "schlechterdings")—which, originally and as yet without any sinister innuendo, simply denoted the plebeian man in contrast to the aristocratic man. It is at the sufficiently late period of the Thirty Years' War that this sense becomes changed to the sense now current. From the standpoint of the Genealogy of Morals this discovery seems to be substantial: the lateness of it is to be attributed to the retarding influence exercised in the modern world by democratic prejudice in the sphere of all questions of origin. This extends, as will shortly be shown, even to the province of natural science and physiology, which, prima facie is the most objective. The extent of the mischief which is caused by this prejudice (once it is free of all trammels except those of its own malice), particularly to Ethics and History, is shown by the notorious case of Buckle: it was in Buckle that that plebeianism of the modern spirit, which is of English origin, broke out once again from its malignant soil with all the violence of a slimy volcano, and with that salted, rampant, and vulgar eloquence with which up to the present time all volcanoes have spoken.

The question that first put me on the right track was this: what do the various words for "good" in different languages actually mean in terms of their origins? I found that all these words pointed back to the same evolution of the same idea. Everywhere, "aristocrat" and "noble" (in the social sense) are the root idea. From this root, "good" necessarily developed to mean "with an aristocratic soul." Likewise, "noble" came to mean "with a soul of high calibre," "with a privileged soul." This development invariably parallels another, in which "vulgar," "plebeian," and "low" eventually come to mean "bad." The clearest proof of this last claim is the German word "schlecht" itself. This word is identical to "schlicht" (compare "schlechtweg" and "schlechterdings"). Originally, without any negative suggestion, it simply described the plebeian man in contrast to the aristocratic man. Only as late as the Thirty Years' War did the word acquire its current meaning. For the Genealogy of Morals, this discovery seems substantial. Its lateness must be attributed to the delaying influence of democratic prejudice on all questions of origins in the modern world. As we will soon see, this prejudice extends even to natural science and physiology, apparently the most objective fields. The notorious case of Buckle shows how much harm this prejudice causes, particularly to Ethics and History. Such harm occurs once the prejudice is free of every restraint except its own malice. In Buckle, the modern spirit's plebeianism, which originated in England, erupted once again from its poisonous soil. It erupted with all the violence of a slimy volcano. And it spoke with the same salty, unrestrained, vulgar eloquence with which all volcanoes have spoken to this day.

With regard to our problem, which can justly be called an intimate problem, and which elects to appeal to only a limited number of ears: it is of no small interest to ascertain that in those words and roots which denote "good" we catch glimpses of that arch-trait, on the strength of which the aristocrats feel themselves to be beings of a higher order than their fellows. Indeed, they call themselves in perhaps the most frequent instances simply after their superiority in power (e.g. "the powerful," "the lords," "the commanders"), or after the most obvious sign of their superiority, as for example "the rich," "the possessors" (that is the meaning of arya; and the Iranian and Slav languages correspond). But they also call themselves after some characteristic idiosyncrasy; and this is the case which now concerns us. They name themselves, for instance, "the truthful": this is first done by the Greek nobility whose mouthpiece is found in Theognis, the Megarian poet. The word ἐσθλος, which is coined for the purpose, signifies etymologically "one who is," who has reality, who is real, who is true; and then with a subjective twist, the "true," as the "truthful": at this stage in the evolution of the idea, it becomes the motto and party cry of the nobility, and quite completes the transition to the meaning "noble," so as to place outside the pale the lying, vulgar man, as Theognis conceives and portrays him—till finally the word after the decay of the nobility is left to delineate psychological noblesse, and becomes as it were ripe and mellow. In the word κακός as in δειλός (the plebeian in contrast to the ἀγαθός) the cowardice is emphasised. This affords perhaps an inkling on what lines the etymological origin of the very ambiguous ἀγαθός is to be investigated. In the Latin malus (which I place side by side with μέλας) the vulgar man can be distinguished as the dark-coloured, and above all as the black-haired ("hic niger est"), as the pre-Aryan inhabitants of the Italian soil, whose complexion formed the clearest feature of distinction from the dominant blondes, namely, the Aryan conquering race:—at any rate Gaelic has afforded me the exact analogue—Fin (for instance, in the name Fin-Gal), the distinctive word of the nobility, finally—good, noble, clean, but originally the blonde-haired man in contrast to the dark black-haired aboriginals. The Celts, if I may make a parenthetic statement, were throughout a blonde race; and it is wrong to connect, as Virchow still connects, those traces of an essentially dark-haired population which are to be seen on the more elaborate ethnographical maps of Germany with any Celtic ancestry or with any admixture of Celtic blood: in this context it is rather the pre-Aryan population of Germany which surges up to these districts. (The same is true substantially of the whole of Europe: in point of fact, the subject race has finally again obtained the upper hand, in complexion and the shortness of the skull, and perhaps in the intellectual and social qualities. Who can guarantee that modern democracy, still more modern anarchy, and indeed that tendency to the "Commune," the most primitive form of society, which is now common to all the Socialists in Europe, does not in its real essence signify a monstrous reversion—and that the conquering and master race—the Aryan race, is not also becoming inferior physiologically?) I believe that I can explain the Latin bonus as the "warrior": my hypothesis is that I am right in deriving bonus from an older duonus (compare bellum = duellum = duen-lum, in which the word duonus appears to me to be contained). Bonus accordingly as the man of discord, of variance, "entzweiung" (duo), as the warrior: one sees what in ancient Rome "the good" meant for a man. Must not our actual German word gut mean "the godlike, the man of godlike race"? and be identical with the national name (originally the nobles' name) of the Goths?

Let us return to our problem, which we can rightly call an intimate problem, intended for only a few ears. It matters a great deal that words and roots meaning "good" reveal a defining trait of aristocrats. This trait is what makes aristocrats feel they belong to a higher order than other people. Perhaps most often, they name themselves simply after their superior power (e.g. "the powerful," "the lords," "the commanders"). Or they name themselves after the most obvious sign of their superiority, such as "the rich," "the possessors". That is the meaning of arya, and the Iranian and Slav languages show corresponding meanings. But aristocrats also name themselves after some distinctive characteristic. This is the case that concerns us now. They call themselves, for example, "the truthful". The Greek nobility first does this, with Theognis, the Megarian poet, as its spokesman. The word ἐσθλος, coined for this purpose, originally means "one who is," someone who has reality, who is real and true. Then its meaning takes a subjective turn, from the "true," to the "truthful". At this stage, the word becomes the nobility's motto and rallying cry. It completes its shift toward meaning "noble," excluding the lying, common man as Theognis understands and portrays him. Finally, after the nobility declines, the word remains to describe psychological noblesse, becoming, as it were, ripe and mellow. The words κακός and δειλός emphasize cowardice in the common man, as opposed to the ἀγαθός. This perhaps hints at where to look for the origin of the highly ambiguous word ἀγαθός. In the Latin malus, which I place alongside μέλας, the common man appears as dark-skinned and, above all, black-haired ("hic niger est"). He is identified with Italy's pre-Aryan inhabitants. Their coloring most clearly distinguished them from the ruling blond people, the Aryan conquering race. At any rate, I have found an exact parallel in Gaelic. Fin (for instance, in the name Fin-Gal) was the nobility's distinguishing word. It eventually meant good, noble, clean. Originally, however, it meant the blond-haired man, as opposed to the dark, black-haired original inhabitants. As an aside, the Celts were a blond race throughout. Virchow still links traces of a distinctly dark-haired population in Germany to Celtic ancestry or mixed Celtic blood. These traces appear on the more detailed ethnographic maps of Germany, but making that connection is wrong. Rather, Germany's pre-Aryan population resurfaces in these districts. (Much the same is true throughout Europe. In fact, the conquered race has finally regained the upper hand in coloring and shortness of skull. Perhaps it has also regained the upper hand in intellectual and social qualities. Who can guarantee that modern democracy, and still more modern anarchy, do not essentially signal a monstrous regression? The same question applies to the tendency toward the "Commune," the most primitive form of society. That tendency is now shared by all the Socialists in Europe. And who can guarantee that the conquering and master race, the Aryan race, is not also becoming physiologically inferior?) I believe I can explain the Latin bonus as meaning the "warrior". My hypothesis is that I am right to derive bonus from an older duonus. (Compare bellum = duellum = duen-lum, in which I think the word duonus is contained.) Bonus would therefore mean the man of conflict, of division, "entzweiung" (duo), the warrior. We can see what being "good" meant for a man in ancient Rome. Must not our present German word gut mean "the godlike, the man of godlike race"? And must it not be identical with the national name of the Goths, originally the name of their nobles?

The grounds for this supposition do not appertain to this work.

The reasons for this assumption fall outside the scope of this work.

Above all, there is no exception (though there are opportunities for exceptions) to this rule, that the idea of political superiority always resolves itself into the idea of psychological superiority, in those cases where the highest caste is at the same time the priestly caste, and in accordance with its general characteristics confers on itself the privilege of a title which alludes specifically to its priestly function. It is in these cases, for instance, that "clean" and "unclean" confront each other for the first time as badges of class distinction; here again there develops a "good" and a "bad," in a sense which has ceased to be merely social. Moreover, care should be taken not to take these ideas of "clean" and "unclean" too seriously, too broadly, or too symbolically: all the ideas of ancient man have, on the contrary, got to be understood in their initial stages, in a sense which is, to an almost inconceivable extent, crude, coarse, physical, and narrow, and above all essentially unsymbolical. The "clean man" is originally only a man who washes himself, who abstains from certain foods which are conducive to skin diseases, who does not sleep with the unclean women of the lower classes, who has a horror of blood—not more, not much more! On the other hand, the very nature of a priestly aristocracy shows the reasons why just at such an early juncture there should ensue a really dangerous sharpening and intensification of opposed values: it is, in fact, through these opposed values that gulfs are cleft in the social plane, which a veritable Achilles of free thought would shudder to cross. There is from the outset a certain diseased taint in such sacerdotal aristocracies, and in the habits which prevail in such societies—habits which, averse as they are to action, constitute a compound of introspection and explosive emotionalism, as a result of which there appears that introspective morbidity and neurasthenia, which adheres almost inevitably to all priests at all times: with regard, however, to the remedy which they themselves have invented for this disease—the philosopher has no option but to state, that it has proved itself in its effects a hundred times more dangerous than the disease, from which it should have been the deliverer. Humanity itself is still diseased from the effects of the naïvetés of this priestly cure. Take, for instance, certain kinds of diet (abstention from flesh), fasts, sexual continence, flight into the wilderness (a kind of Weir-Mitchell isolation, though of course without that system of excessive feeding and fattening which is the most efficient antidote to all the hysteria of the ascetic ideal); consider too the whole metaphysic of the priests, with its war on the senses, its enervation, its hair-splitting; consider its self-hypnotism on the fakir and Brahman principles (it uses Brahman as a glass disc and obsession), and that climax which we can understand only too well of an unusual satiety with its panacea of nothingness (or God:—the demand for a unio mystica with God is the demand of the Buddhist for nothingness, Nirvana—and nothing else!). In sacerdotal societies every element is on a more dangerous scale, not merely cures and remedies, but also pride, revenge, cunning, exaltation, love, ambition, virtue, morbidity:—further, it can fairly be stated that it is on the soil of this essentially dangerous form of human society, the sacerdotal form, that man really becomes for the first time an interesting animal, that it is in this form that the soul of man has in a higher sense attained depths and become evil—and those are the two fundamental forms of the superiority which up to the present man has exhibited over every other animal.

