Preface

We are unknown, we knowers, ourselves to ourselves: this has its own good reason. We have never searched for ourselves—how should it then come to pass, that we should ever find ourselves? Rightly has it been said: "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." Our treasure is there, where stand the hives of our knowledge. It is to those hives that we are always striving; as born creatures of flight, and as the honey-gatherers of the spirit, we care really in our hearts only for one thing—to bring something "home to the hive!"

We who seek knowledge are strangers to ourselves, and for good reason. We have never looked for ourselves, so how could we ever find ourselves? As the saying rightly goes: "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." Our treasure lies where the hives of our knowledge stand. We are always striving to reach those hives. As creatures born to fly and gatherers of the spirit’s honey, we truly care about only one thing at heart: bringing something "home to the hive!"

As far as the rest of life with its so-called "experiences" is concerned, which of us has even sufficient serious interest? or sufficient time? In our dealings with such points of life, we are, I fear, never properly to the point; to be precise, our heart is not there, and certainly not our ear. Rather like one who, delighting in a divine distraction, or sunken in the seas of his own soul, in whose ear the clock has just thundered with all its force its twelve strokes of noon, suddenly wakes up, and asks himself, "What has in point of fact just struck?" so do we at times rub afterwards, as it were, our puzzled ears, and ask in complete astonishment and complete embarrassment, "Through what have we in point of fact just lived?" further, "Who are we in point of fact?" and count, after they have struck, as I have explained, all the twelve throbbing beats of the clock of our experience, of our life, of our being—ah!—and count wrong in the endeavour. Of necessity we remain strangers to ourselves, we understand ourselves not, in ourselves we are bound to be mistaken, for of us holds good to all eternity the motto, "Each one is the farthest away from himself"—as far as ourselves are concerned we are not "knowers."

As for the rest of life, with its so-called "experiences", who among us takes enough serious interest? Or has enough time? When dealing with these parts of life, I fear we never really pay attention. To be precise, our heart is not in it, and certainly not our ear. We are rather like someone enjoying a divine distraction or lost in the seas of his own soul. The clock has just thundered all twelve strokes of noon into his ear. Suddenly he wakes and asks himself, "What actually just struck?" In much the same way, we sometimes rub our puzzled ears afterward, so to speak. In utter astonishment and utter embarrassment, we ask, "What have we actually just lived through?" And then, "Who are we actually?" As I have explained, we count all twelve throbbing beats of our experience, our life, our being, after they have struck. Ah! And in trying to count them, we get the count wrong. We necessarily remain strangers to ourselves. We do not understand ourselves, and we are bound to misunderstand ourselves. For this motto holds true of us for all eternity: "Each person is farthest from himself". When it comes to ourselves, we are not "knowers."

My thoughts concerning the genealogy of our moral prejudices—for they constitute the issue in this polemic—have their first, bald, and provisional expression in that collection of aphorisms entitled Human, all-too-Human, a Book for Free Minds, the writing of which was begun in Sorrento, during a winter which allowed me to gaze over the broad and dangerous territory through which my mind had up to that time wandered. This took place in the winter of 1876-77; the thoughts themselves are older. They were in their substance already the same thoughts which I take up again in the following treatises:—we hope that they have derived benefit from the long interval, that they have grown riper, clearer, stronger, more complete. The fact, however, that I still cling to them even now, that in the meanwhile they have always held faster by each other, have, in fact, grown out of their original shape and into each other, all this strengthens in my mind the joyous confidence that they must have been originally neither separate disconnected capricious nor sporadic phenomena, but have sprung from a common root, from a fundamental "fiat" of knowledge, whose empire reached to the soul's depth, and that ever grew more definite in its voice, and more definite in its demands. That is the only state of affairs that is proper in the case of a philosopher.

My thoughts on the genealogy of our moral prejudices are the subject of this polemic. They first appeared in a bare, tentative form in the collection of aphorisms titled Human, all-too-Human, a Book for Free Minds. I began writing that book in Sorrento, during a winter that let me survey a vast and dangerous territory. This was the territory through which my mind had wandered until then. That winter was 1876-77, but the thoughts themselves are older. In substance, they were already the same thoughts I return to in the essays that follow. We hope these thoughts have benefited from the long interval, becoming riper, clearer, stronger, and more complete. Yet I still hold to these thoughts even now. Meanwhile, they have drawn ever closer together, growing beyond their original forms and into one another. All this strengthens my joyful confidence that these thoughts were never separate, disconnected, arbitrary, or isolated occurrences. Instead, they must have sprung from a common root, from a fundamental "fiat" of knowledge. The authority of that command reached into the soul’s depths, its voice and demands growing ever more definite. This is the only fitting state of affairs for a philosopher.

We have no right to be "disconnected"; we must neither err "disconnectedly" nor strike the truth "disconnectedly." Rather with the necessity with which a tree bears its fruit, so do our thoughts, our values, our Yes's and No's and If's and Whether's, grow connected and interrelated, mutual witnesses of one will, one health, one kingdom, one sun—as to whether they are to your taste, these fruits of ours?—But what matters that to the trees? What matters that to us, us the philosophers?

We have no right to be "disconnected". We must neither go wrong "disconnectedly" nor find the truth "disconnectedly." Instead, our thoughts and values grow together, connected, as inevitably as a tree bears fruit. So do our Yeses and Nos and Ifs and Whethers. All bear witness to one will, one health, one kingdom, one sun. As for whether these fruits of ours suit your taste? But what does your taste matter to the trees? What does your taste matter to us, to us philosophers?

Owing to a scrupulosity peculiar to myself, which I confess reluctantly,—it concerns indeed morality,—a scrupulosity, which manifests itself in my life at such an early period, with so much spontaneity, with so chronic a persistence and so keen an opposition to environment, epoch, precedent, and ancestry that I should have been almost entitled to style it my "â priori"—my curiosity and my suspicion felt themselves betimes bound to halt at the question, of what in point of actual fact was the origin of our "Good" and of our "Evil." Indeed, at the boyish age of thirteen the problem of the origin of Evil already haunted me: at an age "when games and God divide one's heart," I devoted to that problem my first childish attempt at the literary game, my first philosophic essay—and as regards my infantile solution of the problem, well, I gave quite properly the honour to God, and made him the father of evil. Did my own "â priori" demand that precise solution from me? that new, immoral, or at least "amoral" "â priori" and that "categorical imperative" which was its voice (but oh! how hostile to the Kantian article, and how pregnant with problems!), to which since then I have given more and more attention, and indeed what is more than attention. Fortunately I soon learned to separate theological from moral prejudices, and I gave up looking for a supernatural origin of evil. A certain amount of historical and philological education, to say nothing of an innate faculty of psychological discrimination par excellence succeeded in transforming almost immediately my original problem into the following one:—Under what conditions did Man invent for himself those judgments of values, "Good" and "Evil"? And what intrinsic value do they possess in themselves? Have they up to the present hindered or advanced human well-being? Are they a symptom of the distress, impoverishment, and degeneration of Human Life? Or, conversely, is it in them that is manifested the fulness, the strength, and the will of Life, its courage, its self-confidence, its future? On this point I found and hazarded in my mind the most diverse answers, I established distinctions in periods, peoples, and castes, I became a specialist in my problem, and from my answers grew new questions, new investigations, new conjectures, new probabilities; until at last I had a land of my own and a soil of my own, a whole secret world growing and flowering, like hidden gardens of whose existence no one could have an inkling—oh, how happy are we, we finders of knowledge, provided that we know how to keep silent sufficiently long.

I have a particular habit of questioning my conscience, which I admit reluctantly, since it concerns morality. This habit appeared so early in my life, so spontaneously, and persisted so stubbornly. It stood so sharply against my surroundings, my age, established examples, and my ancestry. I might almost have been justified in calling it my "â priori". Because of this habit, my curiosity and suspicion were drawn early to one question. What, in actual fact, was the origin of our "Good" and our "Evil"? Indeed, the problem of evil's origin already haunted me when I was a boy of thirteen. At an age "when games and God divide one's heart," I devoted my first childish literary effort to that problem. It was my first philosophical essay. As for my childish solution, well, I quite properly gave God the honor and made him the father of evil. Did my own "â priori" demand precisely that solution from me? That new, immoral, or at least "amoral" "â priori" spoke through a "categorical imperative". But oh, how hostile that imperative was to Kant's version, and how full of problems! Since then, I have given that imperative more and more attention, and indeed more than attention. Fortunately, I soon learned to separate theological prejudices from moral ones. I stopped looking for a supernatural origin of evil. Some education in history and language soon transformed my original question. So did an outstanding natural ability to distinguish psychological motives and traits. My question now became: Under what conditions did human beings invent the value judgments "Good" and "Evil"? And what value do these judgments have in themselves? Have these judgments hindered or advanced human well-being up to now? Are these judgments symptoms of distress, impoverishment, and degeneration in human life? Or, on the contrary, do they express life's fullness, strength, and will, its courage, self-confidence, and future? On this point, I arrived at and ventured the most varied answers in my mind. I drew distinctions between periods, peoples, and social ranks. I became a specialist in my problem. From my answers grew new questions, new investigations, new guesses, and new probabilities. At last, I had a land and soil of my own. A whole secret world was growing and flowering, like hidden gardens whose existence no one could even suspect. Oh, how happy we seekers of knowledge are, provided we know how to stay silent long enough.