Above all, this rule has no exceptions (though there is room for exceptions): political superiority always becomes psychological superiority. This holds even when the highest caste is also the priestly caste. In keeping with its general character, this caste claims the privilege of a title referring specifically to its priestly role. In these cases, for example, "clean" and "unclean" first appear as marks of class distinction. Here, too, a distinction between "good" and "bad" develops, with a meaning that is no longer merely social. But we must not take these ideas of "clean" and "unclean" too seriously, too broadly, or too symbolically. On the contrary, all early human ideas must be understood in their original sense. That sense is almost unimaginably crude, coarse, physical, and narrow, and above all essentially unsymbolical. The "clean man" is originally just a man who washes and avoids certain foods that cause skin diseases. He does not sleep with the unclean women of the lower classes, and he recoils from blood. Nothing more, or not much more! On the other hand, the very nature of a priestly aristocracy explains a dangerous development at this early stage. Opposing values become much sharper and more intense. These opposing values open gulfs in society that even a true Achilles of free thought would shudder to cross. From the outset, such priestly aristocracies have a certain diseased taint, as do the habits prevailing in their societies. These habits, averse to action, combine inward brooding with explosive emotion. They produce morbid self-examination and nervous exhaustion, conditions that cling almost inevitably to all priests at all times. Yet the philosopher must say this about the remedy the priests themselves invented for their disease: its effects have proved a hundred times more dangerous than the disease it was supposed to cure. Humanity itself is still sick from the effects of this naïve priestly cure. Take, for example, certain diets (avoiding meat), fasting, sexual abstinence, and retreat into the wilderness. This retreat resembles Weir-Mitchell isolation, though naturally without that treatment's excessive feeding and fattening. Such feeding is the most effective antidote to all the hysteria of the ascetic ideal. Consider, too, the priests' entire metaphysics, with its war against the senses, its weakening effects, and its hair-splitting. Consider its self-hypnosis, following the principles of the fakir and Brahman (using Brahman as a glass disc and fixed obsession). Then comes the climax, an extraordinary weariness of everything, which we can understand all too well. Its cure-all is nothingness (or God: the demand for a unio mystica with God is the Buddhist's demand for nothingness, Nirvana, and nothing else!). In priestly societies, every element takes on a more dangerous scale. This applies not only to cures and remedies, but also to pride, revenge, cunning, rapture, love, ambition, virtue, and sickness. Furthermore, we can fairly say that humans first become an interesting animal within this essentially dangerous priestly form of society. In this form of society, the human soul first gains depths in a higher sense and becomes evil. These are the two fundamental ways humans have so far shown their superiority over every other animal.

The reader will have already surmised with what ease the priestly mode of valuation can branch off from the knightly aristocratic mode, and then develop into the very antithesis of the latter: special impetus is given to this opposition, by every occasion when the castes of the priests and warriors confront each other with mutual jealousy and cannot agree over the prize. The knightly-aristocratic "values" are based on a careful cult of the physical, on a flowering, rich, and even effervescing healthiness, that goes considerably beyond what is necessary for maintaining life, on war, adventure, the chase, the dance, the tourney—on everything, in fact, which is contained in strong, free, and joyous action. The priestly-aristocratic mode of valuation is—we have seen—based on other hypotheses: it is bad enough for this class when it is a question of war! Yet the priests are, as is notorious, the worst enemies—why? Because they are the weakest. Their weakness causes their hate to expand into a monstrous and sinister shape, a shape which is most crafty and most poisonous. The really great haters in the history of the world have always been priests, who are also the cleverest haters—in comparison with the cleverness of priestly revenge, every other piece of cleverness is practically negligible. Human history would be too fatuous for anything were it not for the cleverness imported into it by the weak—take at once the most important instance. All the world's efforts against the "aristocrats," the "mighty," the "masters," the "holders of power," are negligible by comparison with what has been accomplished against those classes by the Jews—the Jews, that priestly nation which eventually realised that the one method of effecting satisfaction on its enemies and tyrants was by means of a radical transvaluation of values, which was at the same time an act of the cleverest revenge. Yet the method was only appropriate to a nation of priests, to a nation of the most jealously nursed priestly revengefulness. It was the Jews who, in opposition to the aristocratic equation (good = aristocratic = beautiful = happy = loved by the gods), dared with a terrifying logic to suggest the contrary equation, and indeed to maintain with the teeth of the most profound hatred (the hatred of weakness) this contrary equation, namely, "the wretched are alone the good; the poor, the weak, the lowly, are alone the good; the suffering, the needy, the sick, the loathsome, are the only ones who are pious, the only ones who are blessed, for them alone is salvation—but you, on the other hand, you aristocrats, you men of power, you are to all eternity the evil, the horrible, the covetous, the insatiate, the godless; eternally also shall you be the unblessed, the cursed, the damned!" We know who it was who reaped the heritage of this Jewish transvaluation. In the context of the monstrous and inordinately fateful initiative which the Jews have exhibited in connection with this most fundamental of all declarations of war, I remember the passage which came to my pen on another occasion (Beyond Good and Evil, Aph. 195)—that it was, in fact, with the Jews that the revolt of the slaves begins in the sphere of morals; that revolt which has behind it a history of two millennia, and which at the present day has only moved out of our sight, because it—has achieved victory.

The reader will already have guessed how easily priestly values can split off from those of the warrior aristocracy. Priestly values can then develop into the exact opposite of aristocratic values. This opposition gains special force whenever priests and warriors face each other with mutual jealousy and cannot agree over the prize. The warrior aristocracy’s "values" rest on a devoted cultivation of the body. They rest on flourishing, abundant, even overflowing health, far beyond what is needed to stay alive. They rest on war, adventure, hunting, dancing, and tournaments. In short, they rest on everything involved in strong, free, and joyful action. Priestly aristocratic values, as we have seen, rest on different assumptions. Things go badly enough for the priestly class when war is involved! Yet priests are notoriously the worst enemies. Why? Because they are the weakest. Their weakness makes their hatred grow into something monstrous and sinister, something supremely cunning and poisonous. The truly great haters in world history have always been priests, who are also the cleverest haters. Compared with the cleverness of priestly revenge, every other kind of cleverness is practically insignificant. Human history would be unbearably foolish without the cleverness the weak have brought into it. Let us turn straight to the most important example. All the world’s efforts against the "aristocrats," the "mighty," the "masters," and the "holders of power" pale beside one achievement. That achievement is what the Jews have accomplished against those classes. The Jews, that priestly nation, eventually recognized only one way to settle accounts with their enemies and tyrants. They had to radically overturn existing values, an act that was also the cleverest revenge. Yet this method suited only a nation of priests, a nation that guarded and cultivated priestly vengefulness with the greatest jealousy. The Jews dared to challenge the aristocratic equation (good = aristocratic = beautiful = happy = loved by the gods). With terrifying logic, they proposed the opposite equation. Indeed, they clung to it with the teeth of the deepest hatred (the hatred of weakness): "the wretched alone are good. The poor, the weak, the lowly alone are good. The suffering, the needy, the sick, the repulsive are the only ones who are devout, the only ones who are blessed. Salvation is for them alone. But you aristocrats, you men of power, are evil, horrible, greedy, insatiable, and godless for all eternity. For all eternity, too, you will be without blessing, cursed, and damned!" We know who inherited this Jewish overturning of values. The Jews took a monstrous and overwhelmingly consequential initiative in this most fundamental of all declarations of war. This brings to mind a passage I wrote on another occasion (Beyond Good and Evil, Aph. 195). It was, in fact, with the Jews that the slave revolt begins in the realm of morality. This revolt has a history of two thousand years behind it. Today, it has disappeared from our sight only because it has won.

But you understand this not? You have no eyes for a force which has taken two thousand years to achieve victory?—There is nothing wonderful in this: all lengthy processes are hard to see and to realise. But this is what took place: from the trunk of that tree of revenge and hate, Jewish hate,—that most profound and sublime hate, which creates ideals and changes old values to new creations, the like of which has never been on earth,—there grew a phenomenon which was equally incomparable, a new love, the most profound and sublime of all kinds of love;—and from what other trunk could it have grown? But beware of supposing that this love has soared on its upward growth, as in any way a real negation of that thirst for revenge, as an antithesis to the Jewish hate! No, the contrary is the truth! This love grew out of that hate, as its crown, as its triumphant crown, circling wider and wider amid the clarity and fulness of the sun, and pursuing in the very kingdom of light and height its goal of hatred, its victory, its spoil, its strategy, with the same intensity with which the roots of that tree of hate sank into everything which was deep and evil with increasing stability and increasing desire. This Jesus of Nazareth, the incarnate gospel of love, this "Redeemer" bringing salvation and victory to the poor, the sick, the sinful—was he not really temptation in its most sinister and irresistible form, temptation to take the tortuous path to those very Jewish values and those very Jewish ideals? Has not Israel really obtained the final goal of its sublime revenge, by the tortuous paths of this "Redeemer," for all that he might pose as Israel's adversary and Israel's destroyer? Is it not due to the black magic of a really great policy of revenge, of a far-seeing, burrowing revenge, both acting and calculating with slowness, that Israel himself must repudiate before all the world the actual instrument of his own revenge and nail it to the cross, so that all the world—that is, all the enemies of Israel—could nibble without suspicion at this very bait? Could, moreover, any human mind with all its elaborate ingenuity invent a bait that was more truly dangerous? Anything that was even equivalent in the power of its seductive, intoxicating, defiling, and corrupting influence to that symbol of the holy cross, to that awful paradox of a "god on the cross," to that mystery of the unthinkable, supreme, and utter horror of the self-crucifixion of a god for the salvation of man? It is at least certain that sub hoc signo Israel, with its revenge and transvaluation of all values, has up to the present always triumphed again over all other ideals, over all more aristocratic ideals.

But do you not understand this? Can you not see a force that has taken two thousand years to win? There is nothing surprising about your blindness: all lengthy processes are hard to see and understand. But this is what happened: something equally unmatched grew from the trunk of that tree of revenge and hate, Jewish hate. That hate was the deepest and most sublime ever seen on earth, creating ideals and transforming old values into new creations. From that trunk grew a new love, the deepest and most sublime of all kinds of love. And from what other trunk could such love have grown? But beware of thinking that, as this love rose, it truly rejected that thirst for revenge. Beware of seeing it as the opposite of Jewish hate! No, the opposite is true! This love grew out of that hate as its crown, its triumphant crown. It spread ever wider in the sun’s brightness and fullness. Even in the kingdom of light and heights, this love pursued hate’s goal, its victory, its spoils, its strategy. It pursued them with the same intensity that drove the tree’s roots into everything deep and evil. Those roots sank ever more firmly, with ever greater desire. This Jesus of Nazareth was the gospel of love made flesh, this "Redeemer" bringing salvation and victory to the poor, the sick, the sinful. Was he not really temptation in its most sinister and irresistible form? Was he not a temptation to follow the winding path to those very Jewish values and those very Jewish ideals? Has Israel not actually reached the ultimate goal of its sublime revenge through the winding paths of this "Redeemer"? Has it not done so despite his presenting himself as Israel’s enemy and destroyer? Is this not the black magic of a truly great strategy of revenge? A far-seeing revenge that works underground, acting and calculating slowly? Under this strategy, Israel itself must publicly reject the very instrument of its own revenge and nail him to the cross. Was this not done so that all the world, meaning all Israel’s enemies, could nibble at this bait without suspicion? Could any human mind, with all its elaborate ingenuity, invent a bait more truly dangerous? Could it invent anything equally powerful in its seductive, intoxicating, defiling, and corrupting influence? Anything equal to that symbol of the holy cross, that terrible paradox of a "god on the cross"? Anything equal to that mystery of unthinkable, supreme, and absolute horror: a god crucifying himself for the salvation of man? At least one thing is certain: under this sign, Israel, with its revenge and transformation of all values, has kept triumphing. To this day, it has triumphed again and again over all other ideals, over all more aristocratic ideals.

"But why do you talk of nobler ideals? Let us submit to the facts; that the people have triumphed—or the slaves, or the populace, or the herd, or whatever name you care to give them—if this has happened through the Jews, so be it! In that case no nation ever had a greater mission in the world's history. The 'masters' have been done away with; the morality of the vulgar man has triumphed. This triumph may also be called a blood-poisoning (it has mutually fused the races)—I do not dispute it; but there is no doubt but that this intoxication has succeeded. The 'redemption' of the human race (that is, from the masters) is progressing swimmingly; everything is obviously becoming Judaised, or Christianised, or vulgarised (what is there in the words?). It seems impossible to stop the course of this poisoning through the whole body politic of mankind—but its tempo and pace may from the present time be slower, more delicate, quieter, more discreet—there is time enough. In view of this context has the Church nowadays any necessary purpose? has it, in fact, a right to live? Or could man get on without it? Quæritur. It seems that it fetters and retards this tendency, instead of accelerating it. Well, even that might be its utility. The Church certainly is a crude and boorish institution, that is repugnant to an intelligence with any pretence at delicacy, to a really modern taste. Should it not at any rate learn to be somewhat more subtle? It alienates nowadays, more than it allures. Which of us would, forsooth, be a freethinker if there were no Church? It is the Church which repels us, not its poison—apart from the Church we like the poison." This is the epilogue of a freethinker to my discourse, of an honourable animal (as he has given abundant proof), and a democrat to boot; he had up to that time listened to me, and could not endure my silence, but for me, indeed, with regard to this topic there is much on which to be silent.

"But why do you talk about nobler ideals? Let us accept the facts. The people have triumphed, or the slaves, the populace, the herd, or whatever you care to call them. If this victory came through the Jews, so be it! In that case, no nation has ever had a greater mission in world history. The 'masters' have been eliminated. The morality of the common man has triumphed. This triumph may also be called blood poisoning (it has blended the races together). I do not dispute that. But there is no doubt that this intoxication has taken hold. The 'redemption' of humanity (that is, from the masters) is going wonderfully well. Everything is clearly becoming Judaized, or Christianized, or vulgarized (what difference do the words make?). It seems impossible to stop this poisoning from spreading through humanity's entire body politic. But from now on, its tempo and pace may be slower, gentler, quieter, more discreet. There is plenty of time. Given all this, does the Church serve any necessary purpose today? Does the Church, in fact, have a right to exist? Or could humanity get along without the Church? That is the question. The Church seems to restrain and slow this trend, rather than speed it up. Well, even that might make the Church useful. The Church is certainly a crude, boorish institution. It repels any mind claiming the slightest refinement, any truly modern taste. Should the Church not at least learn to be a little more subtle? Nowadays, the Church alienates more than it attracts. Which of us, really, would be a freethinker if there were no Church? The Church repels us, not its poison. Without the Church, we like the poison." These were a freethinker's closing remarks on my discussion. He was an honorable animal (as he had amply proved), and a democrat to boot. Until then, he had listened to me, but he could not bear my silence. For my part, though, there is much about this subject to remain silent about.

The revolt of the slaves in morals begins in the very principle of resentment becoming creative and giving birth to values—a resentment experienced by creatures who, deprived as they are of the proper outlet of action, are forced to find their compensation in an imaginary revenge. While every aristocratic morality springs from a triumphant affirmation of its own demands, the slave morality says "no" from the very outset to what is "outside itself," "different from itself," and "not itself": and this "no" is its creative deed. This volte-face of the valuing standpoint—this inevitable gravitation to the objective instead of back to the subjective—is typical of "resentment": the slave-morality requires as the condition of its existence an external and objective world, to employ physiological terminology, it requires objective stimuli to be capable of action at all—its action is fundamentally a reaction. The contrary is the case when we come to the aristocrat's system of values: it acts and grows spontaneously, it merely seeks its antithesis in order to pronounce a more grateful and exultant "yes" to its own self;—its negative conception, "low," "vulgar," "bad," is merely a pale late-born foil in comparison with its positive and fundamental conception (saturated as it is with life and passion), of "we aristocrats, we good ones, we beautiful ones, we happy ones."

The slave revolt in morality begins when resentment itself becomes creative and gives birth to values. This resentment belongs to creatures denied the proper outlet of action, who must find compensation in imaginary revenge. Every aristocratic morality begins with a triumphant affirmation of its own demands. By contrast, slave morality says "no" from the outset to what is "outside itself," "different from itself," and "not itself". This "no" is its creative act. This reversal in the standpoint of judgment is typical of "resentment". It is an inevitable turn toward the external world rather than back toward the self. Slave morality depends on an external, objective world for its very existence. In physiological terms, slave morality needs external stimuli to act at all. Its action is fundamentally a reaction. The aristocrat's system of values works in the opposite way: it acts and grows spontaneously. It seeks its opposite only to say a more grateful and joyful "yes" to itself. Its negative ideas, "low," "vulgar," "bad," emerge only later as a pale contrast to its positive, fundamental idea. That fundamental idea, full of life and passion, is "we aristocrats, we good ones, we beautiful ones, we happy ones."

When the aristocratic morality goes astray and commits sacrilege on reality, this is limited to that particular sphere with which it is not sufficiently acquainted—a sphere, in fact, from the real knowledge of which it disdainfully defends itself. It misjudges, in some cases, the sphere which it despises, the sphere of the common vulgar man and the low people: on the other hand, due weight should be given to the consideration that in any case the mood of contempt, of disdain, of superciliousness, even on the supposition that it falsely portrays the object of its contempt, will always be far removed from that degree of falsity which will always characterise the attacks—in effigy, of course—of the vindictive hatred and revengefulness of the weak in onslaughts on their enemies. In point of fact, there is in contempt too strong an admixture of nonchalance, of casualness, of boredom, of impatience, even of personal exultation, for it to be capable of distorting its victim into a real caricature or a real monstrosity. Attention again should be paid to the almost benevolent nuances which, for instance, the Greek nobility imports into all the words by which it distinguishes the common people from itself; note how continuously a kind of pity, care, and consideration imparts its honeyed flavour, until at last almost all the words which are applied to the vulgar man survive finally as expressions for "unhappy," "worthy of pity" (compare δειλο, δείλαιος, πονηρός, μοχθηρός]; the latter two names really denoting the vulgar man as labour-slave and beast of burden)—and how, conversely, "bad," "low," "unhappy" have never ceased to ring in the Greek ear with a tone in which "unhappy" is the predominant note: this is a heritage of the old noble aristocratic morality, which remains true to itself even in contempt (let philologists remember the sense in which ὀιζυρός, ἄνολβος, τλήμων, δυστυχεῑν, ξυμφορά used to be employed). The "well-born" simply felt themselves the "happy"; they did not have to manufacture their happiness artificially through looking at their enemies, or in cases to talk and lie themselves into happiness (as is the custom with all resentful men); and similarly, complete men as they were, exuberant with strength, and consequently necessarily energetic, they were too wise to dissociate happiness from action—activity becomes in their minds necessarily counted as happiness (that is the etymology of εὖ πρἆττειν)—all in sharp contrast to the "happiness" of the weak and the oppressed, with their festering venom and malignity, among whom happiness appears essentially as a narcotic, a deadening, a quietude, a peace, a "Sabbath," an enervation of the mind and relaxation of the limbs,—in short, a purely passive phenomenon. While the aristocratic man lived in confidence and openness with himself (γενναῐος, "nobleε-born," emphasises the nuance "sincere," and perhaps also "naïf"), the resentful man, on the other hand, is neither sincere nor naïf, nor honest and candid with himself. His soul squints; his mind loves hidden crannies, tortuous paths and back-doors, everything secret appeals to him as his world, his safety, his balm; he is past master in silence, in not forgetting, in waiting, in provisional self-depreciation and self-abasement. A race of such resentful men will of necessity eventually prove more prudent than any aristocratic race, it will honour prudence on quite a distinct scale, as, in fact, a paramount condition of existence, while prudence among aristocratic men is apt to be tinged with a delicate flavour of luxury and refinement; so among them it plays nothing like so integral a part as that complete certainty of function of the governing unconscious instincts, or as indeed a certain lack of prudence, such as a vehement and valiant charge, whether against danger or the enemy, or as those ecstatic bursts of rage, love, reverence, gratitude, by which at all times noble souls have recognised each other. When the resentment of the aristocratic man manifests itself, it fulfils and exhausts itself in an immediate reaction, and consequently instills no venom: on the other hand, it never manifests itself at all in countless instances, when in the case of the feeble and weak it would be inevitable. An inability to take seriously for any length of time their enemies, their disasters, their misdeeds—that is the sign of the full strong natures who possess a superfluity of moulding plastic force, that heals completely and produces forgetfulness: a good example of this in the modern world is Mirabeau, who had no memory for any insults and meannesses which were practised on him, and who was only incapable of forgiving because he forgot. Such a man indeed shakes off with a shrug many a worm which would have buried itself in another; it is only in characters like these that we see the possibility (supposing, of course, that there is such a possibility in the world) of the real "love of one's enemies." What respect for his enemies is found, forsooth, in an aristocratic man—and such a reverence is already a bridge to love! He insists on having his enemy to himself as his distinction. He tolerates no other enemy but a man in whose character there is nothing to despise and much to honour! On the other hand, imagine the "enemy" as the resentful man conceives him—and it is here exactly that we see his work, his creativeness; he has conceived "the evil enemy," the "evil one," and indeed that is the root idea from which he now evolves as a contrasting and corresponding figure a "good one," himself—his very self!