My first impulse to publish some of my hypotheses concerning the origin of morality I owe to a clear, well-written, and even precocious little book, in which a perverse and vicious kind of moral philosophy (your real English kind) was definitely presented to me for the first time; and this attracted me—with that magnetic attraction, inherent in that which is diametrically opposed and antithetical to one's own ideas. The title of the book was The Origin of the Moral Emotions; its author, Dr. Paul Rée; the year of its appearance, 1877. I may almost say that I have never read anything in which every single dogma and conclusion has called forth from me so emphatic a negation as did that book; albeit a negation tainted by either pique or intolerance. I referred accordingly both in season and out of season in the previous works, at which I was then working, to the arguments of that book, not to refute them—for what have I got to do with mere refutations but substituting, as is natural to a positive mind, for an improbable theory one which is more probable, and occasionally no doubt, for one philosophic error, another. In that early period I gave, as I have said, the first public expression to those theories of origin to which these essays are devoted, but with a clumsiness which I was the last to conceal from myself, for I was as yet cramped, being still without a special language for these special subjects, still frequently liable to relapse and to vacillation. To go into details, compare what I say in Human, all-too-Human, part i., about the parallel early history of Good and Evil, Aph. 45 (namely, their origin from the castes of the aristocrats and the slaves); similarly, Aph. 136 et seq., concerning the birth and value of ascetic morality; similarly, Aphs. 96, 99, vol. ii., Aph. 89, concerning the Morality of Custom, that far older and more original kind of morality which is toto cœlo different from the altruistic ethics (in which Dr. Rée, like all the English moral philosophers, sees the ethical "Thing-in-itself"); finally, Aph. 92. Similarly, Aph. 26 in Human, all-too-Human, part ii., and Aph. 112, the Dawn of Day, concerning the origin of Justice as a balance between persons of approximately equal power (equilibrium as the hypothesis of all contract, consequently of all law); similarly, concerning the origin of Punishment, Human, all-too-Human, part ii., Aphs. 22, 23, in regard to which the deterrent object is neither essential nor original (as Dr. Rée thinks:—rather is it that this object is only imported, under certain definite conditions, and always as something extra and additional).

I owe my first impulse to publish some hypotheses about morality’s origins to a clear, well-written, even precocious little book. For the first time, I encountered a definite statement of a perverse and vicious moral philosophy (the truly English kind). The book attracted me with the magnetic pull of ideas completely opposed to my own. Its title was The Origin of the Moral Emotions. Its author was Dr. Paul Rée, and it appeared in 1877. I can almost say I have never read anything whose every doctrine and conclusion provoked such an emphatic no from me. Yet my rejection was tainted by either resentment or intolerance. So, in the earlier works I was then writing, I referred to the book’s arguments, whether appropriate or not. My purpose was not to refute them. What have I to do with mere refutations? Instead, as comes naturally to a constructive mind, I replaced an improbable theory with a more probable one. Occasionally, no doubt, I also replaced one philosophical error with another. As I have said, that was when I first publicly expressed the theories of origins explored in these essays. But I expressed them clumsily, and I was the last person to hide that clumsiness from myself. I was still constrained by having no special language for these special subjects. I was still often prone to slipping back and wavering. For details, compare my account of the parallel early histories of Good and Evil in Human, all-too-Human, part i., Aph. 45. There I trace their origins to the aristocratic and slave castes. Similarly, see Aph. 136 and the following aphorisms on the birth and value of ascetic morality. Also see Aphs. 96 and 99, vol. ii., Aph. 89, on the Morality of Custom. This is a far older and more original kind of morality, utterly different from altruistic ethics. Dr. Rée, like all the English moral philosophers, sees altruistic ethics as the ethical "Thing-in-itself". Finally, see Aph. 92. Similarly, see Aph. 26 in Human, all-too-Human, part ii., and Aph. 112 in the Dawn of Day. These concern the origin of Justice as a balance between people of approximately equal power. Such equilibrium is the underlying assumption of every contract, and therefore of all law. Similarly, on the origin of Punishment, see Human, all-too-Human, part ii., Aphs. 22 and 23. Contrary to Dr. Rée’s view, deterrence is neither punishment’s essential purpose nor its original one. Rather, that purpose is introduced only under certain specific conditions, and always as something extra and additional.

In reality I had set my heart at that time on something much more important than the nature of the theories of myself or others concerning the origin of morality (or, more precisely, the real function from my view of these theories was to point an end to which they were one among many means). The issue for me was the value of morality, and on that subject I had to place myself in a state of abstraction, in which I was almost alone with my great teacher Schopenhauer, to whom that book, with all its passion and inherent contradiction (for that book also was a polemic), turned for present help as though he were still alive. The issue was, strangely enough, the value of the "un-egoistic" instincts, the instincts of pity, self-denial, and self-sacrifice which Schopenhauer had so persistently painted in golden colours, deified and etherealised, that eventually they appeared to him, as it were, high and dry, as "intrinsic values in themselves," on the strength of which he uttered both to Life and to himself his own negation. But against these very instincts there voiced itself in my soul a more and more fundamental mistrust, a scepticism that dug ever deeper and deeper: and in this very instinct I saw the great danger of mankind, its most sublime temptation and seduction—seduction to what? to nothingness?—in these very instincts I saw the beginning of the end, stability, the exhaustion that gazes backwards, the will turning against Life, the last illness announcing itself with its own mincing melancholy: I realised that the morality of pity which spread wider and wider, and whose grip infected even philosophers with its disease, was the most sinister symptom of our modern European civilisation; I realised that it was the route along which that civilisation slid on its way to—a new Buddhism?—a European Buddhism?—Nihilism? This exaggerated estimation in which modern philosophers have held pity, is quite a new phenomenon: up to that time philosophers were absolutely unanimous as to the worthlessness of pity. I need only mention Plato, Spinoza, La Rochefoucauld, and Kant—four minds as mutually different as is possible, but united on one point; their contempt of pity.

In reality, I had set my heart on something much more important at the time. My concern was not my own or others’ theories about the origin of morality. (More precisely, I saw these theories as just one of many means toward a goal.) My concern was the value of morality. To address that question, I had to step back into abstract thought. There I was almost alone with my great teacher Schopenhauer. My book, with all its passion and inner contradiction, turned to him for immediate help, as though he were still alive. For that book, too, was a polemic. Strangely enough, the question concerned the value of the "un-egoistic" instincts: pity, self-denial, and self-sacrifice. Schopenhauer had so persistently glorified these instincts, made them divine, and raised them above earthly life. Eventually, they seemed to him to stand apart from everything else, as "intrinsic values in themselves." On that basis, he said no both to Life and to himself. But my soul voiced an increasingly fundamental distrust of these very instincts, a skepticism that dug deeper and deeper. In this very instinct I saw the great danger to humanity, its most sublime temptation and seduction. Seduction toward what? Toward nothingness? In these very instincts I saw the beginning of the end, a standstill, an exhaustion that looks backward. I saw the will turning against Life, the final illness announcing itself with its affected melancholy. I realized that the morality of pity was spreading ever more widely, its grip infecting even philosophers with its disease. This morality, I realized, was the most sinister symptom of our modern European civilization. It was the path along which that civilization was sliding toward what? A new Buddhism? A European Buddhism? Nihilism? Modern philosophers’ exaggerated esteem for pity is quite a new phenomenon. Until then, philosophers had been absolutely unanimous about the worthlessness of pity. I need only name Plato, Spinoza, La Rochefoucauld, and Kant. These four minds differed as much as possible, but agreed on one point: their contempt for pity.