When aristocratic morality goes wrong and violates reality, its errors are confined to a sphere it does not know well enough. In fact, it scornfully shields itself from any real knowledge of that sphere. It sometimes misjudges the people it despises: ordinary, common people and the lower classes. But one consideration deserves proper weight. Contempt, disdain, and arrogance may falsely portray their object. Even so, such feelings always fall far short of the falsehood found in the weak person’s vengeful hatred. That hatred attacks its enemies through images of them, of course. Contempt contains too much indifference, carelessness, boredom, impatience, and even personal elation to turn its victim into a true caricature or monster. Notice, too, the almost kindly shades of meaning in the Greek nobility’s words distinguishing ordinary people from themselves. Note how persistently a kind of pity, care, and consideration lends these words its honeyed flavour. Eventually, almost all the words applied to the common man survive as expressions for "unhappy" and "worthy of pity". Compare δειλο, δείλαιος, πονηρός, μοχθηρός. The last two words actually describe the common man as a slave labourer and beast of burden. Conversely, "bad," "low," and "unhappy" have never stopped sounding to Greek ears with "unhappy" as their dominant note. This is a legacy of the old aristocratic morality, which stays true to itself even in contempt. Philologists should remember how ὀιζυρός, ἄνολβος, τλήμων, δυστυχεῑν, and ξυμφορά were once used. The "well-born" simply felt themselves to be the "happy". They did not need to manufacture happiness by looking at their enemies. Nor did they sometimes need to talk and lie themselves into happiness, as all resentful people do. They were also whole people, overflowing with strength and therefore necessarily active. They were too wise to separate happiness from action. In their minds, activity necessarily counted as happiness. That is the etymology of εὖ πρἆττειν. All this sharply contrasts with the "happiness" of the weak and oppressed, with their festering venom and malice. For them, happiness appears essentially as a narcotic, a numbing, a stillness, a peace, a "Sabbath". It means a weakening of the mind and a relaxing of the limbs. In short, happiness is a purely passive experience. The aristocratic man lived openly and confidently with himself. The word γενναῐος, "noble-born," stresses the shade of meaning "sincere," and perhaps also "naïve". The resentful man, by contrast, is neither sincere nor naïve, nor honest and open with himself. His soul squints. His mind loves hidden corners, winding paths, and back doors. Everything secret appeals to him as his world, his safety, his comfort. He is a master of silence, of not forgetting, of waiting, and of temporarily belittling and humbling himself. A race of such resentful men will necessarily prove more prudent in the end than any aristocratic race. They will value prudence on an entirely different scale, as an essential condition of survival. Among aristocratic men, by contrast, prudence tends to carry a subtle flavour of luxury and refinement. So prudence plays nothing like so central a role among them as the utterly reliable workings of their ruling unconscious instincts. Nor does prudence matter as much as a certain recklessness, such as a fierce, courageous charge against danger or an enemy. The same holds for those ecstatic outbursts of rage, love, reverence, and gratitude through which noble souls have always recognised one another. When an aristocratic man’s resentment appears, an immediate reaction fully expresses and exhausts it, leaving no venom. In countless cases, his resentment never appears at all, though resentment would be inevitable among the feeble and weak. Strong, full natures cannot take their enemies, their disasters, or their misdeeds seriously for very long. This is their distinguishing trait. They have an excess of creative, reshaping power that heals them completely and allows them to forget. A good modern example is Mirabeau, who had no memory of the insults and petty cruelties directed at him. He was incapable of forgiving only because he forgot. Such a man shrugs off many a worm that would have burrowed into someone else. Only in such characters do we see the possibility of truly "loving one’s enemies." That is, of course, if such a possibility exists in the world. What respect an aristocratic man has for his enemies! And such reverence is already a bridge to love! He insists on having an enemy of his own as a mark of distinction. He accepts no enemy whose character contains anything contemptible and does not contain much to honour! Now imagine the "enemy" as the resentful man conceives him. Here, precisely, we see his work, his creativity. He has invented "the evil enemy," the "evil one". This is his basic idea. From it, he now develops a contrasting, corresponding figure, a "good one," himself, his very self!

The method of this man is quite contrary to that of the aristocratic man, who conceives the root idea "good" spontaneously and straight away, that is to say, out of himself, and from that material then creates for himself a concept of "bad"! This "bad" of aristocratic origin and that "evil" out of the cauldron of unsatisfied hatred—the former an imitation, an "extra," an additional nuance; the latter, on the other hand, the original, the beginning, the essential act in the conception of a slave-morality—these two words "bad" and "evil," how great a difference do they mark, in spite of the fact that they have an identical contrary in the idea "good." But the idea "good" is not the same: much rather let the question be asked, "Who is really evil according to the meaning of the morality of resentment?" In all sternness let it be answered thus:—just the good man of the other morality, just the aristocrat, the powerful one, the one who rules, but who is distorted by the venomous eye of resentfulness, into a new colour, a new signification, a new appearance. This particular point we would be the last to deny: the man who learnt to know those "good" ones only as enemies, learnt at the same time not to know them only as "evil enemies" and the same men who inter pares were kept so rigorously in bounds through convention, respect, custom, and gratitude, though much more through mutual vigilance and jealousy inter pares, these men who in their relations with each other find so many new ways of manifesting consideration, self-control, delicacy, loyalty, pride, and friendship, these men are in reference to what is outside their circle (where the foreign element, a foreign country, begins), not much better than beasts of prey, which have been let loose. They enjoy there freedom from all social control, they feel that in the wilderness they can give vent with impunity to that tension which is produced by enclosure and imprisonment in the peace of society, they revert to the innocence of the beast-of-prey conscience, like jubilant monsters, who perhaps come from a ghastly bout of murder, arson, rape, and torture, with bravado and a moral equanimity, as though merely some wild student's prank had been played, perfectly convinced that the poets have now an ample theme to sing and celebrate. It is impossible not to recognise at the core of all these aristocratic races the beast of prey; the magnificent blonde brute, avidly rampant for spoil and victory; this hidden core needed an outlet from time to time, the beast must get loose again, must return into the wilderness—the Roman, Arabic, German, and Japanese nobility, the Homeric heroes, the Scandinavian Vikings, are all alike in this need. It is the aristocratic races who have left the idea "Barbarian" on all the tracks in which they have marched; nay, a consciousness of this very barbarianism, and even a pride in it, manifests itself even in their highest civilisation (for example, when Pericles says to his Athenians in that celebrated funeral oration, "Our audacity has forced a way over every land and sea, rearing everywhere imperishable memorials of itself for good and for evil"). This audacity of aristocratic races, mad, absurd, and spasmodic as may be its expression; the incalculable and fantastic nature of their enterprises,Pericles sets in special relief and glory the ᾽ραθυμία of the Athenians, their nonchalance and contempt for safety, body, life, and comfort, their awful joy and intense delight in all destruction, in all the ecstasies of victory and cruelty,—all these features become crystallised, for those who suffered thereby in the picture of the "barbarian," of the "evil enemy," perhaps of the "Goth" and of the "Vandal." The profound, icy mistrust which the German provokes, as soon as he arrives at power,—even at the present time,—is always still an aftermath of that inextinguishable horror with which for whole centuries Europe has regarded the wrath of the blonde Teuton beast (although between the old Germans and ourselves there exists scarcely a psychological, let alone a physical, relationship). I have once called attention to the embarrassment of Hesiod, when he conceived the series of social ages, and endeavoured to express them in gold, silver, and bronze. He could only dispose of the contradiction, with which he was confronted, by the Homeric world, an age magnificent indeed, but at the same time so awful and so violent, by making two ages out of one, which he henceforth placed one behind each other—first, the age of the heroes and demigods, as that world had remained in the memories of the aristocratic families, who found therein their own ancestors; secondly, the bronze age, as that corresponding age appeared to the descendants of the oppressed, spoiled, ill-treated, exiled, enslaved; namely, as an age of bronze, as I have said, hard, cold, terrible, without feelings and without conscience, crushing everything, and bespattering everything with blood. Granted the truth of the theory now believed to be true, that the very essence of all civilisation is to train out of man, the beast of prey, a tame and civilised animal, a domesticated animal, it follows indubitably that we must regard as the real tools of civilisation all those instincts of reaction and resentment, by the help of which the aristocratic races, together with their ideals, were finally degraded and overpowered; though that has not yet come to be synonymous with saying that the bearers of those tools also represented the civilisation. It is rather the contrary that is not only probable—nay, it is palpable to-day; these bearers of vindictive instincts that have to be bottled up, these descendants of all European and non-European slavery, especially of the pre-Aryan population—these people, I say, represent the decline of humanity! These "tools of civilisation" are a disgrace to humanity, and constitute in reality more of an argument against civilisation, more of a reason why civilisation should be suspected. One may be perfectly justified in being always afraid of the blonde beast that lies at the core of all aristocratic races, and in being on one's guard: but who would not a hundred times prefer to be afraid, when one at the same time admires, than to be immune from fear, at the cost of being perpetually obsessed with the loathsome spectacle of the distorted, the dwarfed, the stunted, the envenomed? And is that not our fate? What produces to-day our repulsion towards "man"?—for we suffer from "man," there is no doubt about it. It is not fear; it is rather that we have nothing more to fear from men; it is that the worm "man" is in the foreground and pullulates; it is that the "tame man," the wretched mediocre and unedifying creature, has learnt to consider himself a goal and a pinnacle, an inner meaning, an historic principle, a "higher man"; yes, it is that he has a certain right so to consider himself, in so far as he feels that in contrast to that excess of deformity, disease, exhaustion, and effeteness whose odour is beginning to pollute present-day Europe, he at any rate has achieved a relative success, he at any rate still says "yes" to life.

This man’s method is the exact opposite of the aristocratic man’s. The aristocrat forms the basic idea "good" spontaneously and directly, drawing it from himself. From that idea, he then creates his concept of "bad"! This aristocratic "bad" differs profoundly from the "evil" brewed in the cauldron of unsatisfied hatred. The former is an imitation, an "extra," an added shade of meaning. The latter is the original idea, the starting point, the essential act in creating a slave morality. How great a difference these words, "bad" and "evil," express, although both have the same opposite in "good." But the meaning of "good" is not the same in each case. Instead, we should ask: "Who is really evil according to the morality of resentment?" The answer must be given with complete seriousness: precisely the good man of the other morality. Precisely the aristocrat, the powerful man, the ruler. But resentment’s poisonous gaze distorts him, giving him a new color, meaning, and appearance. We would be the last to deny this particular point. Anyone who knew those "good" men only as enemies also learned to know them as more than "evil enemies." Among their equals, inter pares, these men were held firmly in check by convention, respect, custom, and gratitude. But even more, they were restrained by mutual watchfulness and jealousy inter pares. In their dealings with one another, they find so many ways to show consideration, self-control, sensitivity, loyalty, pride, and friendship. Yet outside their circle, where outsiders and a foreign country begin, these men are little better than unleashed predators. There they enjoy freedom from all social restraint. In the wilderness, they feel free to release, without punishment, the tension built up by confinement within a peaceful society. They revert to the innocent conscience of a beast of prey. Like jubilant monsters, they perhaps return from a horrifying spree of murder, arson, rape, and torture. Yet they return with swagger and an untroubled conscience, as though they had merely played some wild student prank. They are completely convinced that the poets now have plenty to sing about and celebrate. At the heart of all these aristocratic races, we cannot fail to recognize the beast of prey. There is the magnificent blond beast, eagerly roaming in search of plunder and victory. This hidden core needed an outlet from time to time. The beast must break loose again and return to the wilderness. The Roman, Arabic, German, and Japanese nobility, the Homeric heroes, and the Scandinavian Vikings all share this need. The aristocratic races have left the idea "Barbarian" along every route they have marched. Indeed, even at the height of their civilization, they show an awareness of this very barbarism, and even pride in it. Consider Pericles addressing the Athenians in his famous funeral speech: "Our daring has opened a path across every land and sea. Everywhere it has raised lasting monuments to itself, for good and for evil." The daring of aristocratic races may express itself in mad, absurd, and sudden outbursts. Their undertakings are unpredictable and fantastic. Pericles especially highlights and celebrates the Athenians’ ᾽ραθυμία, their carefree disregard for safety, bodily well-being, life, and comfort. There is also their terrible joy and intense delight in all destruction, in every ecstasy of victory and cruelty. For those who suffered from these qualities, all these features hardened into the image of the "barbarian." They became the image of the "evil enemy," perhaps of the "Goth" and the "Vandal." Even today, the German provokes deep, icy distrust as soon as he gains power. This distrust remains an aftereffect of Europe’s undying horror, sustained for centuries, at the fury of the blond Teuton beast. Yet there is scarcely any psychological connection between the old Germans and ourselves, let alone a physical one. I once drew attention to Hesiod’s difficulty when he imagined successive social ages and described them as gold, silver, and bronze. The Homeric world confronted him with a contradiction. That age was magnificent, but also terrible and violent. He could resolve the contradiction only by dividing that single age into two and placing them in sequence. First came the age of heroes and demigods. This was the world remembered by aristocratic families, who found their own ancestors there. Second came the bronze age. This was how that same period appeared to the descendants of the oppressed, plundered, abused, exiled, and enslaved. As I have said, it was an age of bronze: hard, cold, terrible, without feeling or conscience. It crushed everything and spattered everything with blood. Suppose the theory now accepted as true is correct. Suppose the very essence of all civilization is to train the human beast of prey into a tame, civilized, domesticated animal. Then one conclusion follows beyond doubt. The true tools of civilization must be all those reactive instincts of resentment. Through these instincts, the aristocratic races and their ideals were finally brought low and overpowered. But that does not yet mean that the people carrying those tools also represented civilization. The opposite is not merely probable. Today, it is plain to see. These people carry instincts of revenge that must be bottled up. They descend from all European and non-European slavery, especially from the pre-Aryan population. These people, I say, represent humanity’s decline! These "tools of civilization" are a disgrace to humanity. In fact, they are more an argument against civilization, more a reason to distrust it. We may be entirely justified in always fearing the blond beast at the heart of all aristocratic races. We may be right to remain on guard. But who would not a hundred times prefer fear accompanied by admiration? Who would prefer freedom from fear at the cost of constantly confronting a disgusting spectacle? The spectacle is of the twisted, the dwarfed, the stunted, and the poisoned. And is that not our fate? What causes our disgust with "man" today? For there is no doubt that we suffer from "man." The cause is not fear. Rather, we have nothing left to fear from human beings. The worm "man" fills the foreground and multiplies. The "tame man," that miserable, mediocre, uninspiring creature, has learned to see himself as a goal and a pinnacle. He sees himself as the deeper meaning of things, a guiding principle of history, a "higher man." Yes, he even has a certain right to see himself this way, insofar as he feels relatively successful. He compares himself with that excess of deformity, disease, exhaustion, and weakness whose stench is beginning to pollute present-day Europe. Against that backdrop, he at least has achieved a relative success. He at least still says "yes" to life.

I cannot refrain at this juncture from uttering a sigh and one last hope. What is it precisely which I find intolerable? That which I alone cannot get rid of, which makes me choke and faint? Bad air! bad air! That something misbegotten comes near me; that I must inhale the odour of the entrails of a misbegotten soul!—That excepted, what can one not endure in the way of need, privation, bad weather, sickness, toil, solitude? In point of fact, one manages to get over everything, born as one is to a burrowing and battling existence; one always returns once again to the light, one always lives again one's golden hour of victory—and then one stands as one was born, unbreakable, tense, ready for something more difficult, for something more distant, like a bow stretched but the tauter by every strain. But from time to time do ye grant me—assuming that "beyond good and evil" there are goddesses who can grant—one glimpse, grant me but one glimpse only, of something perfect, fully realised, happy, mighty, triumphant, of something that still gives cause for fear! A glimpse of a man that justifies the existence of man, a glimpse of an incarnate human happiness that realises and redeems, for the sake of which one may hold fast to the belief in man! For the position is this: in the dwarfing and levelling of the European man lurks our greatest peril, for it is this outlook which fatigues—we see to-day nothing which wishes to be greater, we surmise that the process is always still backwards, still backwards towards something more attenuated, more inoffensive, more cunning, more comfortable, more mediocre, more indifferent, more Chinese, more Christian—man, there is no doubt about it, grows always "better" —the destiny of Europe lies even in this—that in losing the fear of man, we have also lost the hope in man, yea, the will to be man. The sight of man now fatigues.—What is present-day Nihilism if it is not that?—We are tired of man.

At this point, I cannot help letting out a sigh and expressing one last hope. What exactly do I find unbearable? What is the one thing I cannot escape, the thing that makes me choke and faint? Bad air! Bad air! Something misbegotten comes near me. I have to breathe in the stench from the guts of a misbegotten soul! Apart from that, what can we not endure: need, deprivation, bad weather, sickness, toil, solitude? In fact, we manage to get through everything, born as we are to a life of burrowing and battling. We always return to the light. We always live through another golden hour of victory. Then we stand as we were born: unbreakable, tense, ready for something harder, for something more distant. We are like a bow drawn tighter by every strain. But from time to time, grant me one glimpse. I ask this assuming there are goddesses "beyond good and evil" who can grant it. Grant me just one glimpse of something perfect, fully realized, happy, mighty, triumphant, something that still gives us reason to fear! A glimpse of a man who justifies human existence. A glimpse of human happiness made flesh, a happiness that fulfills and redeems. For its sake, we could hold on to the belief in man! For here is the situation: the shrinking and leveling of European man conceals our greatest danger. The prospect itself wears us out. Today we see nothing that wants to become greater. We suspect that the process keeps moving backward. Always backward, toward something weaker, more harmless, more cunning, more comfortable, more mediocre, more indifferent, more Chinese, more Christian. Man, without a doubt, keeps growing "better". Europe's destiny lies in this very fact: in losing our fear of man, we have also lost our hope in man. Yes, we have even lost the will to be human. The sight of man now wears us out. What is present-day Nihilism if not that? We are tired of man.

But let us come back to it; the problem of another origin of the good—of the good, as the resentful man has thought it out—demands its solution. It is not surprising that the lambs should bear a grudge against the great birds of prey, but that is no reason for blaming the great birds of prey for taking the little lambs. And when the lambs say among themselves, "These birds of prey are evil, and he who is as far removed from being a bird of prey, who is rather its opposite, a lamb,—is he not good?" then there is nothing to cavil at in the setting up of this ideal, though it may also be that the birds of prey will regard it a little sneeringly, and perchance say to themselves, "We bear no grudge against them, these good lambs, we even like them: nothing is tastier than a tender lamb." To require of strength that it should not express itself as strength, that it should not be a wish to overpower, a wish to overthrow, a wish to become master, a thirst for enemies and antagonisms and triumphs, is just as absurd as to require of weakness that it should express itself as strength. A quantum of force is just such a quantum of movement, will, action—rather it is nothing else than just those very phenomena of moving, willing, acting, and can only appear otherwise in the misleading errors of language (and the fundamental fallacies of reason which have become petrified therein), which understands, and understands wrongly, all working as conditioned by a worker, by a "subject." And just exactly as the people separate the lightning from its flash, and interpret the latter as a thing done, as the working of a subject which is called lightning, so also does the popular morality separate strength from the expression of strength, as though behind the strong man there existed some indifferent neutral substratum, which enjoyed a caprice and option as to whether or not it should express strength. But there is no such substratum, there is no "being" behind doing, working, becoming; "the doer" is a mere appanage to the action. The action is everything. In point of fact, the people duplicate the doing, when they make the lightning lighten, that is a "doing-doing": they make the same phenomenon first a cause, and then, secondly, the effect of that cause. The scientists fail to improve matters when they say, "Force moves, force causes," and so on. Our whole science is still, in spite of all its coldness, of all its freedom from passion, a dupe of the tricks of language, and has never succeeded in getting rid of that superstitious changeling "the subject" (the atom, to give another instance, is such a changeling, just as the Kantian "Thing-in-itself"). What wonder, if the suppressed and stealthily simmering passions of revenge and hatred exploit for their own advantage this belief, and indeed hold no belief with a more steadfast enthusiasm than this—"that the strong has the option of being weak, and the bird of prey of being a lamb." Thereby do they win for themselves the right of attributing to the birds of prey the responsibility for being birds of prey: when the oppressed, down-trodden, and overpowered say to themselves with the vindictive guile of weakness, "Let us be otherwise than the evil, namely, good! and good is every one who does not oppress, who hurts no one, who does not attack, who does not pay back, who hands over revenge to God, who holds himself, as we do, in hiding; who goes out of the way of evil, and demands, in short, little from life; like ourselves the patient, the meek, the just,"—yet all this, in its cold and unprejudiced interpretation, means nothing more than "once for all, the weak are weak; it is good to do nothing for which we are not strong enough"; but this dismal state of affairs, this prudence of the lowest order, which even insects possess (which in a great danger are fain to sham death so as to avoid doing "too much"), has, thanks to the counterfeiting and self-deception of weakness, come to masquerade in the pomp of an ascetic, mute, and expectant virtue, just as though the very weakness of the weak—that is, forsooth, its being, its working, its whole unique inevitable inseparable reality—were a voluntary result, something wished, chosen, a deed, an act of merit. This kind of man finds the belief in a neutral, free-choosing "subject" necessary from an instinct of self-preservation, of self-assertion, in which every lie is fain to sanctify itself. The subject (or, to use popular language, the soul) has perhaps proved itself the best dogma in the world simply because it rendered possible to the horde of mortal, weak, and oppressed individuals of every kind, that most sublime specimen of self-deception, the interpretation of weakness as freedom, of being this, or being that, as merit.