This problem of the value of pity and of the pity-morality (I am an opponent of the modern infamous emasculation of our emotions) seems at the first blush a mere isolated problem, a note of interrogation for itself; he, however, who once halts at this problem, and learns how to put questions, will experience what I experienced:—a new and immense vista unfolds itself before him, a sense of potentiality seizes him like a vertigo, every species of doubt, mistrust, and fear springs up, the belief in morality, nay, in all morality, totters,—finally a new demand voices itself. Let us speak out this new demand: we need a critique of moral values, the value of these values is for the first time to be called into question—and for this purpose a knowledge is necessary of the conditions and circumstances out of which these values grew, and under which they experienced their evolution and their distortion (morality as a result, as a symptom, as a mask, as Tartuffism, as disease, as a misunderstanding; but also morality as a cause, as a remedy, as a stimulant, as a fetter, as a drug), especially as such a knowledge has neither existed up to the present time nor is even now generally desired. The value of these "values" was taken for granted as an indisputable fact, which was beyond all question. No one has, up to the present, exhibited the faintest doubt or hesitation in judging the "good man" to be of a higher value than the "evil man," of a higher value with regard specifically to human progress, utility, and prosperity generally, not forgetting the future. What? Suppose the converse were the truth! What? Suppose there lurked in the "good man" a symptom of retrogression, such as a danger, a temptation, a poison, a narcotic, by means of which the present battened on the future! More comfortable and less risky perhaps than its opposite, but also pettier, meaner! So that morality would really be saddled with the guilt, if the maximum potentiality of the power and splendour of the human species were never to be attained? So that really morality would be the danger of dangers?

The question of the value of pity and of morality based on pity seems at first to stand alone. It seems to be a question separate from all others. (I oppose the modern, disgraceful practice of stripping our emotions of their strength.) But anyone who pauses over this problem and learns to ask questions will experience what I experienced. A vast new vista opens up. A sense of possibility makes them dizzy. Every kind of doubt, mistrust, and fear arises. Belief in morality, indeed in all morality, begins to shake. Finally, a new demand makes itself heard. Let us state this new demand: we need a critique of moral values. For the first time, the value of these values must be questioned. To do so, we must understand the conditions and circumstances in which these values arose, developed, and became distorted. We must consider morality as a result, a symptom, a mask, Tartuffism (religious hypocrisy), a disease, a misunderstanding. But we must also consider morality as a cause, a remedy, a stimulant, a restraint, a drug. Such knowledge has never existed until now, nor is it generally wanted even today. The value of these "values" was taken for granted as an unquestionable fact. Until now, no one has shown the slightest doubt or hesitation in judging the "good man" more valuable than the "evil man." This judgment applies specifically to human progress, usefulness, and prosperity in general, including the future. What? Suppose the opposite were true! What? Suppose the "good man" concealed a symptom of decline: a danger, a temptation, a poison, a narcotic. Suppose this allowed the present to feed at the future's expense! Perhaps more comfortable and less risky than its opposite, but also smaller and meaner! Would morality then bear the blame if the human species never reached its full potential for power and splendor? Would morality itself then be the greatest danger of all?

Enough, that after this vista had disclosed itself to me, I myself had reason to search for learned, bold, and industrious colleagues (I am doing it even to this very day). It means traversing with new clamorous questions, and at the same time with new eyes, the immense, distant, and completely unexplored land of morality—of a morality which has actually existed and been actually lived! and is this not practically equivalent to first discovering that land? If, in this context, I thought, amongst others, of the aforesaid Dr. Rée, I did so because I had no doubt that from the very nature of his questions he would be compelled to have recourse to a truer method, in order to obtain his answers. Have I deceived myself on that score? I wished at all events to give a better direction of vision to an eye of such keenness, and such impartiality. I wished to direct him to the real history of morality, and to warn him, while there was yet time, against a world of English theories that culminated in the blue vacuum of heaven. Other colours, of course, rise immediately to one's mind as being a hundred times more potent than blue for a genealogy of morals:—for instance, grey, by which I mean authentic facts capable of definite proof and having actually existed, or, to put it shortly, the whole of that long hieroglyphic script (which is so hard to decipher) about the past history of human morals. This script was unknown to Dr. Rée; but he had read Darwin:—and so in his philosophy the Darwinian beast and that pink of modernity, the demure weakling and dilettante, who "bites no longer," shake hands politely in a fashion that is at least instructive, the latter exhibiting a certain facial expression of refined and good-humoured indolence, tinged with a touch of pessimism and exhaustion; as if it really did not pay to take all these things—I mean moral problems—so seriously. I, on the other hand, think that there are no subjects which pay better for being taken seriously; part of this payment is, that perhaps eventually they admit of being taken gaily. This gaiety indeed, or, to use my own language, this joyful wisdom, is a payment; a payment for a protracted, brave, laborious, and burrowing seriousness, which, it goes without saying, is the attribute of but a few. But on that day on which we say from the fullness of our hearts, "Forward! our old morality too is fit material for Comedy," we shall have discovered a new plot, and a new possibility for the Dionysian drama entitled The Soul's Fate—and he will speedily utilise it, one can wager safely, he, the great ancient eternal dramatist of the comedy of our existence.