But let us return to the problem. We must explain another origin of the good, the good as the resentful man has imagined it. It is no surprise that lambs hold a grudge against great birds of prey. But that gives us no reason to blame the birds of prey for taking little lambs. And suppose the lambs say among themselves, "These birds of prey are evil. Anyone as unlike a bird of prey as possible, anyone who is its opposite, a lamb, is surely good?" There is nothing to object to in their setting up this ideal. Still, the birds of prey may look on it with a slight sneer. Perhaps they say to themselves, "We hold no grudge against these good lambs. We even like them: nothing tastes better than a tender lamb." To demand that strength should not express itself as strength is absurd. It means demanding that strength should not seek to overpower, overthrow, or become master. It means demanding that strength should not hunger for enemies, conflicts, and triumphs. This is just as absurd as demanding that weakness should express itself as strength. A quantity of force is precisely that quantity of movement, willing, and action. More exactly, force is nothing other than these very processes of moving, willing, and acting. Force can seem otherwise only through the misleading errors of language. Fundamental errors of reason have hardened into that language. Language treats all activity as dependent on someone who acts, a "subject," and gets it wrong. People separate lightning from its flash. They interpret the flash as something done, the activity of a subject called lightning. In exactly the same way, popular morality separates strength from its expression. Popular morality imagines some indifferent, neutral underlying thing behind the strong man. This thing supposedly has the whim and choice of whether to express strength. But there is no such underlying thing. There is no "being" behind doing, acting, and becoming. "The doer" is merely an addition to the action. The action is everything. In fact, people count the action twice when they say that lightning flashes. This is a "doing-doing." They turn the same event first into a cause, then into the effect of that cause. Scientists do no better when they say, "Force moves, force causes," and so on. Despite all its coolness and freedom from passion, our entire science is still fooled by the tricks of language. Science has never managed to rid itself of that superstitious impostor, "the subject." The atom is another such impostor, as is the Kantian "Thing-in-itself." Is it any wonder that suppressed, secretly simmering revenge and hatred exploit this belief for their own advantage? Indeed, they cling to no belief more passionately than this: "The strong have the choice to be weak. The bird of prey has the choice to be a lamb." Through this belief, the weak claim the right to hold birds of prey responsible for being birds of prey. The oppressed, downtrodden, and overpowered speak to themselves with the vengeful cunning of weakness: "Let us be unlike the evil, namely, good! Everyone who does not oppress, hurt, attack, or retaliate is good. Good people leave revenge to God and keep themselves hidden, as we do. They avoid evil and, in short, ask little of life. Like us, they are patient, meek, and just." Yet a cool, unbiased reading of all this amounts to nothing more than: "The weak are simply weak. It is good to do nothing we are not strong enough to do." But this miserable condition is merely the lowest kind of caution, something even insects possess. In great danger, insects will pretend to be dead to avoid doing "too much." Yet weakness, through its falsification and self-deception, has dressed this caution in the grand robes of an ascetic virtue. This supposed virtue is silent and waiting. It is as though the very weakness of the weak were voluntary, something wanted and chosen, a deed deserving credit. Yet their weakness is, indeed, their being, their activity, their entire unique, unavoidable, inseparable reality. This kind of person finds belief in a neutral, freely choosing "subject" necessary for self-preservation and self-assertion. Through this instinct, every lie seeks to make itself sacred. The subject (or, in everyday language, the soul) has perhaps proved the world's best dogma for one simple reason. It enabled the horde of mortal, weak, and oppressed people of every kind to achieve the most sublime self-deception. They could interpret weakness as freedom, and being one thing or another as merit.

Will any one look a little into—right into—the mystery of how ideals are manufactured in this world? Who has the courage to do it? Come!

Will anyone look a little deeper, right into the mystery of how ideals are manufactured in this world? Who has the courage to look? Come!

Here we have a vista opened into these grimy workshops. Wait just a moment, dear Mr. Inquisitive and Foolhardy; your eye must first grow accustomed to this false changing light—Yes! Enough! Now speak! What is happening below down yonder? Speak out that what you see, man of the most dangerous curiosity—for now I am the listener.

Here we get a look inside these grimy workshops. Wait just a moment, dear Mr. Inquisitive and Foolhardy. Your eyes must first adjust to this deceptive, shifting light. Yes! Enough! Now speak! What is happening down there? Tell me what you see, you man of the most dangerous curiosity. For now I am the listener.

"I see nothing, I hear the more. It is a cautious, spiteful, gentle whispering and muttering together in all the corners and crannies. It seems to me that they are lying; a sugary softness adheres to every sound. Weakness is turned to merit, there is no doubt about it—it is just as you say."

"I see nothing, but I hear all the more. There is cautious, spiteful, gentle whispering and muttering in all the nooks and crannies. It seems to me that they are lying. Every sound has a sugary softness. Weakness is turned into merit. There is no doubt about it. It is just as you say."

Further!

Onward!

"And the impotence which requites not, is turned to 'goodness,' craven baseness to meekness, submission to those whom one hates, to obedience (namely, obedience to one of whom they say that he ordered this submission—they call him God). The inoffensive character of the weak, the very cowardice in which he is rich, his standing at the door, his forced necessity of waiting, gain here fine names, such as 'patience,' which is also called 'virtue'; not being able to avenge one's self, is called not wishing to avenge one's self, perhaps even forgiveness (for they know not what they do—we alone know what they do). They also talk of the 'love of their enemies' and sweat thereby."

"And the inability to strike back is turned into 'goodness,' cowardly baseness into meekness, submission to hated people into obedience. (Obedience, that is, to someone they say ordered this submission. They call him God.) The weak person's harmlessness, his abundant cowardice, his standing at the door, his forced waiting all receive fine names here. One such name is 'patience,' also called 'virtue.' Being unable to take revenge is called not wanting revenge, perhaps even forgiveness (for they do not know what they do. We alone know what they do). They also talk of the 'love of their enemies' and sweat as they do so."

Further!

Go on!

"They are miserable, there is no doubt about it, all these whisperers and counterfeiters in the corners, although they try to get warm by crouching close to each other, but they tell me that their misery is a favour and distinction given to them by God, just as one beats the dogs one likes best; that perhaps this misery is also a preparation, a probation, a training; that perhaps it is still more something which will one day be compensated and paid back with a tremendous interest in gold, nay in happiness. This they call 'Blessedness.'"

"They are miserable, no doubt about it, all these whisperers and frauds lurking in corners. They try to keep warm by huddling together, but they tell me their misery is God's favor and special honor. Just as people beat the dogs they like best. Perhaps, they say, their misery is also preparation, a test, a kind of training. Perhaps it is even more: something that will one day be repaid with enormous interest in gold, or rather, happiness. They call this 'Blessedness.'"

Further!

Onward!

"They are now giving me to understand, that not only are they better men than the mighty, the lords of the earth, whose spittle they have got to lick (not out of fear, not at all out of fear! But because God ordains that one should honour all authority)—not only are they better men, but that they also have a 'better time,' at any rate, will one day have a 'better time.' But enough! Enough! I can endure it no longer. Bad air! Bad air! These workshops where ideals are manufactured—verily they reek with the crassest lies."

"They are now telling me they are better people than the powerful, the lords of the earth. They have to lick those lords' spit (not out of fear, not out of fear at all! But because God commands everyone to honor all authority). Not only are they better people, they also have a 'better time,' or at least will someday have a 'better time.' But enough! Enough! I can't stand it any longer. Bad air! Bad air! These workshops where ideals are manufactured really do stink of the most blatant lies."

Nay. Just one minute! You are saying nothing about the masterpieces of these virtuosos of black magic, who can produce whiteness, milk, and innocence out of any black you like: have you not noticed what a pitch of refinement is attained by their chef d'œuvre, their most audacious, subtle, ingenious, and lying artist-trick? Take care! These cellar-beasts, full of revenge and hate—what do they make, forsooth, out of their revenge and hate? Do you hear these words? Would you suspect, if you trusted only their words, that you are among men of resentment and nothing else?

No. Wait a minute! You say nothing about the masterpieces of these masters of black magic. They can turn any blackness you like into whiteness, milk, and innocence. Have you noticed how refined their masterpiece is, their most daring, subtle, ingenious, and dishonest artistic trick? Watch out! These cellar beasts are full of revenge and hate. What, indeed, do they make out of their revenge and hate? Do you hear their words? If you trusted only their words, would you suspect you were among men driven by resentment and nothing else?

"I understand, I prick my ears up again (ah! ah! ah! and I hold my nose). Now do I hear for the first time that which they have said so often: 'We good, we are the righteous'—what they demand they call not revenge but 'the triumph of righteousness'; what they hate is not their enemy, no, they hate 'unrighteousness,' 'godlessness'; what they believe in and hope is not the hope of revenge, the intoxication of sweet revenge (—"sweeter than honey," did Homer call it?), but the victory of God, of the righteous God over the 'godless'; what is left for them to love in this world is not their brothers in hate, but their 'brothers in love,' as they say, all the good and righteous on the earth."

"I understand. I listen closely again (ah! ah! ah! and I hold my nose). Now, for the first time, I hear what they have said so often: 'We good people, we are the righteous.' They do not call what they demand revenge, but 'the triumph of righteousness.' They do not hate their enemy. No, they hate 'unrighteousness,' 'godlessness.' Their faith and hope are not in revenge, in the intoxicating sweetness of revenge. (Did Homer call revenge "sweeter than honey"?) Instead, they believe in and hope for God's victory, the victory of the righteous God over the 'godless.' What remains for them to love in this world is not their brothers in hate. Instead, they love their 'brothers in love,' as they say, all the good and righteous people on earth."

And how do they name that which serves them as a solace against all the troubles of life—their phantasmagoria of their anticipated future blessedness?

And what do they call their comfort against all life's troubles, their fantasy of the future bliss they expect?

"How? Do I hear right? They call it 'the last judgment,' the advent of their kingdom, 'the kingdom of God'—but in the meanwhile they live 'in faith,' 'in love,' 'in hope.'"

"What? Am I hearing this right? They call it 'the last judgment,' the arrival of their kingdom, 'the kingdom of God.' But in the meantime they live 'in faith,' 'in love,' 'in hope.'"

Enough! Enough!

Enough! Enough!

In the faith in what? In the love for what? In the hope of what? These weaklings!—they also, forsooth, wish to be the strong some time; there is no doubt about it, some time their kingdom also must come—"the kingdom of God" is their name for it, as has been mentioned: they are so meek in everything! Yet in order to experience that kingdom it is necessary to live long, to live beyond death,—yes, eternal life is necessary so that one can make up for ever for that earthly life "in faith," "in love," "in hope." Make up for what? Make up by what? Dante, as it seems to me, made a crass mistake when with awe-inspiring ingenuity he placed that inscription over the gate of his hell, "Me too made eternal love": at any rate the following inscription would have a much better right to stand over the gate of the Christian Paradise and its "eternal blessedness"—"Me too made eternal hate"—granted of course that a truth may rightly stand over the gate to a lie! For what is the blessedness of that Paradise? Possibly we could quickly surmise it; but it is better that it should be explicitly attested by an authority who in such matters is not to be disparaged, Thomas of Aquinas, the great teacher and saint. "Beati in regno celesti" says he, as gently as a lamb, "videbunt pœnas damnatorum, ut beatitudo illis magis complaceat." Or if we wish to hear a stronger tone, a word from the mouth of a triumphant father of the Church, who warned his disciples against the cruel ecstasies of the public spectacles—But why? Faith offers us much more,—says he, de Spectac., c. 29 ss.,—something much stronger; thanks to the redemption, joys of quite another kind stand at our disposal; instead of athletes we have our martyrs; we wish for blood, well, we have the blood of Christ—but what then awaits us on the day of his return, of his triumph. And then does he proceed, does this enraptured visionary: "at enim supersunt alia spectacula, ille ultimas et perpetuus judicii dies, ille nationibus insperatus, ille derisus, cum tanta sæculi vetustas et tot ejus nativitates uno igne haurientur. Quæ tunc spectaculi latitudo! Quid admirer! quid rideam! Ubigaudeam! Ubi exultem, spectans tot et tantos reges, qui in cœlum recepti nuntiabantur, cum ipso Jove et ipsis suis testibus in imis tenebris congemescentes! Item præsides" (the provincial governors) "persecutores dominici nominis sævioribus quam ipsi flammis sævierunt insultantibus contra Christianos liquescentes! Quos præterea sapientes illos philosophos coram discipulis suis una conflagrantibus erubescentes, quibus nihil ad deum pertinere suadebant, quibus animas aut nullas aut non in pristina corpora redituras affirmabant! Etiam poetas non ad Rhadamanti nec ad Minois, sed ad inopinati Christi tribunal palpitantes! Tunc magis tragœdi audiendi, magis scilicet vocales" (with louder tones and more violent shrieks) "in sua propria calamitate; tunc histriones cognoscendi, solutiores multo per ignem; tunc spectandus auriga in flammea rota totus rubens, tunc xystici contemplandi non in gymnasiis, sed in igne jaculati, nisi quod ne tunc quidem illos velim vivos, ut qui malim ad eos potius conspectum insatiabilem conferre, qui in dominum scevierunt. Hic est ille, dicam fabri aut quæstuariæ filius" (as is shown by the whole of the following, and in particular by this well-known description of the mother of Jesus from the Talmud, Tertullian is henceforth referring to the Jews), "sabbati destructor, Samarites et dæmonium habens. Hic est quem a Juda redemistis, hic est ille arundine et colaphis diverberatus, sputamentis de decoratus, felle et acete potatus. Hic est, quem clam discentes subripuerunt, ut resurrexisse dicatur vel hortulanus detraxit, ne lactucæ suæ frequentia commeantium laderentur. Ut talia species, ut talibus exultes, quis tibi prætor aut consul aut sacerdos de sua liberalitate prastabit? Et tamen hæc jam habemus quodammodo per fidem spiritu imaginante repræsentata. Ceterum qualia illa sunt, quæ nec oculus vidit nec auris audivit nec in cor hominis ascenderunt?" (I Cor. ii. 9.) "Credo circo et utraque cavea" (first and fourth row, or, according to others, the comic and the tragic stage) "et omni studio gratiora." Per fidem: so stands it written.

Faith in what? Love for what? Hope for what? These weaklings! They too, of course, want to be strong someday. There is no doubt about it. Someday their kingdom must come too. As already mentioned, they call it "the kingdom of God". They are so meek in everything! Yet to experience that kingdom, they must live long, beyond death. Yes, eternal life is necessary. Only then can they make up forever for their earthly life "in faith," "in love," "in hope." Make up for what? And with what? Dante, it seems to me, made a glaring mistake. With awe-inspiring ingenuity, he placed this inscription above the gate of his hell: "Eternal love made me too". At any rate, another inscription would have a much better claim above the gate of the Christian Paradise. Above its "eternal blessedness", we should read: "Eternal hate made me too". Provided, of course, that a truth may rightly stand above the entrance to a lie! For what is the blessedness of that Paradise? Perhaps we could quickly guess. But it is better to have explicit testimony from an authority whose standing in such matters cannot be dismissed. That authority is Thomas of Aquinas, the great teacher and saint. "The blessed in the heavenly kingdom," he says, as gently as a lamb, "will see the punishments of the damned, so that their own blessedness may please them more." Or suppose we want a stronger tone. Then let us hear a triumphant father of the Church. He warned his followers against the cruel thrills of public spectacles. But why? Faith offers us much more, he says in de Spectac., chapters 29 and following. It offers something much stronger. Thanks to redemption, joys of quite another kind are available to us. Instead of athletes, we have our martyrs. We want blood? Well, we have the blood of Christ. But what awaits us on the day of his return, his triumph? And then this ecstatic visionary goes on: "But other spectacles still await us. There is that final, everlasting day of judgment, unexpected by the nations, mocked by them. Then this ancient world and all its generations will be swallowed by a single fire. What a vast spectacle there will be! What shall I marvel at? What shall I laugh at? Where shall I rejoice? Where shall I exult? I shall watch so many mighty kings, supposedly received into heaven, groaning in the deepest darkness. Beside them will be Jove himself and those who testified to their ascent! And the governors" (the provincial governors) "who persecuted the Lord's name! They will melt in flames fiercer than those they themselves kindled in their rage against Christians! And those wise philosophers, blushing before their pupils as they burn together! They taught those pupils that God had no concern for anything. They claimed that souls either did not exist or would never return to their former bodies! And the poets, trembling before the judgment seat, not of Rhadamanthus or Minos, but of the unexpected Christ! Then the tragic actors will be more worth hearing, their voices louder" (with louder tones and more violent shrieks) "as they suffer their own real disaster. Then the actors will be worth watching, their bodies made far more limber by fire. Then the charioteer will be worth seeing, glowing red all over on his burning wheel. Then the athletes will be worth watching, hurled about not in gymnasiums, but in fire. Except that even then I would rather not see them. I would rather turn my insatiable gaze toward those who raged against the Lord. This is he, I shall say, the carpenter's son, or the prostitute's son". (From here onward, Tertullian is referring to the Jews. The whole passage that follows shows this. In particular, it uses this well-known description of Jesus's mother from the Talmud.) "The Sabbath-breaker, the Samaritan who had a demon! This is the man you bought from Judas. This is the man beaten with a reed and with fists, covered in spit, given gall and vinegar to drink. This is the man whose disciples secretly stole his body so that people would say he had risen. Or the gardener removed him so that the crowds passing through would not damage his lettuces. What praetor, consul, or priest, however generous, will give you the chance to see such things and rejoice in them? Yet through faith we already have these things, in a way, pictured in our imagination. But what will those things be like that no eye has seen, no ear heard, no human heart imagined?" (I Cor. ii. 9.) "More pleasing, I believe, than the circus, both seating sections" (the first and fourth rows, or, according to others, the comic and tragic stages) "and every athletic contest." Through faith: that is what is written.

Let us come to a conclusion. The two opposing values, "good and bad," "good and evil," have fought a dreadful, thousand-year fight in the world, and though indubitably the second value has been for a long time in the preponderance, there are not wanting places where the fortune of the fight is still undecisive. It can almost be said that in the meanwhile the fight reaches a higher and higher level, and that in the meanwhile it has become more and more intense, and always more and more psychological; so that nowadays there is perhaps no more decisive mark of the higher nature, of the more psychological nature, than to be in that sense self-contradictory, and to be actually still a battleground for those two opposites. The symbol of this fight, written in a writing which has remained worthy of perusal throughout the course of history up to the present time, is called "Rome against Judæa, Judæa against Rome." Hitherto there has been no greater event than that fight, the putting of that question, that deadly antagonism. Rome found in the Jew the incarnation of the unnatural, as though it were its diametrically opposed monstrosity, and in Rome the Jew was held to be convicted of hatred of the whole human race: and rightly so, in so far as it is right to link the well-being and the future of the human race to the unconditional mastery of the aristocratic values, of the Roman values. What, conversely, did the Jews feel against Rome? One can surmise it from a thousand symptoms, but it is sufficient to carry one's mind back to the Johannian Apocalypse, that most obscene of all the written outbursts, which has revenge on its conscience. (One should also appraise at its full value the profound logic of the Christian instinct, when over this very book of hate it wrote the name of the Disciple of Love, that self-same disciple to whom it attributed that impassioned and ecstatic Gospel—therein lurks a portion of truth, however much literary forging may have been necessary for this purpose.) The Romans were the strong and aristocratic; a nation stronger and more aristocratic has never existed in the world, has never even been dreamed of; every relic of them, every inscription enraptures, granted that one can divine what it is that writes the inscription. The Jews, conversely, were that priestly nation of resentment par excellence, possessed by a unique genius for popular morals: just compare with the Jews the nations with analogous gifts, such as the Chinese or the Germans, so as to realise afterwards what is first rate, and what is fifth rate.