Enough. Once this prospect opened before me, I had reason to seek out learned, bold, and hardworking colleagues. (I am still looking today.) The task means exploring morality’s vast, distant, and wholly unexplored territory with urgent new questions and fresh eyes. I mean morality as it has actually existed and been lived! And isn't that practically the same as discovering that territory for the first time? If I thought here of Dr. Rée, mentioned above, among others, I had a reason. I had no doubt that his questions themselves would force him toward a sounder method of finding answers. Was I mistaken about that? At any rate, I wanted to give his keen, impartial eye a better direction. I wanted to guide him toward the real history of morality. And I wanted to warn him, while there was still time, against a whole world of English theories. Those theories ended in the blue emptiness of heaven. Of course, other colours immediately come to mind as a hundred times more useful than blue for tracing morality’s genealogy. For example, grey: authentic facts that can be firmly proven and actually existed. In short, the whole long hieroglyphic record of humanity’s moral past, so difficult to decipher. Dr. Rée knew nothing of this record, but he had read Darwin. And so, in his philosophy, the Darwinian beast politely shakes hands with that perfect specimen of modernity, the meek weakling and dilettante. This modern specimen "bites no longer." Their handshake is instructive, at least. The modern weakling wears an expression of refined, good-humoured idleness, tinged with pessimism and exhaustion. He looks as if taking all these things, moral problems, so seriously really did not pay. I, on the other hand, think no subjects pay better when taken seriously. Part of that reward is that perhaps, eventually, we can approach them gaily. Indeed, this gaiety, or, in my own language, this joyful wisdom, is a reward. It rewards a long, brave, painstaking seriousness that digs deep. Such seriousness, needless to say, belongs to only a few. But one day we will say with all our hearts, "Onward! Our old morality too is fit material for Comedy." On that day, we will have discovered a new plot. We will also have discovered a new possibility for the Dionysian drama called The Soul's Fate. And he will quickly make use of it, you can safely bet. He, the great, ancient, eternal playwright of the comedy of our existence.

If this writing be obscure to any individual, and jar on his ears, I do not think that it is necessarily I who am to blame. It is clear enough, on the hypothesis which I presuppose, namely, that the reader has first read my previous writings and has not grudged them a certain amount of trouble: it is not, indeed, a simple matter to get really at their essence. Take, for instance, my Zarathustra; I allow no one to pass muster as knowing that book, unless every single word therein has at some time wrought in him a profound wound, and at some time exercised on him a profound enchantment: then and not till then can he enjoy the privilege of participating reverently in the halcyon element, from which that work is born, in its sunny brilliance, its distance, its spaciousness, its certainty. In other cases the aphoristic form produces difficulty, but this is only because this form is treated too casually. An aphorism properly coined and cast into its final mould is far from being "deciphered" as soon as it has been read; on the contrary, it is then that it first requires to be expounded—of course for that purpose an art of exposition is necessary. The third essay in this book provides an example of what is offered, of what in such cases I call exposition: an aphorism is prefixed to that essay, the essay itself is its commentary. Certainly one quality which nowadays has been best forgotten—and that is why it will take some time yet for my writings to become readable—is essential in order to practise reading as an art—a quality for the exercise of which it is necessary to be a cow, and under no circumstances a modern man!— rumination.

If anyone finds this writing obscure or jarring, I do not think I am necessarily to blame. It is clear enough on the assumption I make: the reader has read my earlier writings and willingly put some effort into them. Getting to the heart of those writings is certainly no simple matter. Take my Zarathustra, for example. I accept no one as knowing that book unless every single word has, at some point, wounded them deeply. Every word must also, at some point, have enchanted them deeply. Then, and only then, can they have the privilege of sharing reverently in the serene atmosphere from which that work springs. They can share in its sunny brilliance, its distance, its spaciousness, its certainty. In other cases, the aphoristic form causes difficulty, but only because readers treat that form too casually. A carefully crafted aphorism, cast in its final form, is far from "deciphered" once it has been read. On the contrary, only then does it first need to be expounded. Of course, that requires an art of interpretation. The third essay in this book gives an example of what I offer, of what I call interpretation in such cases. An aphorism appears before that essay, and the essay itself is a commentary on the aphorism. Certainly, reading as an art requires one quality that people today have all but forgotten. That is why it will still take some time for my writings to become readable. To exercise this quality, you must be a cow, and under no circumstances a modern human being! That quality is rumination.