Let us draw a conclusion. The two opposing values, "good and bad," "good and evil," have fought a terrible, thousand-year battle in the world. Although the second has undoubtedly dominated for a long time, in some places the outcome remains undecided. One could almost say that the struggle keeps reaching higher levels, growing more intense and increasingly psychological. So today, perhaps no sign of a higher nature, a more psychological nature, is more decisive than this inner contradiction. Such a person is still a battleground for those two opposites. The symbol of this struggle is written in words that have remained worth reading throughout history, right up to today: "Rome against Judæa, Judæa against Rome." Until now, no event has been greater than that struggle, the raising of that question, that deadly opposition. Rome saw the Jew as the embodiment of the unnatural, as though the Jew were Rome's monstrous opposite. In Rome, the Jew was considered convicted of hatred of the entire human race. And rightly so, insofar as humanity's well-being and future can rightly be tied to the absolute dominance of aristocratic, Roman values. What, in turn, did the Jews feel toward Rome? A thousand signs suggest the answer. But one need only recall the Johannian Apocalypse, that most obscene of all written outbursts, with revenge on its conscience. (We should also fully appreciate the deep logic of the Christian instinct here. It placed the name of the Disciple of Love over this very book of hatred. This was the same disciple to whom it attributed that passionate, ecstatic Gospel. Some truth lurks in that attribution, however much literary forgery may have been needed to make it.) The Romans were strong and aristocratic. No stronger or more aristocratic nation has ever existed in the world, or even been dreamed of. Every Roman relic, every inscription fills one with delight, provided one can sense what is speaking through the inscription. The Jews, by contrast, were the priestly nation of resentment par excellence, possessing a unique genius for popular morality. Just compare the Jews with nations that have similar gifts, such as the Chinese or the Germans. Then you will recognize what is first-rate and what is fifth-rate.

Which of them has been provisionally victorious, Rome or Judæa? but there is not a shadow of doubt; just consider to whom in Rome itself nowadays you bow down, as though before the quintessence of all the highest values—and not only in Rome, but almost over half the world, everywhere where man has been tamed or is about to be tamed—to three Jews, as we know, and one Jewess (to Jesus of Nazareth, to Peter the fisher, to Paul the tent-maker, and to the mother of the aforesaid Jesus, named Mary). This is very remarkable: Rome is undoubtedly defeated. At any rate there took place in the Renaissance a brilliantly sinister revival of the classical ideal, of the aristocratic valuation of all things: Rome herself, like a man waking up from a trance, stirred beneath the burden of the new Judaised Rome that had been built over her, which presented the appearance of an œcumenical synagogue and was called the "Church": but immediately Judæa triumphed again, thanks to that fundamentally popular (German and English) movement of revenge, which is called the Reformation, and taking also into account its inevitable corollary, the restoration of the Church—the restoration also of the ancient graveyard peace of classical Rome. Judæa proved yet once more victorious over the classical ideal in the French Revolution, and in a sense which was even more crucial and even more profound: the last political aristocracy that existed in Europe, that of the French seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, broke into pieces beneath the instincts of a resentful populace—never had the world heard a greater jubilation, a more uproarious enthusiasm: indeed, there took place in the midst of it the most monstrous and unexpected phenomenon; the ancient ideal itself swept before the eyes and conscience of humanity with all its life and with unheard-of splendour, and in opposition to resentment's lying war-cry of the prerogative of the most, in opposition to the will to lowliness, abasement, and equalisation, the will to a retrogression and twilight of humanity, there rang out once again, stronger, simpler, more penetrating than ever, the terrible and enchanting counter-warcry of the prerogative of the few! Like a final signpost to other ways, there appeared Napoleon, the most unique and violent anachronism that ever existed, and in him the incarnate problem of the aristocratic ideal in itself—consider well what a problem it is:—Napoleon, that synthesis of Monster and Superman.

Which has won for now, Rome or Judæa? There is not a shadow of doubt. Just consider whom you bow before in Rome itself today, as though they embodied all the highest values. And not only in Rome, but across almost half the world, wherever humanity has been tamed or is being tamed. You bow before three Jews, as we know, and one Jewess. They are Jesus of Nazareth, Peter the fisherman, Paul the tent-maker, and Mary, the mother of that same Jesus. This is very remarkable: Rome has undoubtedly been defeated. Yet the Renaissance saw a brilliantly sinister revival of the classical ideal, of the aristocratic way of valuing all things. Rome herself stirred like a man waking from a trance. She stirred beneath the weight of the new, Judaized Rome built over her. This new Rome looked like a universal synagogue and was called the "Church". But Judæa immediately triumphed again, thanks to the Reformation, that fundamentally popular German and English movement of revenge. We must also count its inevitable consequence, the restoration of the Church. That restoration also brought back the ancient graveyard peace of classical Rome. Judæa defeated the classical ideal once again in the French Revolution, in an even more decisive and profound sense. Europe's last political aristocracy, the French aristocracy of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, shattered under the instincts of a resentful populace. Never had the world heard greater jubilation or more uproarious enthusiasm. Indeed, amid that enthusiasm came the most monstrous and unexpected phenomenon. The ancient ideal itself swept before humanity's eyes and conscience, fully alive and with unprecedented splendor. Resentment's lying battle cry proclaimed the privilege of the many. It expressed the will toward lowliness, humiliation, and equalization, the will to turn humanity backward and bring on its twilight. Against that cry, the terrible and enchanting opposing battle cry rang out again: the privilege of the few! It sounded stronger, simpler, and more piercing than ever. Like a final signpost pointing toward other paths, Napoleon appeared, the most extraordinary and violent anachronism that ever existed. In him, the problem of the aristocratic ideal in itself took human form. Think carefully about what a problem that is: Napoleon, that synthesis of Monster and Superman.

Was it therewith over? Was that greatest of all antitheses of ideals thereby relegated ad acta for all time? Or only postponed, postponed for a long time? May there not take place at some time or other a much more awful, much more carefully prepared flaring up of the old conflagration? Further! Should not one wish that consummation with all one's strength?—will it one's self? demand it one's self? He who at this juncture begins, like my readers, to reflect, to think further, will have difficulty in coming quickly to a conclusion,—ground enough for me to come myself to a conclusion, taking it for granted that for some time past what I mean has been sufficiently clear, what I exactly mean by that dangerous motto which is inscribed on the body of my last book: Beyond Good and Evil—at any rate that is not the same as "Beyond Good and Bad."

Was it over then? Had that greatest of all conflicts between ideals been filed away for all time? Or only postponed, postponed for a long time? Might the old fire flare up again someday, far more terrible and far more carefully prepared? More than that! Shouldn't we wish for that outcome with all our strength? Shouldn't we will it ourselves? Demand it ourselves? Anyone who, like my readers, starts reflecting here and thinking further will find it hard to reach a quick conclusion. That gives me reason enough to bring my own discussion to a close. I assume my meaning has been clear enough for some time now. I mean exactly what I mean by the dangerous motto written on my last book: Beyond Good and Evil. At any rate, that is not the same as "Beyond Good and Bad."

Note.—I avail myself of the opportunity offered by this treatise to express, openly and formally, a wish which up to the present has only been expressed in occasional conversations with scholars, namely, that some Faculty of philosophy should, by means of a series of prize essays, gain the glory of having promoted the further study of the history of morals—perhaps this book may serve to give forcible impetus in such a direction. With regard to a possibility of this character, the following question deserves consideration. It merits quite as much the attention of philologists and historians as of actual professional philosophers.

Note. I take this opportunity to state a wish openly and formally. Until now, I have voiced this wish only in occasional conversations with scholars. I wish some philosophy faculty would earn the distinction of advancing the study of the history of morals. It could do so through a series of prize essay competitions. Perhaps this book may provide a strong push in that direction. With this possibility in mind, the following question deserves consideration. It deserves just as much attention from philologists and historians as from professional philosophers themselves.

"What indication of the history of the evolution of the moral ideas is afforded by philology, and especially by etymological investigation?"

"What can the study of language, especially word origins, tell us about how moral ideas developed over time?"

On the other hand, it is of course equally necessary to induce physiologists and doctors to be interested in these problems (of the value of the valuations which have prevailed up to the present): in this connection the professional philosophers may be trusted to act as the spokesmen and intermediaries in these particular instances, after, of course, they have quite succeeded in transforming the relationship between philosophy and physiology and medicine, which is originally one of coldness and suspicion, into the most friendly and fruitful reciprocity. In point of fact, all tables of values, all the "thou shalts" known to history and ethnology, need primarily a physiological, at any rate in preference to a psychological, elucidation and interpretation; all equally require a critique from medical science. The question, "What is the value of this or that table of 'values' and morality?" will be asked from the most varied standpoints. For instance, the question of "valuable for what" can never be analysed with sufficient nicety. That, for instance, which would evidently have value with regard to promoting in a race the greatest possible powers of endurance (or with regard to increasing its adaptability to a specific climate, or with regard to the preservation of the greatest number) would have nothing like the same value, if it were a question of evolving a stronger species. In gauging values, the good of the majority and the good of the minority are opposed standpoints: we leave it to the naïveté of English biologists to regard the former standpoint as intrinsically superior. All the sciences have now to pave the way for the future task of the philosopher; this task being understood to mean, that he must solve the problem of value, that he has to fix the hierarchy of values.

On the other hand, it is of course equally necessary to interest physiologists and doctors in these problems. These are problems (of the value of the valuations that have prevailed until now). Professional philosophers can be trusted to act as spokesmen and intermediaries in these matters. First, of course, they must fully transform philosophy’s relationship with physiology and medicine. That relationship begins in coldness and suspicion. They must turn it into the friendliest and most productive mutual exchange. In fact, all systems of values, all the "thou shalts" known to history and ethnology, primarily need physiological explanation and interpretation. At any rate, physiological explanations should take priority over psychological ones. All these systems equally require critical examination by medical science. The question, "What is the value of this or that system of 'values' and morality?" will be asked from many different standpoints. For instance, the question of "valuable for what" can never be examined too carefully. Consider, for example, something clearly valuable for developing the greatest possible endurance in a race. The same applies to increasing that race’s adaptability to a particular climate, or preserving the greatest number of its members. Such a thing would not have nearly the same value if the aim were to evolve a stronger species. When judging values, the good of the majority and the good of the minority represent opposing standpoints. We leave it to the naïveté of English biologists to regard the majority’s good as intrinsically superior. All the sciences must now prepare the way for the philosopher’s future task. That task is to solve the problem of value, to establish the hierarchy of values.